It should be "Maximum Violingerov"

Toby is down at Gramma and Grandpa's today because J and I have a meeting and Rachael's coming to town and I have an audition on Thursday. When I told my friends at rehearsal last night about the incredible posh generosity of the Aumsville Spa for Toddlers, they actually looked a little pissed. It's just so amazing to get free time and practice space- musician moms literally can't believe my luck.

So with the kiddo gone I'm taking a slow morning, and I found something on the performing arts cable channel to accompany my puttering. The show is Maxim Vengerov: Playing by Heart. Musician biographies always have such cheezy subtitles. Mine will be Miriam: Violist to the Stars.

So, Maxim, though, is a violinist who has apparently been a kick ass player from the first day he touched hair to string. Some people are like that. (I once had a kid who figured out television jingles on his 1/4 size violin after only a few lessons. He used one finger for everything, and had the intervals right- he probably quit to devote more time to Play Station or something sadder...) By thirteen Maxim was doing the Russian thing and had learned every hard thing ever written and was playing with every famous person ever made while reciting poetry and solving mathematical proofs.

I always thought Vengerov was not somebody I would like, musically. Most prodigies are not all that fun to hear when they grow up, and I had kind of written him off as a bombastic Russian in whose hands French filigree would sound heavy and stylized. Also, I really don't like Daniel Barenboim's accompanying (or playing, or sick wife-leaving), so maybe whenever I heard "Vengerov" I also heard "Barenboim" and ran screaming from the room. Indeed when the documentary got to the part where B is coaching V on how to play more aggressive Brahms "because they won't hear you over the piano", I wanted to shut the lid on the keys just a little. I may or may not have left time for him to move his lame hands.

I don't like this pic of Vengerov, and it's the only one I remember seeing until today. It makes me think of the wierd hair-pulling guy from Charlie's Angels.

Do you see?





But Vengerov! He plays pretty. Really, I didn't expect him to be so musical and fluid. I really like his vibrato- he seems not to have that finger + light socket indiscriminate speedy narrow thing so popular with powerhouse violinists.

His mama is adorable and worries that at 34 (he looks older though) he won't have any friends because he's so busy being an incredible musician. She wants him to find a "very good girl"- sweet, no?

Here's a much better pic of him clowning with kids on behalf of Unicef. When's the last time you heard of a superstar musician raising hundreds of thousands for a charity they love? It's official: I am crushing.

Oh my gosh you GUYS!

It must have been the Bartok.

We had the most incredible day yesterday. It's the first weekend in memory where I am free, J is free (I mean not a single all-nighter! Who woulda thought?), and the world is our oyster.

We went to Costco and finally bought 4 of these rad garage shelving thingies and then... AND THEN!!!

We went through boxes and boxes of crap, filled our whole recycling can and took an entire jeep load out to donate and sell at Powells. They paid us $19 for five huge boxes but claim to be sending the law texts to Uganda. I got the message loud and clear: God wants you to purge, and maybe watch more HGTV.

We whittled 7,934,872 items from our past down to about 8 boxes.

Today we will finish up. So, homework from 10 years ago, notes of achievement from 3rd grade, nick-nacks commemorating friends whose names we've forgotten and art supplies I didn't even know I had: you're on notice. Get your affairs in order, we're coming for YOU.

I heart Bartok.

Man, do I love Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra. We put NPR on this morning and there was Marin Alsop (an excellent famous woman! conductor- I hope she likes Baltimore better than I did) talking about the piece.

So we put it on. It's so fun to play I keep telling J, Listen to this part! Hear the rock string section? This is the neatest fugue ever. Hear the broken squeaky gate-sounding flute? Oh ohohoh, this is the best part here...

He's quietly doing a crossword and humouring me.

If you aren't into classical music, or if you are, check it out. It's one of those works. I've been happy to play it two or three times now, and I can't wait for another chance.

Listening to this makes me want an orchestra gig.

Babies bring out the Marshall Dillon in me.

You know how little kids are really invested in their sense of right and wrong, and justice? I think pregnant people's juju must get mixed in with little kid juju in some way. Or at least mine is. Because a bunch of things are really getting under my skin.

Today it was the luthier's shop. Violin makers are generally pretty hippy laid-back folk, and the one I met today is no exception. He's got a beautiful shop, and a luthier-slave-apprentice whom we will refer to as Useless Lacky. Neither of these possessions seem to have imparted him with much business sense.

What got me was that said Lacky would not help me buy strings. He said the owner could do it "when he got back". I was there a couple minutes before the shop opened and waited until a quarter after for that to happen, all while Useless Lacky puttered about listening to some seriously obnoxious gypsy violin music and avoiding eye contact. Toby was bored and cranky in his stroller. The shop to him was like a cruel social experiment: How long can a toddler contain his need to touch the lovely instruments and exotic plants? (Answer: not long.)

So finally Mr. Shop waltzes in with a cute little dog, looks at the clock and at my scowl (I don't hide those well, but I made my voice friendly I swear) and said... nothing.

The kicker? He didn't even have all the strings I needed, and I use what everybody and their dog uses. He did seem sorta embarrassed then, and I did what my Gramma would do and left without buying any of them.

What a waste of time. Irate toddler time! I mean, I don't think everybody should drop what they're doing and help Toby have a great time, but couldn't there be a little consideration? There are only two shops in town and the other is kinda corporatey for my taste. I hope Mr. Shop is normally cool. Maybe after I left he yelled at Useless Lacky for a while, and justice was served. I can only dream. While I nap after the ordeal.

On Hold

I plan to post again someday, when I have something to post. We are waiting for lots of things just now, and I feel sort of creatively squashed.

Sometimes I think I've got something, but then the idea of a horribly greasy filet-o-fish swims into my head and I can think of nothing else.

And another thing...

It used not to be an accomplishment simply to gather all the excerpts for an audition.

Packing the metronome/tuner/MD recorder/special practicing pencil were once habit as well.

Ah, well. If I win this one maybe I'll stop with the auditioning for a while. (If I don't, also.)

Frog

We are going away for the long weekend. I leave tomorrow wayyyyy too early. It's a silly hour, really, when no one should be up not even jet pilots.

We'll be back on Tuesday. In the meantime, here's a frog that visited my mom's cool metal dragonfly made from a garage door spring. We have them all over our back porch, and they are tiiiiny, less than an inch.

We'll miss you.

9 1/2 weeks

We had an appointment and I am at 9 1/2 weeks.

It's better than, like, 8. But not nearly as cool as, say, 14.

Not that I'm complaining. On my blog.

I'll see if I can upload the little ultrasound pic. But you can visualize it this way: Jonathan likes a lot of syrup on his pancakes.

After he eats them, the plate is all smushy with syrup, in a vaguely circular shape.

Now imagine he has crumpled a napkin in the bottom crook of the syrup orb.

That's about what this just over one inch long kid looks like right now. Except we could see the little heart pitter patting, and napkins don't generally make me feel nasty.

I roast my own.

One of the best things about living in Portland is Anne the pianist in my little world-domination duo, and another is coffee. Today we had the pleasure of combining both.

Anne's guy Howard had a photography show opening at Dancing Beans Coffee so we went over and played a little set. We did our Lyle Lovett cover, some Carmen, of course bits of Bartok and Chopin, Cole Porter, Clarke and Debussy. I want to find a wider mix, but the legal aspects of adapting folks' tunes to our needs can be tricky. Too bad it's not like the visual arts where you are allowed to appropriate and recreate and such. Sigh.

Anyway, last night I had a dream about this gig. Wait! Don't gag yet- it's not one of those blog posts, I promise. In my dream, Karlos Calmar was the only guest at the coffee shop. He's the conductor of the Oregon Symphony and if he did walk in it would be awkward and audition-y, I just know it. It was kind of a nightmare. I remember him smiling thinly over a very small espresso.

Today he did not show up. However, the guy who played concertmaster of the symphony for, like, a gazillion years did. He seemed nice and claims to have liked my playing, so, phew. I was oddly unnervous, because what's the point of getting nervous in the middle of a set?

I did commit a felony bit of stupidity when he asked what instrument I play. Please remember I'm pregnant. I said mostly viola, but I teach violin too. He was kind enough to laugh and clarify that he meant, OF COURSE, which maker. Ha. Haha.

Well, I play tweedle dee some days and tweedle dum t'others. Violists.

How was your day?

Toby just left for two fabulous days at Chez Grandparents. I will miss him, though I have to admit I had his toys and clothes packed up and waiting to go- most of them stacked on our front walk while we waited for his favorite people to arrive.

When he was all ready and strapped in, I asked for and recieved a kiss. This new skill of his is the most excellent so far. He's not a sloppy toddler kisser, and keeps his lips closed because he prefers when it makes that little pop. He's working on achieving actual contact with the kissee- his timing tends to run a bit early so he does one of those European air kisses. Could be he's just becoming extremely sophisticated.

This morning, though, he got it perfect right on the smacker. He left ten minutes ago, and already I'm getting all sentimental.

It's hard to describe where all my time goes every day. Most of it involves catering to and playing with Toby, but to be honest he's becoming more self-sufficient by the day and I can no longer blame the disappearance of my time on him.

I have always been a list person, but since getting pregnant I don't even start one because it always ends badly. It starts with making & feeding & cleaning up from breakfast which isn't even on the list, but it tires me out and I lay on the couch for a few minutes, tickling and singing to the kiddo to mediate my guilt. Then it's time for Toby's nap and I nap with him. I call a few people or empty the dishwasher and Wham it's 4:30pm. By then, I'm thinking I should come up with something for dinner. After pondering this and getting ice for Toby (he's a little obsessed with ice and grapes) it's suddenly 6:30pm. I call J to see if he'll ever be able to come home from work or if I should just plan to start sending him care packages by courier, maybe tie a yellow ribbon to our tree.

At 7:45pm we leave to pick up Daddy and I still haven't made anything for dinner. And I'm feeling gross, so the idea of touching food or even opening the refrigerator because it might smell like food is depressing. I haven't practiced or cleaned or gone for a walk. Between 8 and 9pm I feel crummy and lazy but Toby's in his hyper pre-bed giggle phase so that's nicely distracting. We eat something I half-heartedly make or we pick up something not too greasy or expensive.

Once Toby's in bed, I sit with J while he does more work and watch tv because that's his version of a bubble bath and candles. I don't begrudge him some tiny amount of time to relax, and this way at least we're in the same room. (Pray for a new job, 'kay?) Sometimes I surf adoption websites on the laptop for a while before I can't stand feeling so crummy and might as well go to sleep. I make all sorts of plans for tomorrow, including practice and getting Toby to the park. When I wake up I'm already tired and can't decide if food sounds nasty or if I'm starving.

It's getting better, but I really hope having a few days to myself to clean out the house will help me hit some kind of reset button on this pattern. Especially the self-pity part. I am starting to feel more like myself and I love Toby's personality right now so it's not like it's all drudgery. J's interviewed with some places and lots of things in our lives are very good. I just feel half-asleep, mentally. Groggy. Hopefully when I reach the magical done-being-gross week of pregnancy things will brighten a bit.

I think I'll go take a nap...

You might be surprised how happy you'd be....

I didn't play the audition Saturday. It was for a very small chamber orchestra, and the only reason I wanted to play it was to get to know the concertmaster. He's the prof at a small liberal arts college with a beautiful campus, a college where I would dig teaching. It occurred to me I should just send him my resume and maybe offer some free coaching to his kids, since playing an audition when it's pretty much impossible to make any of the concerts is not the way to endear yourself to anyone in an organization.

There's also that whole mysterious phenomenon where the true outsider sometimes is given more credit than somebody who has been willing to serve in a group even though it may not be their dream job, artistically. The new guy- the unknown rockstar with a fancy resume- is more likely to be given respect than whatever mortal folks shared a stand with all year who is secretly overqualified. Nepotism is a tricky game, and I'm trying to learn that whole "the gigs you accept define your level" thing.

I'm still planning to do the audition in the middle of next month because it's for a principal position. It's two hours from home, but my parents live halfway there so it's doable.

I once got really pissed off at a conductor I knew who tried to convince me that a large regional orchestra (B-level, per service but decent pay type of gig) is often a very happy career choice.

I remember being insulted because A) this guy was truly born free of tact and could have made you mad while giving you a publisher's clearing house check and B) because I was in the middle of my masters degree at a conservatory with the goal of getting a job in an A-level symphony, with a salary and benefits and hoards of adoring fans; did he mean to say he thought I'd better lower my hopes, and fast? The nerve!

So auditioning for this, and wanting this job sort of chafes, y'know? I haven't given up on an A-level job, but there is exactly one orchestra I can go for now and still be where I want to live. They don't even have an opening this year, and I've very reluctantly had to take work that will interfere with subbing much. The average orchestral musician spends 3-5 years bopping all over the country to every audition before landing their first job. I am narrowing those odds further by wanting just ONE job. And having kids and not being under regular tutelage makes it even less likely to go my way. It's kind of ridiculous, really.

In the Portland area, there really are not so many opportunities for teaching or playing chamber music. I'm on the faculty at one college, but am not sure what direction to go in next. What happened to the classical music scene here? Perhaps it just never really coalesced in the first place, maybe Portlanders are so socialist as to associate great arts with elitism, I don't know. There is no great music school here to teach in (apparently PSU has had potential at times but suffers poor funding), and once talented kids hit college they flee in exactly the same way people ran from my tiny hometown in the frozen north. It's a shame- Portland is definitely big enough to have some great students and institutions beyond the Youth Symphony.

It's not that I'm unhappy, it's just that I'm being made happy by things I never would have anticipated. It makes me wonder exactly who I'll be five, ten years out.

Dee Nai Yull

So I just signed up for some auditions. Maybe three.

I have done more not-practicing this summer than ever in my life as a violist. It feels gross, and I hated that last week my fingernails were long enough to have a white edge to them and the only reason I had to cut them was because it felt yucky. Not because it was interfering with any not playing I was doing.

There may be three (3!) children in my care by the end of next year. Will there be any time at all for me to do anything not related to them?

I am flooded with overwhelmed-ness and uncertainty even more this time around. I know some of that is the adoption possibility, but a lot belongs to the familiar wierdness of my pregnant body.

The spectre of labor is kind of scary. I really hated it last time, though (ready for something you've NEVER heard before from second-timers?) this time I will be requesting the Epidural early and often. Maybe that will help. And I'm going to be that demanding lady, asking for them to DO something about whatever's bothering me much much sooner.

So, I guess I better go play that viola thing a bit. One of the auditions is Saturday. It's like a reality tv experiment: Can this musician remember how to not suck after being isolated from her instrument for... a long time? We'll find out next week, so stay tuned. (Tuned. GAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhh. C'mon, I'm impared and barfy, don't leave. Please. Wait- it will get better.)

Man of Action

Toby likes to substitute actions for words. He's got words- believe me, when he's chatty it seems like he's going to break into some Kanye (clean version) or Rilke any second. (Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?)

But the action words are my favorite. He's yet to say "flower" but will sniff vigorously whenever he sees one. He doesn't say cat but can meow with the best of them, and "firetruck" brings on a very serious siren. "Rabbit" is a wrinkly nose, and he's yet to say "milk" but has the sign language down pat. (That cow-milking gesture is so flattering to breastfeeders, don't you think? Then again, what's the alternative- a frat-boy radio dial type move?)

For music, which we almost always have playing (shocking, I know), if something catches his fancy he does this thing that looks like a cross between the Cleveland Indians chop and a conductor giving limp ictus-less downbeats. (Is he mocking Teri Murai? Man, I like to hope so.)

Yesterday I prompted him to dance for about the millionth time and he started doing these odd little half-squats. Through all of these he's a straight faced boy, with the occassional bottom lip protruding in concentration.

Maybe he's the prototype for the dance man, my favorite short movie put together by one of the contestants in On the Lot.

ker-Pow!

500

I couldn't think of anything interesting to say for my 500th post.
We thought and thought,
What to do... what to do...
finally we figured it out.

... I'm pregnant!

Distraction

We're here, but it's been hard to focus on much.

Rachael the Seattle ho and her shining hubby Tim came for the weekend.

We realized we are almost too smart to figure out the rules for Cranium. The questions, we get. The moving and drawing of cards and such? Hilarious mutiny, repeated reading of the one page of directions.

Also, J was not pleased that I ripped up a stupid card. He's funny about stuff like that, I think because he and his sister were on combat rules through childhood. So then I bent the corner of another to see what might happen. "Stop that! It's an expensive game- we bought it at Starbucks!"

Heh.

I guess little sisters never change.

Hoping it won't take 40 weeks...

M- Sighhhh.
J- What are you thinking?
M- What if we get her?
What if we don't get her?
J- Yeah.


Tonight I was totally blubbering watching Hotel Rwanda. I know it's an emotionally challenging movie (and an excellent one, at that) but it still felt out of character. My slow morph into my own violence-intolerant mother is taking over my mind, yes, but still, I am not a weepy woman. I distinctly remember giving J crap for tearing up at a movie when we were dating. I regularly laugh out loud when Toby pulls out his yelling-late-afternoon-bored cry after being bumped on the head with a feather or somesuch.

This whole picture-show motivated loss of emotional control tells me I can bet the next few months might be in crystal-intense focus for me. You know how photographers use a soft filter to make life look nicer? There won't be any of that.

People cheezily refer to the adoption process as a paper pregnancy. That kind of word goofery generally annoys me, but I have to say the weepy moodiness aspect is similar for the first day anyway.

Dig n' Read

How ironic is it that as my 500th post approaches I'm getting anxiety about coming up with something cool? 497th time's the charm?


I've been painting our kitchen in Behr's Bon Voyage (it's a little bluer than in the pic), which happily matches the colors of a vintage globe I found at the Goodwill Dig 'n Save the other day.

The Dig 'n Save is a distillation of consumerism, a universe of materialism complete unto itself. Life, death, and boxes of junk. Goodwill occasionally takes an entire shipping container and delivers it to the store to be picked over and bought for pennies on the deeply-discounted dollar. Gramma's estate sale remnants and the twins' outgrown playthings all find their way to a blue bin on wheels stuffed with dusty goods. The pro shoppers patiently line up around empty spaces in the hangar-like facility to await another bin's emergence from slapping-open tan doors.

I have seen beautiful things: a hand woven rug, a like-new Brownie Movie Camera in its box. A woman buying clothes (1.49/pound!) for her grandkids and another for an orphanage. Children running wide-eyed and giddy from bin to bin, free for once to pick out what discounted treasures they can glean from the discarded detritus of suburban life. A box of another kid's toys holds a secret fascination, and a box of mysterious origins through which you must journey to overcome the worthless is the holy grail of kid materialism fantasies. It's the dusty old attic for kids of urban sprawl.

This week I took my mom along, because I knew she would love the thrill of the hunt and not be too put off by the need to Purell upon exit. We found some trinkets (the aforementioned globe lights up!), and a book shelf dealie I'll paint to match some room. We never have enough space for books, prolific little breeders that they are.

In short: Dig n' Save, I love thee. I told you I was cheap.

What are YOU for?

Adoption research involves learning about some of the saddest and cruelest things man does to his compatriots every day. Today, in fact.

I'll spare you the graphic- I'm sure you've heard plenty just being alive. One story I gotta tell you, though, sounds just like the set-up to a crummy joke: Did ya hear the one about the American parents who neglected their kids for video games, starving them with abundant food in the house? Child services found them in time, thankfully. Now that we're in the thick of looking at adoption, every news bit about international instability and poverty makes me wonder what is happening to the kids there, a though closely followed by, 'hmmm, do they have adoption programs for US families?' Did you even know that some insanely desperate countries still close their doors to adoptive families? Did you know that Romania is one of the worst countries in which to be an orphan, and yet a certain politician barronness (Cruella DeVille, we'll call her) pretty much single-handedly stopped foreign families from adopting -SAVING- those kids a few years back by suddenly closing that program entirely? Romania now records fewer institutionalized kids thanks to her efforts. Notice I said "records", not "has". Google it if you don't believe me.

You're thinking, blahblah dee blah. Everyone knows the world is depressing, what am I supposed to do about it? How about arranging something tax-deductable with monthly auto-giving available and extremely high ethics ratings? Seriously.

Please think about sponsoring a kid through World Vision or any other program you like. If you are sitting at a computer in a warm dry place and know you'll have food, friends, and safety for the next year, you know you should be giving back. World Vision is a good thing and I hope to get seven more kids sponsors this year- please do check it out and maybe tell a hundred friends.

The link is also in my sidebar.

Better safe than... oh, very funny.

J took this picture a few nights ago when it was still cauldron-like here and Toby was enjoying a piece of ice and running around the living room engaging in some serious nudie time. I couldn't figure out when I downloaded it why I look so ticked and tired. In retrospect it's clear I must have known that tonight I would be freaked out (pppbbbltltltlt to the nurse advice line) and take Toby to the emergency room only to find out he's got jock itch. Yes, jock... itch. He's too cute to have the word "jock" be used in reference to his, er, area.

At a year and a half, Toby is officially a toddler. Is his having the medical issues of an older, damper, wrinklier man part of some elaborate hazing?

Toddler Sitz, take 2

Today we tried rehearsing with Toby again and it was way more fun. This time I thought ahead and gave him some crack grapes & cheese in his high chair, and set him where he could watch Anne's fingers on the keyboard. Like a fancy wine and cheese chamber concertfor the one year-old set. He totally dug it, especially the Lyle Lovett and the Vivaldi.

In fact after Anne left with her magical musical toy he pulled me aside over by the toybox and said, "One word, Mama. Jawdropping."

Die, suckers!

We have sugar ants. Jerks.

I put Borax and sugar all around the outside of the place and continue to squish the suckers and wash 'em down the sink. What's that one about scooping up the fieldmice to bop 'em on the head? Anyway, just when you feel clean again there they come in their stupid little ant formations with their lameoid friends and neighbors. I hate them so very deeply.

Seeing those sickos sent me on a cleaning spree and we now need to have a garage sale. Our stuff- the piles and boxes and closetsfull- has finally seriously ticked me off.

That's it. I've forced you to read about grindingly boring cleaning and the infestation of casa del Ward. The end is nigh.

100 degrees, 100 years old, same diff.

So guess! what the 8-year old boy said when the grumpy chick at the zoo told him to stop kicking his cohorts.

"You're not the boss of us."

And in his beady little miscreant eyes I saw reflected the stodgy old crone I have worked so hard to become in all her glory, straggly hair streaming proudly in the wind. I thought about shaking my cane and taking a victory lap around the entrance to the zoo, but it was wayyy too nice a day, so I shuffled off to the public transit I rode in on. Toby tried to hide under his hat but later on he helped me open the Metamucil, so I guess he's recovered from the shame.

father & son

J Version 3.3

Thirty Three!

I love you.
Happy birthday, and thanks for letting me rob your cradle, darlin'.
You amaze me daily.

My sister's cat's tapetum

Gobsmacked

This evening at 6:18 pm Pacific, I experienced one of the best moments of my life. And I know it- how many are so lucky?

It was Toby, naturally. He was waking from a nap and I started singing his name from the bottom of the stairs, so by the time I made it to his door he was ready for our most recent game. He flings himself back down and pulls his blanket back over his tousled head. I drop down and crawl toward him, wondering aloud where Toby went.

He is a laugh prodigy, captivating. He kicks his feet, doing this move that looks like that break-dancing snake on the floor maneuver while the laughing cascades out. When he finally quiets down, flips over and reaches past the crib railing for me, I get a bouncing boy hug. If he's really happy he pats my back or leans into me and puts his hands behind his own back.

Seeing this for what it is... I'm grateful.

I'm not the only one in love- here he is with his girl Natalie.

Violence, Electrocution and Illegal Explosions

My husband is a winner, I've got proof!

He called the local AM(4-7 everyday!) talk show, answered two questions about the week's news and voila! we get free movie tickets and a dvd of Mel Gibson's Apocalypto. I've heard it's incredibly graphic, so I'll make J watch first. I'm still completely pissed off that I saw Pan's Labyrinth. That director is a talented jerk. How do you say jerk in Espanol? Sadly, I know how to say slightly worse, but would rather not... anyway there's violence and then there's gratuitous self indulgence. Jerk.

We're heading to Aumsville for the 4th so we can set off our Washington State approved fireworks without worry of setting the rest of the townhomes on fire or getting arrested or something. Oh yeah, baby, we're wild.

Also, we have to make sure all the cows are still incarcerated at Casa del Heifers in Heat. I sure hope they are respecting the newly electrified fence, because what am I going to do, play a merry tune to lure them back in?

To my American contingent I say, Happy Fourth!

Break out the cigars!

A new blog is born. Bored!

I was tired of worrying whether all the adoption-talk was inducing a glazed-eye coma in all 2.3 of my readers. So I fired me up a brand new one!

It's linked in my sidebar, or click on over right...... HERE.

Cue these dudes,

Ahhhhhhh-oooooooo-
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The first and last time...

...he'll be put in the backseat of a cop's cruiser. Unless of course he decides to drive one after graduating as valedictorian and saving a pack of boy scouts from the jaws of a bear with nothing but a paperclip and three Weeble Wobbles.

The Nazarene church up the street had a block party today and they had us at "firetruck". It was a great setup, with dunk tanks and bounce houses and a big huge inflated slide thingy. I can't tell you how disappointed I was that Toby's too small for all that. Because I wasn't, not one little guilt-ridden overprotective parenting bit. I am a worrier, and a darn good one, and those kinds of toys make me think of the statistics on freak accidents resulting in a toddler with at least a black eye. Shudder.

He's repeating a lot more words lately. He says mama, but usually it's more like Moe mooooooe, with his mouth stuck out in an exaggerrated "o" as he staggers over to me in a silly mood. Then he gets a twinkle in his eye and hits me on the nose or clocks me with a toy. Did you know my sister nicknamed me Mean Streak when I was his age? Oh justice, thou art cruel.

I was asking J for some favor today while carrying Toby upstairs and he started saying "honnney" in such a way that I knew I was being petulant just from the way he repeated it. How embarassing. He also likes to say Go!!!!! in the car, which he apparently picked up from the exceedingly rare times I would eeever say something like that to my fellow very capable drivers. Not me, nope.

We are in a difficult (for me) limbo, staying or going, and I feel the capilaries I've put out in Portland shrivelling from disuse. J very logically pointed out that the roots are for me and the point is that I need to feel them, so why retract them yet. This is sounding like a bad Oprah, but anyway I thought at the time it made buckets of sense.

I hate to feel a lack of direction, and it's not easy for me to thrive without deadlines, connections and concrete goals. It's depressing, actually, and feeling dumpy makes me want to sit around on my butt all day, which feeds the blues and it's just such a bourgois problem to have I think I might have to slap myself. I suppose I could just enlist the kiddo there...

Toby and the Behemoth

NOT about adoption!

Look, we went to Santa Cruz! With the pelicans! And the boardwalk lights! Plus, the moon!



We had an eventimous week. We went to California and stayed in by far the coolest hotel I've seen. There were antique Brownie cameras in the Norwegian Blue/ Chocolate Brown lobby, and large swaths of velvet randomly hung all over the modern scandesign place. There was a Rubic's Cube to play with in our room, along with a really great selection of design magazines and nifty artwork framed in those huge-mat-thin-black-frames.

Because I so loved the decor and was more than a little dazzled by the attention to design, I spilled an entire caraffe of skim milk on the nicely appointed breakfast buffet table. It was okay because everyone there was interviewing with Silicon Valley, so they had been right there with me in awkwardston in one way or another for much of their geekster lives. The waitstaff didn't even blink, bless her heart.

When we got back from Cali, I went straight to Aumsville to help with Cowgate '07. There's this total heifer in heat, see, and my dad let me play around with big sharp spikes, welded wire panels and a hammer for a couple of days. We mended the fence, though come to think of it those exact materials might have been useful in convincing her to stay put by means of... persuasion, know what I mean? If she could build a memory to last more than the 3 seconds she has available, it! could! work!! (Young Frankenstein rulz.)

Here's that horny cow with my friend's baby.

The Flawster System

Have you noticed how great a mom-in-law I have? Take a look at her comment on the previous post. I know, it's just not fair. No explaining Jonathan, though...

Anyway, I figured I'd get around to the foster-to-adopt thing. Thank you, fair readers who might still be slogging through my blog, for tolerating one more post on our adoption research.

We haven't totally given up on the good old US of A yet, except for one thing: I think it might make me a criminal.

There is no WAY I am capable of dropping off an in-process of adoption toddler I love at their birthparents' home for court-mandated visits during which they will suffer the kind of treatment that required their removal from the home in the first place. If I had evidence the parents were screwing up again with a child I loved, I would be crushed and angry and... it just would not work for me.

The other huge consideration is Toby. I'd rather not parade kids who might be, might not be siblings through our home only to lose them because of nutty legal problems.

I literally have to limit my exposure to the stories out there about what happens to kids in the system in the States. Most happens at the hands of their bio-parents, despite the impression given by a few well-advertised cases of foster parents being evil. Just this morning, for example, I read that in a huge survey of the kids themselves (1951-1984), 90% "always feel safe" in their placed homes. I also read a story about some seriously messed-with, messed-up kids being given to some unwitting family by the state of Florida (who refused to warn the family or share the boys' extensive psych files and is now paying a settlement) with poor consequences all around.

We haven't written off a domestic kiddo completely, but it is a very bleak state of affairs here. I am not convinced open adoption is better for the kids, and I don't like the idea of trying to win over a birthmom to have her pick us from a pageant of other potentials. We're meeting with some friends who have been through several types of adoption and hope to get some good advice and clear leading.

**********************

Meanwhile!
Do what's in front of you.
Run your own race.
Is there any better advice out there? In fact, the first friend/mentor I remember telling me this was herself an adoptive mom to a developmentally delayed behaviorally challenged toddler and a crack baby. Both boys are completely at or above average now, and a big happy part of her life along with a baby she had the year we left Madison.

You Crane

The country we are most intrigued by is Ukraine.

Adoption is different there in several important ways.

First, you are not allowed to use an agency in Ukraine. This is meant to eliminate a potentially corrupt middleman and to discourage human black market style transactions. You can hire a translator, or facilitator, but that's it.

Second, photo-listings of waiting children and pre-selection of any kind are illegal. This is also supposed to stop human traffickers and pre-bribing somebody to get a particular child.

Third, unless there is a health issue, children are kept in the system unavailable to foreigners for one year from the time they are documented.

I respect Ukraine for doing what it can to avoid immoral practices in adoption, but I can see a couple of potential deterrents for me here.

On the day that you are finally given your appointment with the state-run agency, you are shown books full of photos of waiting children and are expected to choose a few to enquire about within about an hour. The agency then calls the child's orphanage to confirm they are available (some of the files are old) and that nothing drastic has changed about their situation. If the child is sicker than the file indicates or if a long-lost relation has resurfaced, you may have to move on to another face.

If it looks like a potential match, you are sent on a trip to the orphanage. Some are a long way (17 hours in a decroded train) away. Sometimes when you reach your destination, other children are brought to you first, and may recite poetry or sing. If your heart hasn't shattered into a surprisingly small and black mess on their Eastern Block floor at this point, you may then see the child you selected from the books full of children. You have some time to consider the child and may visit several days in a row before announcing your decision.

The whole thing is wrapped up by a little more paperwork (am I signing up for another doctorate here?) and then you are officially family. Sometimes people don't find their child on the first few tries. You are allowed two appointments with the main agency, after which you are sent back to your country to recover and then may ask for one more appointment. Most people find their kids on the first trip, but others don't. With travel expenses and application fees (to the Embassies while you're filling out a year's worth of forms) most can expect to pay between $10,000-20,000. These fees also help defray the cost of the care the child receives while they are in the system, but are payed whether the parents travel home alone or not.

I respect the intent and think it's one of the best attempts at fairness I've come across. I just don't like the Jeopardy-timing parade of kids in need. That would take a LOT of prayer...

It's a system.

Finally

I talked to Rachael today, who would be like my evil twin except are you sure she's the evil one, because between us maybe we actually need, like, what are sets of four babies called, quartets? Anyway, we're made for each other, that squeeky little violin playing hobag and I, and I missed talking to her and was thinking up nasty things to send to her house so she would call me. And then about a 30 minutes after thinking that, she did.

I didn't answer right away- I have this mental problem with answering the phone sometimes even if I'm bored and lonely. But toDAY, finally, we chatted about stuff and she doesn't know it yet but she totally inspired me to get out the door and go for a run.

Except I walked because that jogging stroller is still missing its propeller and it's eleventy thousand degrees in the shade.

The thing with Rachael is that she is a very obsessive person, too. And I can always count on her to have some great thing going, like a Very Restricted Health Food Kick or a Very Demanding Workout Streak or Ticking Off Socially Conservative Legalist Churchfolk Jag or even sometimes Practicing.

So I hung up the phone, ran right upstairs and took a 30 minute nap while Toby fought sleep with all he's got. We both gave up and I could not think of a single reason why I shouldn't get outside and excercise. Believe me, I tried.

It felt so incredibly great, it would be so nice to do that more often. I'll have to consult my rigorous schedule, and see if Rachael might move in with a cattle prod or perhaps a .22 rifle.

Dance, you nancypants violist! she'd screech, Dance!

There will be a quiz.

I'm so good at obsessing, a wonderkind, seriously.

This time we are passing in a kind of limbo, between maybe staying and maybe moving, between investing more in life here and preparing to send out roots again, gives me a need to feel productive at something measurable. You should see me here, with my pile of library treasures and about a zillion links to go through. This month has been a good time to educate myself more about the many choices to be made about adopting.

The racial question has faded a bit for me, and I feel it wouldn't matter as much or at all once the child was a part of our family. With any adoption there is the decision to impose yourself on a kid, assuming your home will be a better world for him. Striving to make that life a fabulous one will doubtless fill our days and give us little time or energy to spend worrying about the minds of others.

There have been some nice discoveries. Observe these quotes:
Jamie Lee Curtis on folks questioning those who adopt interracially, "It's just hateful. It's just a hateful thing to say. It's obscene to question motive. These are human beings helping other human beings. End of story."

From an adoptive dad's comment on an adoptionblogs.com post discussing the idea that in a perfect world there is no adoption: "I am bothered by the idea that we should cede superior morality to the folks who dislike adoption. What we are doing is not wrong or second class, and we have no business saying that adoption is a bad thing.
We do what we do because there are kids who need homes. That is not evil or wrong, the institution of adoption as the vehicle that allows these children to have a future is not bad either. If the detractors can't come to the table without moral capitulation on our part, that's too bad and that should be a price we don't pay."

And finally, a little Rogers and Hammerstein, from South Pacific (1949)
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made
Or people whose skin is a different shade
You've got to be carefully taught!

You just might have something there....

Scene: Factory in China owned by a US toy company
Pan in to drab flourescent-lit offices where a tablefull of men is smoking over profit reports and warm cokes.

Chinese businessman #1, in Mandarin: Thank you for coming, Mr. Brown.
Translator: We thank you, Mr. Brown.
Brown: The thanks are all on this end, boys. We are very happy with our numbers, gentleman, and the focus groups are all over those new, more colorful Thomas the Train sets. What news do you have for us today?
Chinese Businessman confers for a minute with colleagues. One mentions to another how much money could be saved in shipment if the toys were only filled with a lighter fluid. Nods are exchanged and they gesture to the translator.
Translator: He says you should consider lighter fluid.
-Fade, swell music (Glory, glory halleluja?) & roll credits-

Seriously, how else did they come up with Kerosene as an appropriate filler for toys? Could be they needed to offset the weight of all that lead paint.

Cheeky

Toby is becoming more and more himself, growing personality by the day. He's already overflowing so it's fun to see him expand when you have already thought GEEZE he's spunky, what a ham a thousand times.

One very small complaint I have about his growing confidence is that he's begun to explore the dark side of his power. He likes to throw things. At mama. Ha.

On Saturday we observed Father's Day with my kick-butt dad & a big delicious BBQ at casa del Aumsville. It was sweet- the house was scented with peonies my mom had cut in enormous bunches- M. Stewart eat your heart out.

So Toblerone and I were sitting quietly next to one another on the loveseat in my parent's dining room, chatting up the fam and playing with some agate coasters he loves. I saw the arm raise back and issued a Darth-Vader-Low-Voice "don't throw, Toby." He let loose anyway, and immediately tilted his head down so as to avoid meeting my eyes. I leaned in close and said some Mommy-speak sanctioned thing like, "We don't throw things, Toby."

He thought for a second, head down, eyes averted. Then he turned his head up to look directly into my soul, leaned up and gave me a kiss right on the lips.

His first kiss was a diversionary tactic, a bomb diffusion, a flower in the barrel of a gun.

Just like in my daydreams...

Toddleropera

I just had the most surreal experience. My pianist came over to rehearse for some upcoming gigs and of course, Toby refused to give up and succumb to his nap once he heard us. So I figure, I'll just let him play while we play, it'll expand his brain cells, I'll be mom of the year, right?

Yeah, you see where this is going, all you people with your overdeveloped senses of reason.

For the first few pieces he did alright, being generally cute and bopping from toy to toy on his own, scoping out the situation. Then he fell on a toy. Then he filled the room with such a stench I fully expected the air to turn shades of mustard. On our return from the diaper change he wanted an ice cube. And couldn't keep away from the piano. And was apparently starving right NOW. He was a tyrant, a cranky drooly tyrant with extra whining.

The only redeeming thing was that he was perfectly in sync with the music. Tragic opera aria? Yeah, mom, awwwawwwwwwww (cue nasal discharge) I feel that. Weltschmertz is the new baby blue.

Talking amongst ourselves

We're still pondering and considering the race aspect of our adoption decisions. So this morning it was nice to recognize that if we do adopt interracially, and we may well do, it would be in no way as confrontation-ful as I was imagining.

J drew an analogy to getting a neck tattoo: most people will have a strong opinion about that one way or another, but few will say anything to your face about it. With adoption, people who do have an opinion are probably even more loathe than the anti-tatty to push past all the civil boundaries: extremely personal topic, children involved, incomplete knowledge of the facts (although that's probably not as big a barrier as it should be for alotta folks), and unlikelihood of convincing anyone of anything.

I think of myself as a strong person, and most people seem to agree- I am no wallflower. At 34 I'm finally peachy with all that. So why is it hard to read those zany zealots without letting it sway my own compass? Why let those whose season tickets are so clearly stamped *Peanut Gallery* weigh in on such an important decision?

Anyway, it's been a great day at the Ward ward. I was jazzed this morning when J casually mentioned asking a co-worker about his two adopted Chinese children and the research his family did before bringing them home.
[unadulterated fawning] First, J is one of those complex people (commonly known as "men") who tend to be listening and processing things long before I even realize they're on his radar. I love when he brings home new info like this- and he had this conversation weeks ago. [/unadulterated fawning]
His friend hasn't had much comment from anywhere, and Owlhaven the blogger also says the folks in her (~5% African American) area are generally polite and friendly.

We are looking at Ukraine or Russia in this week's study: Neat!
People are better and worse than I imagine. It's just that when it comes to children, those extremes carry so much more import.

File under: Racially Skittish

For most men life is a search for the proper manila envelope in which to get themselves filed. ~Clifton Fadiman


One of the best things about the internet (besides the unlimited potential for feeling productive while wasting time) is that you can get a lot of first-hand, primary source information and opinions. The information is often surrounded by Miss Information- she's everywhere, man- but if you are willing to do some dusting off and ferreting out it can be great.

For about a year now I've been researching adoption. This is a touchy thing to look into on the web, because Miss Information's good buddy Screaming Zealot likes to hold forth about the whole complicated issue. I've been pretty fortunate, though, and have floated into some informative, honest sites.

I know I can gather and analyse all the facts and statistics in the world (and I will, Oh yes, I will) but what I need the most is to read and talk to the people who have been through the process. People who blog.

Yesterday one of my favorite blogging women, Mary of Owlhaven and the Ethiopia Blog put up this post, sparking a couple realizations on my part.

First, when I imagine my family including some Ethiopian kiddos, I get nervous. I'm not proud admitting this, but I realized over the past few months that I see the Miriam with an interracial family becoming defensive & shrill, maybe even bitter. I see myself worrying that I would have to justify my kids, my presumption. If the world was made up of me, Jonathan and Ethiopia, I would adopt from there because I see a great need there. How lame is it to care that much about what others might say, and how I might feel, and how I might be changed?

It's a dark kind of wierd to learn something disappointing about yourself. It's also liberating. To admit it, to hear Mary's thoughts (she has been wonderfully generous about responding to comments and email in addition to her well-written blogs), to talk to my friends and especially to spark conversations with J; all these things have brought my thoughts back around to the issue at hand. I didn't feel led toward the interracial thing, but the more I talk & learn, the less I think of it as a problem. The more I can loose my fears and feel like myself.

The loving service which God sends His people into the world to render includes both evangelism and social action, for each is in itself an authentic expression of love, and neither needs the other to justify it.
... John R. W. Stott (b.1921)

Oops, I to-ook a plant.

Here's my newest obsession. Sedum plants! Like hens and chicks. And stuff. I may or may not have committed a felony a couple weeks back in that national park we visited. It's fat and happy now in my front yard.



They're stubby, easy to care for and cheap: like ME like ME... my name Iiiisobel, married to mysellllf, myyyyy name... uh.. sorry, these little episodes of song-breaking-outage are easier to understand in person.

Speaking of just how easy it is for crap to get stuck in my grey and spongy matter, I have now heard Oops I did it Again in its entirety. It's a real red-letter day, thanks to whoever programs the aural environment at Washington Square Mall. Doesn't the video involve Ms. Spears in a child-porny school uniform with pigtails or something?

As only Toby's stunning vocabulary shockingly robust lexicon can put it: Ew.

Happy Wedding, B-man.

This is our friend Brent about six months ago up in the North Woods of Wisconsin. He is none other than J's best man from our very own wedding lo these many years ago. He and lovely Laura are having a ceremony this weekend on the coast near Olympia, so we'll be outta here for a few days.

Eww

I've been sick. Being sick is gross and depressing.

But hey- Toby's learned a new word, "Ewwwwwwwwww," which he enjoys saying rather a lot.

Market me with love.

We have fallen prey to the carseat conspiracy. In a big way.

See, a few months back I was researching what to put the little bugger in next. Up to now he's been in one of those sort of half-shell with a handle type dealies, which faces the back of the car and can be carried into stores provided your upper body looks something like the Governator's. Those suckers are heavy with a side of awkward. They always seem to situate the kid's weight just far enough from your body that all the load is on the weak flabby middle of your back where the love handles start. Toby's almost 17 months old and weighs about 24 pounds, so we pretty much never carry him around in that thing anymore.

He is ready to face forward in the car. And by that I mean, I am ready to have some respite from the "crackerrrr, crackerrrrr, uh-ohhhhhh, uh-ohhhhhh, crackerrrr, nononononononono" carsong. He is an easygoing guy, but the car seems to bring out the demanding in him this week. I am hopeful that facing me and being able to see more of the scenery will help him chilllllll.

So, I went for the only seat with Side Impact Protection (SIP) available and tested in the US of A. Am I the only person un-PC enough to say it's crazy that Europe has better child protection gear? Wouldn't you think the land of the personal injury attorney would want the best & safest stuff available? What exactly has Graco been developing for the last 10 years?

We spent two hundred and fifty dollars. I know. I know! But do you know how much guilt reduction we got with that? We are putting his butt in a seat made by a race car company! You can't beat that kind of smug snugness.

Unless of course you fall on your head and decide to buy a $52,000 pirate ship for the backyard. Prove to me that it will keep kids safer, maybe throw in a couple endorsements from actual pirates and hey- maybe we can split the shipping.

We've been busy!

The faaaaaahhhhhg.

Did you ever see that movie The Fog? If not, you are a) clearly not married to my husband and b) more likely to have accomplished things in your life other than watching b-movies. I myself have seen both versions (1980, 2005).

Here's a picture of what whispy horror we narrowly escaped in Hells Canyon. We got a flat tire in the rain and also managed to dig the Jeep out of snow with basically a crow bar and my bare widdle hands. J had the forethought to wear only Tevas and shorts, so it was up to me to get us out alive. I loved every single second.

Wallowa Lake, Oregon

Drop what you're doing, get in the car and drive RIGHT NOW to the Hells Canyon National Recreation Area.

Look at what you can do there! You should sooo click on that first one of the two of us because don't I look an awful lot like the bus driver from South Park? Sit dowwn and shuuut up, or Ahh will keeelll this bunnyyy!

There be stories to tell, aye... uh, sorry- we watched Pirates of the Johnny Depp last night. We'll post more about camping Jwards later. I have to go see if I remember which hand is for the bow and which is for the viola...

We're going CAMPING!

The location is J's surprise because this is an anniversary trip delayed a few weeks because I was working. I haven't really been camping in 4 years, and that makes me weep bitter tears of deprivation and longing.

When I was a kid we went for several weeks every summer, and it was so incredibly great. I have pictures of me practicing out in the woods along some Alaskan highway. The sheer 80's-ness of my permed hair and enormous tee roped in with a black patent leather belt buckle the size of a Buick is a sight to behold.

I used to think camping wasn't camping if there were parking lots and picnick tables involved. We did it old school: backwoods Montana & podunk arctic river access were our forte. Now we live where there are too many people and you need a reservation for a spot. A reservation!

While I really do look forward to taking him along, we are leaving the kidlet with his preferred caregivers for the weekend. Otherwise I know I'd be waking up in a sweat, convinced I'd rolled on top of him or that he'd been stolen by a pack of meth-heads from my sleeping hands. I know it makes no sense, but I can see the whole thing play out like a badly concieved episode of CSI.

Did I ever tell you about the time a bear stepped on my sister's head while she slept in a tent with my parents? (AHHHH! Do NOT google bear & tent: there are a LOT of bear attacks happening to folks with access to the internet. EWWWW!) She didn't even wake up, but I would bet Mom and Dad sustained grave injuries to their Holy Crap reflex nodules.

Merry Memorial Day! Happy Summer! See you on the flipside good buddy, 10-4.

Just in case.

We went to Salem yesterday, to play in a rad frog-shaped plastic sand box. Aren't you jealous?

We also went to Minto Brown park, which is, besides Central Park, probably my favorite urban place to walk/run in the United states. There's a river with nesting eagles, several ponds, and almost 900 acres with miles of sweet trails, both paved and left natural.

I wish my camera battery hadn't died. It would have been supercool to post a picture of Toby trying to manhandle a girl twice his age on the play structure steps. They played together nicely for nippers, actually. When we left I looked back and she was sitting forlornly on the hard-won stairs, watching us make our stumbly exhuberant way to the parking lot.

My grapes, they are not (too) sour.

The other screw-over-ee from that audition is talking about union action, an exercise in futility likely to make the complainer fairly unpopular in a short span of time in a town this small. I hope s/he reconsiders.

Either the committee didn't hear much difference between the candidates or they heard it but didn't have the moral fiber to do anything about it. Neither scenario makes me want to work there, so I'm mostly over it now.

It probably helps that I don't need that job right this second. There are some possible changes in the JWards future, up to and including moving aGAIN. (Just when I was thinking about changing the ol'blog name...)

I am supposed to know myself well enough to be clear about my abilities and shortcomings without need of approval. But I like to win, and I like having a job. It stings to work hard, improve, and still fall short.

One unfair audition is bad luck- but twice in one year? Blech, no point in thinking too hard about it unless it makes me want to work harder. If only I could get J to run a hot little orchestra for me and my lackeys friends.

I am 34,0000000000 years old.

Minus the zeros.

So you know what God did to make me feel better? He made it so our good friends from back in Madison who've also moved to PDX could come over at the last minute for bbq brats, beer, wine and an embarrassingly large and sugar-sludgy cake from Cosco.

And then he put American Gladiator on TV. It was just like high school in Fairbanks, where we had only three stations. Two shut down at midnight and the third played back to back episodes of Matlock, Dr. Who and American Gladiator. It's like the free beer they give out on airlines- you'll take anything when it's all you can get.

If you watch an episode of this now, be sure to watch carefully when they scan the crowd- the fashion and hair alone are wellll worth your time and concentration.

Totally kissing up to you.

I really am sorry about that blog blackout, and to prove it, I'm going to post more for a while and include a lot of pictures.
When Toby's sleepy he sucks his middle fingers and pulls on an ear. We've taught him a few baby signs because it's our duty as whatever yuppies of our generation are called. He signs milk, more, bird, no, plane and some mystery one that resembles the chopping motion fans of whatever baseball team that was with the un-PC Native American name used to do. Or else it looks obscene, a stunningly inappropriate (ergo pretty funny) possibility pointed out by everyone who has witnessed it. It even freaks me out when he delightedly grabs for the jewels during diaper changes, so I am hopefull we'll discover he's trying to imitate a conductor or perhaps a physicist writing formulae on some imaginary Nobel-winning chalk board.

Anyway, since we don't yet have a good pic of him demonstrating that mystery motion (just the SIGN, people) here he is requesting a nap.

CHeeese!

For my birthday I got a really great carpet, a bunch of beautiful plants & plantars and (drumroll..................................) an off-camera flash set from Midwest Photo so I can do some of the things taught at www.Strobist.com!

Here's the first fruit- I promise it will get better, but doesn't he look like thaaat kind of lawyer here? Have you been injured due to negligence or carelessness? Heh.

WhoooOOOPS!

And... we're back.

Sorry about that. I played a bunch of concerts here, then went to Montana for almost two weeks to visit relations. I thought I'd be posting on the road but just never got myself to a computer while one was available.

I will think of something to say soon.

Meanwhile, I played the strangest audition.

First, in the cramped loud communal warm-up room, a former member of a famous string quartet was recognized as one of the auditioners. That was kinda wild, especially because he sort of freaked and left before even hearing results for his group. Then, when they finally gave us our own little rooms just before playing, they came around and asked to take our solo piece so they could copy it for the committee.

Let me tell those of you not privy to the joys of auditioning that this is really freaking wierd. First of all, did they seriously not know the 2.5 pieces they would hear? Second, it was like five minutes to T-time, and what were they futzing with our minds for? Thirdimous, have you ever looked at the music people play from? I've played from the same three pages of the Bartok for about 5 years, spanning 3 teachers and one new instrument: there are all kinds of markings on it I would rather not show while being judged. Do I want them ogling my mess of bowings, fingerings, phrase reminders, pitch corrections, phone numbers from pianists in three states? I don't even need the sheets, but with the committee behind a screen there is NO point in even risking playing without them. Apparently when the committee's gopher finally made it back to the big room to collect everybody's solo parts (I was alone in a little one by then) the mighty violists gave them a big veetoe, and refused to provide parts to be copied.

Soooo, we played the first round. It went well for me, so I was really going to be pissed if I didn't advance- I can deal with screwing up and getting cut, but the constant re-evaluation of my entire life and perceptive capability gets a little old. This time I made it to the next round, so, yippee!

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

Funny thing about that. We played the same stuff repeatedly (there were only 5 excerpts) and we always played in the exact same order. And they never asked me to do anything differently. Usually in later rounds they have already determined you have the chops they require. So they see how flexible you are- what you'd really be capable of in a rehearsal when the maestro makes a request.

Apparently they had candidate 3 do lots of things. They told candidate 2 about a wrong pitch she had learned. They said nothing to me. Four times.

And then they picked the guy whose wife is on the committee.

Haha. Funny. Thing is, I didn't know that bit about the nepotism until hours after, and in the interim I had a key-throwing, sniveling fit involving seriously questioning what the point is in my continuing to play. I wasn't being dramatic- just practical. I would rather pack it in than be relegated to lame per-service ensembles. I whined about how I won stuff all through school, graduated and BAM. Haven't won crap (and I have really been auditioning for some serious crap) since.

Sorry for not blogging. And that this post is such an enjoyable romp through my insecurities, but I'm sure I'll get back into the swing of things soon.

Benched

When we own the amazing house with a stream running along the generous property line, I would like to buy these benches and arrange for a canopy overhead and play string quartets while sipping mint juleps and/or margaritas.

Amish parents have balls of steel.

We are watching this jawdropping documentary called Devil's Playground, about the tradition called Rumspringa within the Amish church. Literally translated as "running around", this is one frightening concept.

The Amish let their children go out and do whatever they want at 16 until they either decide to join the church or are found passed out, knocked up under a buggie somewhere with a bag of meth and a can of bud. Yet another reason I could not be Amish; Toby won't get out of our house until he's 28 and a half, and even then the microchip will help us monitor his activity. In case you were wondering what Jack Bauer's got on tap after saving Audrey Raines, he'll be serving at our pleasure keeping Tobias in line.

Frankly I feel bad for these kids, even though I can respect the spirit of the excercise. Committing to such a stringent life would have to be a choice, or most kids would rebel at some point anyway. But it's a little cruel to put all that temptation and opportunity in the hands of the ball of hormones that is a sixteen year-old boy.

One kid they focus on goes through the world's horrible things like the devil himself is holding his hand. Meth, narcing on murderous dealers, rehab, falling back into alcoholism and finally running off to Florida to follow a girl. Every parents' nightmare.

"It's like a vaccination. You get a little taste of the world... and you'll be a happier Amish person if you have a choice."

Except vaccines are safe. Balls of steel.