Musically Declined

If you called me flippant, you might be right. This is evident in many of my hobbies. I single-mindedly apply myself to a task for a solid block of time and then I tire of it and move onto the next hobby. The same has been true of my relationship with music since the beginning of my existence. I, like most of the world, long to be an accomplished musician, but like so many others, have no musical talent whatsoever.

My mother, hoping to unearth a talented individual, signed me up for private and group piano lessons at Illinois Wesleyan at about 8 or 10 years old. My sister was also a part of this experiment. I would have to go early, while Ariana had her lesson, and wait for mine. During this time, I would look around for interesting things to do for the 30 minutes of wait time. I would use the pay phone to repeatedly call the operator and ask for phone numbers of my friends. I don't know why this would be interesting, but I did it. Then I would get on the floor and look for change under the vending machines. We were sugar-deprived children and I was looking to hit up the snacks. I would occasionally bring my change from home, but it was often made up of mostly pennies. As many buyers are aware, vending machines don't take pennies. One day, I was desperate for Twinkies, and I had a handful of pennies. I asked a passerby if they could give me a quarter for all the pennies I had. The man looked at me and asked why I wanted the quarter (he must have seen me rooting around under the machines for change). I quickly pulled out a lie from my pack of deception. I told him I needed to buy an eraser from my piano teacher and she told me she didn't want my pennies (as if any teacher in the world would say that to their student). He lifted an eyebrow[n] and gave me the quarter, but told me to keep my pennies. I watched him walk around the corner and then made a dash to the vending machine.

During these private lessons, I was often scolded for my lack of progress and the length of my fingernails. I refused to cut them. The teacher finally brought in nail clippers and cut them herself. In the group lessons, I fell behind the other prodigy students and could not perform with the rest of the group. We had electric pianos that the teacher could plug into and listen to an individual play. During these times, I would just switch my piano off and pretend to play with the rest. She never said anything about it. No harm, no foul.

It was not very surprising when they sent a letter to my mom indicating that I was on probation. Then another followed - double probation. Finally, I was kicked out. Dang.

After that debacle and waste of money, I didn't attempt to conquer the piano again until college. I signed up for private lessons my senior year. At the end of the semester, the teacher told me it might be better if I stuck to playing songs I had heard before.

That same semester (masochistically), I also signed up for guitar lessons. I had bought a red guitar one day because it matched my purse and I dreamed of playing it and entertaining crowds. The first day of lessons, my teacher (who was ranked as a Grand Master), eyed my red acoustic guitar and informed me that these were going to be classical guitar lessons. I shrugged and we began a semester-long tug-of-war, with me trying to distract him with funny stories and him trying to make me play the guitar. The last day of class, I still couldn't play Greensleeves. He gave me a "B" and I was angry. He was a very interesting, and easily distracted individual.

After all of these failures, you would think that I would have thrown in the red guitar. But no, here I am again, about to be 27 years old, and picking up that dang red guitar with dreams of entertaining again. So far it isn't going as well as expected. But you might hear me on the radio very soon.

So they say...

You are what you eat.  I must be a nectarine with a huge buttcrack.

Free Samples!

Today, while in Sam's Club on a Saturday morning, I was met with a throng of shoppers rushing around like little ants. I was on my cell phone for the first 5 minutes of the trip so I found myself walking around aimlessly, bumping into people without getting anything done. After the call ended, I realized why there were so many people milling about. It was like a Free Sample heaven! There were two booths set up on every corner and people were flocking to gather up the perks. Unfortunately, I had just come from a large breakfast so I wasn't able to enjoy the offerings. Instead, I was annoyed with people diving in front of my cart as I wandered around.

I must admit, even though I was overstuffed with pancakes, two booths called out to me and tempted me with their calories. One was polish sausage (of course) and the other was the frozen cream puff.

I stopped at the cream puffs and picked up one and popped it in my mouth before turning back to my cart. Before I could take my first step away, another cart, driven by a woman who must have been near starvation (though she didn't appear to be emaciated), barreled toward the cream puff stand with her giant cart and caught my heel with her cart. This was not a mere tap, and my flip-flopped feet had no heel protection. The blow was such that it caused me to involuntarily cry out in pain. She said, "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!" I told her it was fine and walked around the corner before I examined the injury. My heel was scraped and showed signs of blood.

You have got to be kidding me! Over a free cream puff!! If it was a free ho-ho, I could understand the need for the rush...

Procrastination

I know very well that I should be cleaning the heck out of my house right now.  There is laundry on the stairs that needs to be put away, and miscellaneous junk on every standing fixture.  But, as usual, I am looking for other things to turn my attention to, like writing this blog.  

I considered watching my novela, Fuego en la Sangre, but in act of total defiance earlier, Eli chucked the cable remote behind the most unreachable part of our sectional couch.  Now all is lost and I am going to have to cancel our cable service.  

I'm including an out of focus view of the lost remote, and some other things that have been plunged down into the abyss behind the couch.  

Quick change

In an act that is in no way out of character for me, I accidentally walked into the men's bathroom today at Panera. I didn't even look at the sign, I just charged right in. The first thing that hit me was there was only one stall. I thought that was strange because I could have sworn that there were two last time. Then, my eyes focused on a low, weird-looking porcelain fixture. Ahh! A urinal! I literally turned and ran out of the bathroom and back into the populated restaurant. I quickly surveyed the room to see if any had observed my slip up. No one was looking at me, so I casually made my way into the next door. No harm, no foul.

I did the same thing many years ago, only at a health club. The men's locker room was much more highly trafficked and more graphic. It took me about 2 minutes to realize why my clothes weren't in my locker, and then another 3 seconds to notice I was surrounded by half-dressed men.

Maybe I should pay more attention.

Rainy days and Sat-days always get me down

There are some days you wake up and know things just will not be going your way. Take yesterday for instance. Eli woke up really early (5:30 am) but seemed to be just sitting in his crib, so I fell back asleep for an hour or so. Then, I finally pulled myself out of bed to take a shower. This has to be done daily before everyone wakes up, or it will never happen. Moments after getting out of the shower, I heard "Ummm, Lily, we might have a problem in here" from Mark. Eli came running my way and so did a strong smell. I was warned against picking him up due to a mess all over his pants and limbs. It seemed as though all the high-fiber foods I had been feeding him for 3 days straight decided to make a quick exit that morning in his crib. My freshly washed hands had to pick up the stink-bomb and take him to the bathroom where I found it necessary to strip him in the tub, just to minimize the mess. Without being too graphic, I will tell you that there was not an inch of that diaper that had not been overworked, or his pants for that matter. After a total body wipe-down and over a thousand wipes used, he was ready to be steeped in the tub for an hour.

That was the beginning of my day, below is a picture of how I brought my evening to a close.

Potty Training- Day 1

You scream, I scream, we all scream to pee the latrine.

Talk about a kid that is interested in literally everything in the room, minus the potty.  There are some indications here of an overactive child.  I might be misreading the signs though...

Doggin' It

About a month ago, in the midst of multi-tasking, I mistakenly cooked my corn dog (lunch) for 35 seconds instead of  the required 70.  While you are sitting there thinking I must be an idiot, consider this:  it is not that hard to lose track.  Microwave 35 seconds, rotate, then another 35 seconds.  After doing this more than one time, all of the 35 seconds blend together.  I went to the bathroom after the first 35 seconds on the second corn dog, washed my hands and then came to stand in front of the microwave.  I thought hard about whether one 35 seconds had passed or two.  It seemed to me the ramifications of overcooking a corn dog were much more serious than undercooking (I imagined an explosion and lingering hot dog smells), so I gambled and took the "dog" out of the microwave and salivated.  

I sat down on the couch with a cold drink and prepared to enjoy the savory meal.  Then I bit into a cold, nasty hot dog on a stick.  Dang It!  It was only 35 seconds!  Rather than spit it out, I chewed and forced down the clammy bite (I have manners, even if I am alone).  The impression was such that I threw away the rest of the corn dog (after eating a little more of the warm breading) and mentally removed the corn dog from our menu.  I even went so far as to take the sign down from our front door that read, "As for me and my family, we will eat corn dogs."  

A month later, the scars still remained.  But today, my hunger came in washed away my fear and dread of the cold, nasty hot dog taste in my mouth.  I went for the freezer and pulled out the corn dog.  This time I made a mark on a piece of paper, signifying each 35 second interval, while cooking the "dogs" for my husband and me.  This time, there were no mistakes.  I had perfected the art of microwaving multiple corn dogs (each separately, of course).  Suddenly my life has taken on new meaning...

Really, giving up corn dogs forever?  That's just crazy!

glorious seconds

I don't get outside during the day nearly as much as I'd like.  But sometimes when I do - if only to check the mail or throw the garbage out, there are times when it feels just glorious.  Take today for example.  The sun is shining and there is a strong, warm breeze blowing.  I like to stand there, for a few seconds and close my eyes.  My body feels so nice and relaxed and I think, this may be one of the best feelings in the world.  I could lie down in the grass and sleep (of course if I did that, I would be thinking of all the bugs crawling on me and I'd start to itch).  I take a deep breath of the fresh Midwest air and let the sun warm my face, without feeling hot.  I want to stand here forever, I think.  But then I go back inside, and do something that is not quite so glorious, like put away laundry.  

If I had a lawn to mow, I would mow it today and take pleasure in it.  

          

Greaser

Recently I have noticed that nearly all the shirts and pants I own have huge grease stains on them. I see the stains as I am folding my laundry. I think they are permanent and I find it quite irritating. There are only two possible explanations for this. One: there has been an oil spill in my dryer and it is saturating my clothes or Two: My diet is made up of entirely two many greasy foods and I am an extremely clumsy eater.

I wonder which one is more likely...