How long?

How long can one stand in the basement with a cantankerous landlord, staring at a misbehaving washing machine, without exchanging a single word?

Pretty long, it turns out. Pretty long.

To Claim A Wife

Take a look at the synopsis for this romance novel..

http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/f/susan-fox/to-claim-wife.htm

Too wild to wed...

March of the Goblins

When I am teaching I tend to fully embrace what I'll call "kid-mode." I laugh a lot with my students, but the funny and poignant things they say don't always stick with me. Today, for whatever reason, it did. Sophia is 7 years old and is a very practical and clever little girl. The new song we worked on this afternoon was called "March of the Goblins." I played it and sang it to her so she could hear the tune, and the words went something like this:

Yo-ho! Yo-yo-ho! Marching up the mountains thunder! Gold! Gold! We like gold! And we'll guard our plunder!

At the end of the song, Sophia said, "Uh, Miss Caitlyn, I don't really get that."

"Get what?" I asked.

"The words."

I explained that they were goblins searching for gold, defined plunder, etc, and she said, "But why do they like gold so much? All it is is a bit of shine."

"Yes, but they're goblins," I replied. "Wouldn't you like to search for gold if you were a goblin?"

"No. I would like to read. And sing."

(pause pause pause pause......................... a glance and a smirk up at me)

"...and play the piano."

I laughed. Did I mention she's also very diplomatic? Maybe she'll be a politician someday!

Auld Lang Syne

I wasn't going to go into detail about my pathetic situation, but since I alluded to it and people are asking, I might as well get it over with.

New Year's Eve sucked. Everyone was either out of town or already had plans with their families or significant others, so I spent the evening alone on the couch with episodes of a PBS Special and a cup of coffee. I took a hot bubble bath and tried to convince myself that really this was what I wanted anyway, but it didn't work. It just sucked. I threw in the towel at 11:50 and got into bed. When the fireworks started to go off a few minutes later, I sang Auld Lang Syne to myself, from my bed, in the dark, alone. I felt like Bridget Jones in the opening scene where she tearfully lip-sings All By Myself over a glass of wine.

So I guess 2010 is going to come on in and make itself at home. I'm hoping that after the rocky start to our relationship we get used to each other.

Happy New Year.

Car Maintenance

Car maintenance is one of those attention-to-detail aspects of my life that I really could do without. While for the most part I am self-sufficient as an independent woman, there are some things I wish I could delegate to a teammate, and car maintenance is near the top of the list. I realize it is important and I should know things, but really it just doesn't stick. I try to pay attention when someone explains or shows me something, but, entirely against my will, my eyes glaze over and I just cannot make myself care.

On Saturday this weekend Mom, Dad and I pulled out our cross-country skis for this season's virgin run through the forest preserve. My down snow vest was in my trunk in case of emergencies, so after brushing all the snow off I unlocked the trunk. However, despite all of my pulling, prying, grunting, and moaning, I could not get the trunk open. It was frozen shut! I called Dad to help me, but he couldn't get it open either. I resigned myself to other snow clothes and went on my way. Skiing was beautiful, by the way.

Sunday as I was warming up the car to drive back to Chicago, Dad threw a shovel-full of snow on my windshield as a parting gift. I tried to clear the snow using my windshield wipers, and realized then that I needed new ones. Streaks would be a generous term for how my wipers cleared (or rather, didn't clear) the windshield. The driver's side had one streak just at eye level, and the passenger's side didn't clear at all. Since it was clear that day, I sighed, waved goodbye and started on my journey. All was well until I got on the highway. My vision grew more and more obscured as one after another cars all around me threw up dirt and splatter from the road. My wipers were worthless.

The situation became urgent, and I decided I needed to purchase some new wipers STAT. I exited, pulled in to Target, and circled the lot several times looking for a space. Finally found one, bee-lined into the auto section, proudly looked up my make/model, grabbed the correct wipers and got in line. There were only 2 people in front of me, but the checker was so slow that I waited for 20 minutes listening to the deadbeats behind me pontificate about child support. Finally to the front of the line, one of the deadbeats started exclaiming about my wiper and how much it cost, but upon further inspection said, "oh, but it's only one.." WHAT??

I got out of line, went back, got the other stupid wiper, got back in line, waited, checked out, returned to my car and started trying to install a new one. Cars desperate for my parking space waited with their blinkers on, but I was going nowhere fast. I couldn't figure out the wiper installation and, feeling peer pressure, finally decided I would just make it home and figure it out later. Back in the car it started to snow, but I could see enough. Just as I came around the corner of my street, relieved to have finally made it home, my trunk, finally thawed out, popped open.

If anyone would like to volunteer for the job of Caitlyn's car care-taker, I would be much obliged. If not, sorry Dad, you're stuck with the job.

Brussels Sprouts

I am wondering how these guys got such a bad reputation. Last night Mom dropped off almost an entire share of autumn produce. It was extra from her share that she was trying to get rid of! We now have a fridge full of spinach, carrots, red onion, turnips, rutabaga, kohlrabi, celeriac, cabbage, 4 different kinds of squash, and a stalk of brussels sprouts. Well actually, minus the brussels sprouts--I cooked them last night.

This was my first time cooking brussels sprouts, and I must say it was kind of fun popping them off their stalk. I trimmed off the long ends and peeled back any wilted leaves and found a recipe to carmelize them with red onion and red wine vinegar. Toasted pistachios garnished the finished dish. They were delicious!

I immediately started wondering about their reputation and decided to experiment by posting my cooking accomplishment on facebook. Within 12 hours, at least 8 people have responded with the way they most enjoy their brussels sprouts-- sauteed with golden raisins and hazelnuts, with bacon, carmelized with pistachios AND chopped dried apricot, chopped fine with pasta. These are not 8 of my notoriously "foodie" friends, either. They are just a random sample of my connections.

And so I'm happy to report that there is a place in our hearts (and stomachs) for brussels sprouts after all. And lucky us, because according to Wikipedia, "they contain good amounts of vitamin A, vitamin C, folic acid and dietary fibre. Moreover, they are believed to protect against colon cancer, due to their containing sinigrin."

Bring 'em on!

Bad Dog Tavern

As situation would have it, I haven't been meeting a lot of available men lately. Having realized that this may be partially because I don't often break out of my comfortable social circle--one where I know them, they know me, and most are, in fact, women--, I accepted an invitation tonight to go to a neighborhood bar to celebrate a friend-of-a-friend's birthday. The friend-of-a-friend is a man and the bar is in my neighborhood, so it seemed promising.

Upon joining with the group, however, I looked around and overwhelmingly felt like a BABY. I have no problem socializing with adults, and I do realize that I am slowly becoming an adult myself, but all of these people seemed to be in their mid-thirties. Not old, mind you, but still 10 years older than me. Just not what I was expecting.

Great, I thought, as I settled in with my pumpkin ale. Just then a handsome man walked into the bar and headed for our table. Since the only seats available were directly across from us, he made his way over to us. He had piercing blue eyes, wore a ball cap, and appeared to be closer to my age--30 max! BINGO!

He sat down and we struck up conversation. As soon as names were exchanged he mentioned his wife and new baby. And another one bites the dust.

So here I am, another Saturday night nearly gone, alone in my apartment, reflecting on another evening spent in the company of charming, but ineligible men.

Is anyone interested in going to Spain? Perhaps tomorrow?

And so it begins..

Sometime over the weekend the page was turned. Gone are the cheerful sundresses, bright colors, and airy sandals. Gone is the lightness of spirit and genial air of conviviality among my fellow Chicagoans.

The wind howled last night and the virgin radiators hissed their warm greeting while we slept beneath our comforters, windows closed.

As I wade through the commuter stream this morning, we are clothed now head to toe -- somber grays, blacks, browns. Neutral, while the chilled wind whips our hair about. Do our expressions match our attire? There is an excitment, an anticipation of the splendour of fall, but it competes for space with the dread of quickly approaching winter.

With the liveliness and oppressive cheerfulness of summer behind us, we loosen the chains of our darker, melancholy and reflective selves. Solemn contemplation is now our sport as we enter the season of waiting.

Invented Good

Every once in a while there comes a moment when the good you worked so hard to see in someone turns out to be all your own invention. Or maybe that only happens to me because I'm not so good at discerning character? Whatever the case, I seem to have adopted a "see with my own eyes" policy because I can't change my mind about a person until they have, without a shadow of a doubt, proved me wrong. It's actually amazing how good I am at rationalizing behavior (quite elaborately, I might add) and handing out benefit-of-the-doubts like it was my job.

A Litany of Prayer for the Uninsured and Under-Insured

As read in church this morning:

Reader: We are the millions of men and women in our national community who--for a variety of reasons: downsizing, outsourcing, restructuring--will wake up one day this year to learn that we no longer have a job. Added to the stress of finding a new job, we'll also have to figure out how to continue to provide health care for our families. If we are fortunate to have health insurance, we will be faced with paying more at a time when we are trying to make due with less.

We are the 4 million people in our national community who will celebrate a 19th birthday this next year. As we blow out the candles on the cake, we may be marking the loss of our health insurance. Our society will ensure that if we call the fire department, someone will respond. It will not offer us the same guarantee for our health.

We are the 5 million children in our national community whose lack of health insurance sets up a barrier to good health. We are children in a nation that works to make sure we each have a basic education. We are chilren in a nation which ignores that we need a similar guarantee for health care.

We are the 30 million workers between the ages of 18 and 64 who earn less than $9 an hour. Those of us who work full-time earn $18,800 a year. Many of us are the store clerks, mechanics, dry cleaners, and restaurant workers you meet. Our nation relies on our work to keep America humming along. We typically have no health insurance. We make too much to get health care from public health programs. We often end up in emergency rooms for care because we have no other place to go.

We are the owners of small businesses, those businesses with less than 100 workers. We employ 38 million people in communities across the country. We support the local little league team and sponsor civic events. Because of the high cost, we often are unable to provide the proctection of health insurance for our employees.

We are the six of every 10 people in the United States who are lucky enough to have jobs that offer health insurance for our families. And yet, each year, we find that we are paying more. Deductibles and co-payments keep going up. More and more things are not covered by our insurance, which means we have to pay for them. As a result, many of us--people who own homes, who had full-time employment and insurance before getting ill--will declare bankruptcy because of our medical bills.

We are the 18,000 people who will die this year because we do not have the security of health care that comes with having insurance. Out of pride, out of shame, out of fear--or because we simply don't have the money to go to the doctor--we will ignore signs that our health may be in jeopardy. If we do get medical attention it will be too late.

We are the uncounted millions for whom preventative health care and a healthy lifestyle are a struggle. We live in the inner city where fresh fruit and vegetables are not available in our markets. We live in rural communitites with no doctors. The color of our skin or our gender disproportionately impacts the diagnosis and treatment of a medical condition.

Response: You are or have been one of us. We know or have known others. We care for you and we pray for you, remembering that we are all brothers and sisters.

Adapted from "Readings from the Uninsured" in "Vision and Voice: Faithful Citizens and Health Care," Session 1, accessed at www.visionandvoice.org.

Caitlyn and the Earthworm

Yesterday while walking up the concrete steps of one of my piano families' condominiums, I noticed an earth worm inching along. I looked up and down and side to side. Concrete everywhere. I have no idea how he got there, but I wanted to help him out. Over the concrete wall there was a tiny patch of landscaping, and I decided to drop him over. I bent to pick up the worm rather reluctantly, but the moment I touched it, it practically started seizing! I leapt back in surprise, and then laughed at my squeamishness as the worm quieted down and went on his way. I tried again. Same reaction. I just could not bring myself to grasp his wrigley, wormy body! I had no idea I was such a wimp.

I shook my head as I walked away and said aloud to him, "I'm sorry, I can't save you." I wonder where he is now.

Playing for Change

This is my new favorite social organization. I bought their CD/DVD that came out a few months ago, and can't stop listening to it.

The Phantom Tollbooth

"There were at least a thousand musicians ranged in a great arc before them. To the left and right were the violins and cellos, whose bows moved in great waves, and behind them in numberless profusion the piccolos, flutes, clarinets, oboes, bassoons, horns, trumpets, trombones, and tubas were all playing at once. At the very rear, so far away that they could hardly be seen, were the percussion instruments, and lastly, in a long line up one side of a steep slope, were the solemn bass fiddles.

On a high podium in front stood the conductor, a tall, gaunt man with dark deep-set eyes and a thin mouth placed carelessly between his long pointed nose and his long pointed chin. He used no baton, but conducted with large, sweeping movements which seemed to start at his toes and work slowly up through his body and along his slender arms and end finally at the tips of his graceful fingers.

'I don't hear any music,' said Milo.

'That's right,' said Alec; 'you don't listen to this concert--you watch it. Now, pay attention,'

As the conductor waved his arms, he molded the air like handfuls of soft clay, and the musicians carefully followed his every direction.

'What are they playing?' asked Tock, looking up inquisitively at Alec.

'The sunset, of course. They play it every evening, about this time.'

'They do?' said Milo quizzically.

'Naturally,' answered Alec; 'and they also play morning, noon, and night. Why there wouldn't be any color in the world unless they played it. Each instrument plays a different one,' he explained, 'and depending, of course, on what season it is and how the weather's to be, the conductor chooses his score and directs the day.

The last colors slowly faded from the western sky, and, as they did, one by one the instruments stopped, until only the bass fiddles, in their somber slow movement, were left to play the night and a single set of silver bells brightened the constellations. The conductor let his arms fall limply at his sides and stood quite still as darkness claimed the forest.

'That was a very beautiful sunset,' said Milo.

'It should be,' was the reply; 'we've been practicing since the world began.' And, reaching down, the speaker picked Milo off the ground and set him on the music stand. 'I am Chroma the Great,' he continued, gesturing broadly with his hands, 'conductor of color, maestro of piment, and director of the entire spectrum. Now I really must get some sleep.' Chroma yawned. 'Be a good fellow and watch my orchestra till morning, will you? And be sure to wake me at 5:23 for the sunrise. Good night, good night, good night.'

.........

One by one, the hours passed, and at exactly 5:22 Milo carefully opened one eye and, in a moment, the other. Everything was still purple, dark blue, and black, yet scarcely a minute remained to the long, quiet night.

'I must wake Chroma for the sunrise,' he said softly. Then he suddenly wondered what it would be like to lead the orchestra and to color the whole world himself.

And so, as everyone slept peacefully on, Milo stood on tiptoes, raised his arms slowly in front of him, and made the slightest movement possible with the index finger of his right hand. It was now 5:23 AM.

As if understanding his signal perfectly, a single piccolo played a single note and off in the east a solitary shaft of cool lemon light flicked across the sky. Milo smiled happily and then cautiously crooked his finger again. This time two more piccolos and a flute joined in and three more rays of light danced lightly into view. Then with both hands he made a great circular sweep in the air and watched with delight as all the musicians began to play at once.

The cellos made the hills glow red, and the leaves and grass were tipped with a soft pale green as the violins began their song. Only the bass fiddles rested as the entire orchestra washed the forest in color.

Milo was overjoyed because they were all playing for him, and just the way they should."

-The Phantom Tollbooth
by Norton Juster

In Mourning

Today I weep. I waited and planned for this day with such tender care. I designed the craft and gathered my tools. The mozzarella was smooth and fresh; I sliced it lovingly. I chose my first tomatoes of the summer from the farmers' market, marveling at the thinness of their skin and the sweetness of their swollen flesh. At just the right moment, I plucked fresh basil leaves from the backyard garden and breathed in their heady aroma. All was set. All was ready. Let the feast begin.

But the last piece, the one to bring it all together, the crust, was never meant to be. A misunderstanding led to a frantic plan B which led, to my dismay, to a substitute that could never withstand the weight of such a summer bouquet. How disappointing to lose such a dream just before it came to fruition. One that's been desired and anticipated for so long! A winter of waiting dashed by a simple turn of events.

So my sweet, aborted pizza, I weep for you and for the summer celebration quelched by your sudden absence. More summers and more pizzas will come, it's true, but on that one special July evening you were all I wanted. All I needed. You.

Everything's Coming Up Roses

My fear-conquering music gig hasn't really panned out. Why, you ask? Well, the guitar-playing friend has been a little, shall we say, unreliable. That is, I have suspicions that he may not be a guitar player at all. He might be a hit man. Or a spy. Or in fact, Superman. I haven't actually seen inside the guitar case. It might be a cover.

IF he makes an appearance at the time and place he said he would, he tends to disappear without a word or a trace at some point before the night is over. Last time my friend Irena saw him she pulled him aside and intimated, "We just want you to know, that we KNOW..." She reported that he looked worried.

However, while my cafe-singing dream may be temporarily postponed, I had an inspiring music moment of a different sort. A week after we held our Spring Recital for all the children, we held a Musicale evening for our adult students. Lisa and I both teach only one adult student each, so decided to host an informal gathering over wine and appetizers where they could play for each other. Both students invited their husbands and their parents came as well!

Lisa and I arrived early to decorate our sweet little studio space with flowers and candles. It was beautiful! We had just enough space to get everyone into the little room, and with the night falling outside the enormous window over the leafy trees, and the candles twinkling all around the room--on the piano, on the fireplace, windowsills, etc--, it was such a warm ambiance.

Both students played well, and then Lisa and I took our turn. Lisa played a gorgeous Nocturne by Chopin and I played and sang a little Italian art song. It was so much fun to be in such an intimate space, having community and sharing music! After listening to Lisa's rendition of the Chopin, I have a renewed appreciation for classical piano music. I've started learning a few new pieces, and I haven't seriously undertaken any new pieces since I was taking lessons in college!

I can't wait until we organize the next Musicale, and I hope to do them regularly. I'm feeling nostalgic about Gram's memories of her dad on the cello, her mom on the piano, and the neighbors coming over in the evenings to play and enjoy music together. Oh life, before we had so many mind-numbing things to grab at our attention!

I invited Mom and Dad to play too on the next one since they are both doing an independent study. We'll see if I can convince them...

An Inefficient Pleasure

When an economist looks at a cherry tree, he or she sees inefficiency. The excess of flowers will yield an excess of cherries, each with its own fertile pit, all of which can't possibly grow into cherry trees. What a waste! A poet who considers a cherry tree--particularly a Japanese poet who considers a cherry tree heavy with blossoms--will inevitably feel a surge of melancholic verse well up inside about the beauty and fleeting nature of Earth's creation. A cherry lover looking at a cherry tree will mainly think of the delicious bounty of cherries it will produce.

The best thing you can do with fresh, ripe cherries is to bite them off at the stem immediately, eat them and, if you're outdoors, spit the pits as far as you can. With any luck they'll grow into cherry trees. After all, the more cherry trees, the better.

If the cherries are over- or underripe, or if you have so many you want to do something other than stick them all into your mouth, make a cherry pie, and be grateful Mother Nature never studied economics.

--Elbrich Fennema

Conquest

Something has happened to my nerve. After the completion of my capstone recital at SU 4 years ago I fell off the performance bandwagon. That recital was such a positive experience! I felt confident, I sang well, and most of all, I enjoyed doing it! I was nervous though. Leading up to it, as I put on the dress, as I walked on stage, as I breathed deeply during the intermission, as I took my bow. Nerve city. But I did it. I overcame. I triumphed. Well, I won't get carried away.

But since then, I don't know what happened! I feel crippled by performance anxiety. I started taking voice lessons again, I even made a demo recording, but I never got up the nerve to submit it to the amateur open-mic events. No way. I joined a chorus. That's safe. Safety in numbers.

But even so, my daydreams often include a little band, me at the mic, a dark, intimate space with candles on the tables... But any time someone finds out I'm a singer and asks me to sing something or gives me a lead for gigs/other musicians, I sieze up. The whole package--the adrenaline courses through my body, my breathing shallows, my heart starts pounding, my hands get clammy, and I get that hollow feeling in my gut. It's ridiculous.

And I'm going to conquer it.

I met a musician. Who knows a musician. Who knows a musician. And together we have a voice, a guitar, a cajon drum, a double bass, and a taste for Latin American music. The owner of the little cafe where I take tango has already claimed us for our first "concert." All that's left is getting us together to practice and setting a date.

Give me victory or give me death.

Alone in a Crowded Room

Urban areas are the cultural centers of the world--meccas for the arts, music, religion, politics, technology, etc. People flock to cities in the hope of finding better economic opportunities, or perhaps drawn by the hustle and bustle--the vast and diverse population.

And yet, I find that despite the enormous number of residents and commuters--the constant flow of people on sidewalks and streets, and the population density of a small city block that soars 40 stories into the sky--living in the city can be isolating. People tend to create or join "selective communites." These are not dependent on the frequency of encounters/interactions or geographic proximity, but rather made up of people who share an interest.

For example, I have lived in the same apartment for 2 years, and I know the name of only one neighbor on my entire block. Everyday I take the same train and see the same people on the platform, but I've never spoken to any of them. In fact, we don't even acknowledge each other. The friends that I've made over the years claim different connections to me -- we worked together once, we sing together in a chorus, we met in a dance class, we had a friend-of-a-friend connection, etc. I set dates to meet with them--over coffee, for a walk, at a bookstore, to a concert, dinner, but rarely, if ever, do we run into each other by chance, nor do we stop by unannounced.

This leaves little opportunity to keep an eye out for the common welfare of the community. I think it's a little sad and a little ironic. A crowded room of people where no one makes eye contact or acknowledges that there are other people present in the room. I wonder if the suburbs fare any better.

Life Before Cell Phones

Hard to believe, but there was indeed life before cell phones. And it ran smoothly.

Wednesday afternoon I left the office to head to my next place of work. Halfway there, I reached into my bag searching for my phone so I could see what time it was. To my astonishment, all of my rummaging left me empty-handed. At first I was incredulous. How could I have left my phone behind? I NEVER do that. Knock on wood, but I have never lost a phone. But then as soon as I realized I was phone-less I started worrying. What if something happened, what would I do? What was I going to do on my commute since I had forgotten a book? What if I needed to call someone in the evening? What if someone needed to reach me?

Interesting to remember that I've only owned a cell phone for 5 years.

Thursday morning I walked in, and there was my phone to greet me. It had a message or two on it for me to return a call, but surprisingly the world had not ended that night. In afternoon I got home from teaching piano and went to call my landlord. Once again, to my astonishment, the phone was not to be found. I berated myself under my breath for being such a moron and drove back to the piano studio to get my phone. What were the odds? 2 times in 24 hours!! The phone was waiting for me on the piano where I'd left it.

Thursday night I ran out the door to tango class, got in the car, and went to call and give my friend the 20-minute warning. Guess what? No phone. I had left it AGAIN on the dining room table. I was befuddled but I had to chuckle. Clearly the universe was trying to tell me something. "Get unconnected" or "talk is cheap" or "lay down your arms" or something. I got to my friend's, got out of the car and rang the doorbell (because I couldn't call from the street), then I enjoyed the unfettered freedom of enjoying the moment without a clock, without being accessible to the outside world.

When I got home I had a message from tonight's date: "do you want to go out after the show tomorrow?" Being that it was close to midnight, I decided to answer in the morning. After closing my eyes my phone chirped again. And again.. and again. (stupid phone that keeps beeping until someone pays attention to it) Muttering to myself I got up to turn it off, but peeked at the message before I did. From tonight's date: "I haven't heard from you, so I assume tomorrow night is a no go. I'm making other plans." (Even though when we spoke 3 days ago we confirmed our theater plans.)

Yes, ladies and gents, because I didn't respond to a text message within 4 hours, I'm now stuck with tickets to a show and nobody to go with. Excuse me for having a life. Maybe the purpose of my bad cell phone karma this week was just to show me that tonight's date wasn't it. And another one bites the dust.

Soul-Thirsty

Sometimes my soul gets thirsty. I'm not really sure what it's thirsty for. Perhaps inspiration. My ears perk up when I hear about various projects that are making a difference for people around the world. I've had cravings to read poetry. My heart is reaching out to forge or re-forge connections with the people surrounding me physically, emotionally, and conceptually. Call it nostalgia, call it spring fever, I call it soul-thirsty.

I get really good ideas at times like these, but I don't usually get them off the ground. Maybe because I fail to get the right people on my team. Maybe because I look at my calendar and realize I am booked a month out. Maybe because I look at the end result and get overwhelmed or discouraged rather than looking at the baby steps involved along the way.

Do I want to do something great in this life? Yeah. Do I have any clue what or how? Nope.

All I know is that my soul is thirsty.