Take Me Home, Country Roads

Apparently, everyone in the blogging world has decided to write exclusively on the subject of Valentines – personal, joking, romantic, cynical, or otherwise. 

Me? I celebrated early by booking a trip to a resort in the middleofnowhere, West Virginia.  While driving through the winding hills, inevitably created to make sensitive girls like me carsick, I couldn’t help but involuntarily replay the song “Take Me Home, Country Roads” over and over in my head.  100 miles deep into the wilderness, I finally arrived at an unfamiliar resort complete with pub, restaurants, spas, and miscellaneous (mostly sporty, so I wouldn’t participate) activities. 

What should I do with my weekend?  Spend most of it reading, Jacuzzi-ing, drinking, and spa-ing, of course.  What else does a Jersey girl do in the wilderness? 

It was absolutely refreshing and invigorating…. For the first 24 hours.  I rapidly became obsessed with the absolute need to locate a CVS, a Trader Joes, or a bar other than the one named “Hillbilly Heaven”, anything indicating civilization and sanity. Alas, 24 hours to go and I was already losing my mind!  No problem- I simply jumped in the car and drove around the ENTIRE vicinity (i.e. 50 mile radius) of the resort.  Small towns are few and far between, but I did find this little hiking path.

 No sign of city life, of course, but I did manage to locate George and Martha Washington’s original spa in Berkeley Springs. 

How odd.. and random.

Lesson learned- I probably won’t be returning to West Virginia anytime soon, but it was a nice break from reality.

Imagine my relief in returning to Alexandria with 70 degree weather on Valentines Day!  I immediately proceeded to read on my 17^th floor rooftop with a glass of wine, enjoying city life sunshine. 

And oh yes, I was perfectly content to order takeout on Valentines Day. 

Cheers!

planning for disaster.

I know what you’re wondering.  Where has Jersey BEEN all my life???!

Besides stressing out over graduate classes, teaching, and writing and grading papers, I recently discovered an incredibly important lesson regarding the logistics of Winter Concert disaster PLANNING. Emphasis on the planning for disaster part.  

I received approximately 147 permission slips from my lovely elementary children wishing to participate in the Winter Concert this year.  Horray! I thought to myself  I can actually handle this.

These were all numbers and projections in my head, apparently.  I assumed most children would bring only 1 parent, and perhaps 75% of these children would actually show for the concert in time.  This equals out to about 220 people sitting in the cafeteria in which the concert would take place. 

Fabulous!  I have enough chairs and plenty of space for the instrumentalists to do their thing.  (keep in mind, I’m the general elementary music teacher, there is a separate instrumental teacher). 

I arranged with maintenance for chair set up and sectioned-off areas for performers.  I collaborated with the instrument teacher to produce concert programs and work out logistics with risers, stands, etc.

About… 45824095862 aspects of the program went horrifically wrong.  Do not fret, I will not list all details since they stress me out just thinking about it.

Wrong, wrong wrong.

1. Remember that nice round expected number of 220 folks?  I ended up with nearly 500.

5-0-0.      not only was there standing room only, people were filtered out to the lobby and hallway straining to hear their children perform.  DISASTER.

2. Trusting the instrumental teacher was a mistake. 
1. There were 500 people there.  He printed 150 programs.  Why in the hell he thought 150 would be enough for 220 people, I don’t know.
2. He refused to clear the music stands and chairs from the stage between sets.  Good lord. 
3. 500 people in a tiny crowded cafeteria gets pretty effing HOT. My lovely black pencil skirt and blouse were melted, along with makeup and hair.  Sweaty doesn’t even begin to cover it.  I was running a marathon!
4. We all have technical difficulties.  In this case, the speaker system simply could not be hooked up to my laptop.  Instead, I rigged a microphone to sit next to the laptop speakers. Ghettorific, but I suppose it mostly worked, despite me running back and forth to turn on/off the music.

I’d love to go on and on about this concert, but the absolutely ludicrous part is this:

I actually pulled it off.

How? I don’t know.  The children sang and played beautifully, the parents loved it despite the crowd (understatement), and the principal was astonished and impressed by the turn out.

Quite frankly, I’m astonished.

And in the end, it worked out. But not without me running around like a chicken with her head cut off, sweaty and wilted, cursing inherently at the ruined logistics.

And on the most positive note, the guy I’ve been seeing showed up unexpectedly.

In a suit.

With flowers.

And thought I was beautiful in all my sweaty glamour.

Go figure.

Jersey's 2010

2010 was certainly a busy, chaotic, rocky, and amazingly triumphant year.  I must say, however, I began 2010 celebrating in the heart of Edinburgh, which as my bestie describes it: "makes Times Square look like a barndance".  And it's true!  30,000 completely blasted Scottish people, Ceilidh dancing, fireworks set off every hour from the Castle.  It's indescribable.

Remember that time it snowed an insane amount in February? Yeah, that was a nightmare, and precisely one week before I moved from ghetto Maryland to Alexandria, Virginia.

In the last year I've completely seven graduate school classes while teaching full time.  Seven.  And many times, I wrote papers while drinking wine with my bestie.  How does anyone live without their own personal cheerleader? 

I cut my hair off, and grew it out again. I changed my hair color about seven times.  Yes, I am that indecisive.

I made new friends, acquaintances, and started dating (again). I looked back to move forward. 

I tried Moonshine for the first time.

Drink:

Recover:

I went to the opera

and enjoyed countless dirty martinis

I travelled to New Orleans and celebrated a friend's 30th birthday for a week,

held her hand while getting a first tattoo (and celebrated with a watermelon mojito),

 ate delicious but unhealthy food,

and drank more than my liver will ever forgive.

I travelled to Michigan and discovered the meaning of endless cornfields (big shocker for this Jersey girl!)

and even saw Carole King and James Taylor in concert.

I've got to say, 2010 was pretty fantastic, and it will be hard to beat in 2011. 

But for now, I am hopeful. 

Breaking with tradition, Christmas tree style.

…And in celebration of letting go of the past, enjoying the present, and hoping for the future, there were numerous Bailey’s Irish Coffees. And SMORES. And Bestie Time. 

I’ve been contemplating the usual Christmas traditions, specifically in my own home growing up in New Jersey.

Most of the time my scatterbrained, idealistic, overbearing (however endearing) mother would wait until the very last minute (Ahem: Christmas Eve, 12AM) before forcing me to face my severe trepidation at climbing tiny ladders into the wee bitty attics for a scavenger hunt.  The objective: To unearth the multiple limbs of our 20 year old Christmas tree, complete with eight giant boxes of Christmas décor. 

And we would spend the entire evening attempting to beat the clock to Christmas morning.  Of course, in the midst of childhood, I happened to be accustomed to sleeping at night.  As a result I was truly exhausted by morning and completely unable to actually enjoy the fruits of my labor.  Oh well.  Sleep is overrated, no?

Of course, in order to make up for the lost time during the Decembers that lacked our Christmas tree, the living room had the honor of accommodating our décor through the end of January. 

This was the common Christmas for me, growing up.

I have now resolved to discontinue the tradition and decorated my tiny studio apartment with a six foot Christmas tree complete with twinkle lights and sparkly ornaments at the very beginning of December.

I suppose there are some traditions that really shouldn’t exist. 

However, I do believe Bestie Day + Smores + Bailey's Irish Coffee = December 8, from now on.

Testing Theories.

They say there's linings made of silver
Folded inside each raining cloud
Well we need someone to deliver
Our silver lining now

I’m on my fourth cup of burning hot coffee, willing myself to return to my graduate work.  I can't seem to focus after all that has and is about to occur.  I'm scatterbrained, distracted, jumpy, and hardly able to sleep.

This is not  a result of watching Paranormal Activity II recently, despite that fact that it seriously disturbed/scared the hell out of me.

No, the reality of my life is coming into full circle after so much drama. 

It’s the realization of moving on entirely that keeps me awake. I keep moving.  I keep busy.  I've made new friends, embarked on new journeys inside and out of the country, and I don't spend my evenings sitting home alone waiting for someone to call. 

Can you imagine your significant other checking your phone records, questioning everyone you talk to and text?  I’ve been there.

Then there was a series of horrible, degrading voicemails and emails criticizing my character and berating every aspect of who I am which caused me to seriously reconsider all of this.  All of my decisions, all of my commitments, quite literally everything I’ve considered to be mine, ours, always.

It was an emotional rollercoaster.  I finally responded, demanding that he quit the nasty emails because quite frankly, the abusive language must stop- or I’m walking. For good.

And then he called prepared with a symphony of apologies and love- the complete opposite of the spectrum.  I'm not going to lie. I broke down completely.  and not in a I’m so sorry I shouldn't be doing what I’ve been doing it's all my fault kind of way. 

but in a ohmygod I can't believe you expect me to live like this forever kind of way. 

It’s frightening. 


So I keep drinking coffee, and listening to [my] old, old music this morning.  You know the stuff I used to be made of.  I’m actually surprised it was all still there, hiding in the midst of soundclick.com- ready to be heard.  Surprising to be reminded that I used to sing.

Finally, I was tired of not being heard.  I prefer to have an answer that doesn't judge, or make me feel guilty for who I was, who I am, and who I’m going to become.

"Well, you'll never find anyone who can love you, take care of you, and stay committed to you the way that I am."

 I dared to test that theory.  He was wrong.

Like father, Like daughter?

Hopefully, not.  The promises we choose to keep are important ones.  One particular promise lingers in my memory.  In my childlike hope, I made a very specific promise to myself, and to my father.

Is it possible to feel less educated after achieving a degree?  Dedicating myself to education certainly has its ups and downs, but Sometimes I am convinced I’ve failed.  Overwhelmed and outnumbered by concepts and numbers and equations that appear inapplicable to my life.  Many hours of brain cells spent on drinking caffeine and wishing to understand theoretical theory as applied to the philosophy of music education. 

Once in awhile, there is inquiry and discovery as to the origin of my musical propensity.  I would like to say it derives from both parents, equal in musical knowledge and as brilliant educators.  The following question always enters my mind in consideration of parental relationships:  Are you most like mother or father?  For me, it’s my father- and this horrifies me more than you can imagine.

Absent for so many years due to my own will to kick his ass out of my life, once in awhile he manages to reappear.  He is brimming with interest in his sudden discovery in personal commonalities: our shared passion for musical knowledge, dry sarcasm, and realistic view of the world.  “I know you”, he says, wanting another chance.  Somewhere between 12 years, two new daughters, a missed daughter's wedding, and a girl lost in the middle, he decided he felt like building a bridge. 

Too bad he was too late.

 I’m still trying to find my escape from the gravity of the word daughter he uses to describe me.  In fact, I never heard such a label until I refused to acknowledge it.  I've been a disappointment, a shadow, an enigma, the bookworm, the awkward inarticulate bore of a child.  And at this point I thought, why should he take interest now?

I remember one day when I was four years old.  We were in the car, and he was driving while chain smoking cigarettes with closed windows (as usual).  He asked me who I wanted to be when I grew up.  That was when I boldly informed him I would never be like him.  That I would not make his choices, refusing to repeat his history.  Miserable, destroying my dreams and those I claim I love.  I told him I would not be him when I grew up. 

He chuckled. Flicked his cigarette through a crack in the window.  And said, “You just wait.”
. 

Wise and realized.

“Now I want to go away into my silent art; if I only had no fingers, and could play with my heart on other hearts.”  I believe Schumann had it right when he evolved from worrisome piano technique to playing the piano (and composing) with the brilliance that can only stem from his emotional capacity to express the abstract musical language. 

I have now completed one year of Graduate School, and having just finished the most dreaded class of all – music theory – I’m feeling a bit more accomplished than I was six weeks ago.  The class has been enthralling, frustrating, maddening, enlightening, and entirely cathartic.  During my undergraduate experience, I remember professors informing me of my analytic inabilities (or lack thereof) and how far I fell short of my understanding of any and all components of music examination.  So I said “screw it, I hate this class anyway.” And skipped most of the semester, barely scraping by with a B-. 

 I approached this class as a challenge- an invigorating mess of conquering the demons to whom I submitted in college, actually admitting that “I couldn’t do it”.  No, I wouldn’t  do it.  Eight years later, older and wiser, I was determined NOT to score straight A’s (although wouldn’t that be nice?), but to actually immerse myself in information.  To play each Beethoven, Bach, Schumann, or Chopin piece until I could feel myself understanding the chords dancing beneath my fingers on the keyboard. 

The course is online, and so the lectures were limited, the information and assignments astoundingly difficult. Checking in on discussions were stressful – filled with stressed out classmates, parents, wives, teachers holding several jobs.  I simply stopped paying attention to the whining after awhile.  I truly cannot cope with people who express their stress in such verbose and unnecessary manner.  I worked alone and on my own.

At 6:24 PM last night, I finished my final thoughts on my Schumann analysis and turned the eleven page paper in along with the Roman Numeral Analysis of his Novelletten, No. 1.  And of course, I toasted my farewell to the course with a bottle of wine. 

I woke up this morning contemplating all that I have accomplished in the past few weeks, and I finally realized that I have overcome the frustration that is my so- called non-analytical brain.  I finally triumphed in understanding the elements of music analysis, despite the disdainful memories of my undergraduate experience.  It just goes to show you that with determination and patience, one can conquer any hurdle that is thrown.  And I’ve emerged a wiser and more accomplished musician because of it.