please, call me val

Myrle Johnson

2011-11-29T23:13:00.000-08:00

The countdown to moving is very real now. Operation: Throwaway is in full swing.

Through the sifting and chucking of it all, I came across the same small brown shipping box that I always do when we move. The same thought process enters as I think about the fact that I haven’t done anything with its contents, but that I can’t throw it away.

This small box was sent to us as a wedding gift. It holds a beautiful vintage china tea cup – the saucer completely shattered, but the cup still intact. How it was broken is whole other story.

To this day, the tea cup and shattered saucer have moved from one apartment to another since the beginning of marriage – never to leave the box, only to be placed in a closet until the next time we move. One might think you’d either fix it or do away with it…the thing is it is too broken to really fix and well, I can’t seem to part with it.

The gift was from an elderly woman by the name of, Eva Myrle Johnson, who has since passed. She was an older friend of my grandparents. My grandpa would frequent her home to help her with yard work, shovel snow throughout the winter or address any repairs she needed around the house. She came over for Thanksgiving and other holidays occasionally since I don't think her family lived close.

I remember going over to her house with my Grandpa and being intimidated by this older woman who moved slowly from one room to another with her old, loud, clunky, walker that seemed to get caught in all of the doorways. We always seemed to bring along my dog, Molly, to her house and I was convinced that Myrle was more partial to the dog than me…which wasn’t true, she just loved dogs.

As a ten year old, I remember thinking her house smelled and looked like an “old person” house which didn’t appeal to me – what do ten year olds know?! In actuality, she lived in what I remember to be a beautiful, turn-of-the-century home filled with lots of character that I would now appreciate.

Today, my eyes well up and my heart fills with disappointment at the thought that I hadn’t known this woman as well as I could have. I find myself wishing that I would have been mature and interested enough in my youth to take the time to listen to her stories, to ask her how to make her amazing hot fudge or rice pudding or to just be content sitting in the “parlor” with her.

I suppose I carry this with me not only because I feel ashamed for having such a beautiful piece of china broken due to my own stupidity, but, because I’m holding onto a piece of a woman I don’t want to let go of…

Dear Myrle,

I’m sure you have watched from above as I tote this box around from place to place…each time wondering what I’ll ever do with it. The truth is, I don’t really know what I’ll do with it, but I do know I don’t intend to do away with it.

It reminds me of the memories I have of you. It reminds me of a woman who was dear to my grandparents, who had enough interest in my life to send something for the wedding of a girl who acted so shy and probably indifferent around you when she was young.

I will never forget your way with dogs; your incredible rice pudding and fudge sauce that you’d send home with my grandpa in Ball canning jars; and your occasional visit during the holidays.

I look forward to the day when I can sit down with you in a parlor somewhere enjoying a bowl of your rice pudding while we compare how life treated us.

You are a dear woman and I treasure your memory with my boxed up tea cup and broken saucer.

I look forward to our future conversations.

An older and a teensy bit wiser…

Valerie

p.s. – oh, I hope you’ll please call me val

Second to Last Chair

2011-10-24T23:51:00.000-07:00

Second to last chair in the second violins section: you might as well be banished from Verona.

From this vantage point, the conductor seems but a blur making sudden movements…but, from where you’re sitting it doesn’t really matter because you can’t see anyway. It’s as if the worst of the worst are sent to the back, not only because everyone else is better than you, but because it wouldn’t matter if you were close enough to see the conductor’s signals…you weren’t going to follow him accurately anyway.

At least that’s how it feels.

How do I know that feeling so well? That was me, freshman year of high school. I had auditioned the year before to become a part of the competitive Youth Symphony in my hometown.

Once you were “in” the symphony…there would need to be a way of determining the pecking…I mean…seating order, especially in a sea of violinists. Every orchestra has a section of first violinists and section of second violinists. Most people tend to say the first violinists – on whole- are better, since many pieces have a challenging melody (which they play), whereas, the second violinists take on the harmony…usually resided in the lower octaves and thus, being easier. In actuality, both parts can be equally challenging – but, if one were to make a sweeping judgment, that’s what it would be.

It was audition time and I had hardly done the preparation I needed to. Why was it necessary?! I was a freshman who had made it into the youth symphony – I must be awesome, right?? So awesome I didn’t really need to practice that horrid part of music that required me to play crazy scales super fast complete with awkward bowing. Nope. Not me.

Heh.

Results were in and guess where Val was sitting? Second to last chair second violin.

No words.

Did I mention that this was the evening they were taking the season photos for the youth symphony as well? Yes, it’s true. I have that great accomplishment of mine documented for years to come. It’s priceless actually to see me hunched over in the back – clearly defeated and red in the face from bawling for 30 minutes prior to the photo. I’m glad that moment is captured for all the other 80+ participants to have for the rest of their lives too. I’m not the only disappointed-looking musician…third to last chair probably wasn’t feeling much better, nor the last viola, or last cello. Wait…that’s right…at least I wasn’t LAST chair!

So, who was?

Apparently the last chair second violinist was so humiliated at their position that they stormed out, bawling no doubt, and crushed at the thought of being pegged the worst auditioner of the night. Sheesh, that would be tough…second to last was bad enough…but last??

The next week at practice we were all getting acclimated to our newly assigned seats and stand partners. I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of mine…when just then, he walked up: a seriously cute, younger version of George Clooney with a big smile on his face…with no sign of disappointment or grief. He sat down next to me, introduced himself and we played next to each other that season…chatting, joking and me being even more distracted than I was already…only to realize later that the guy sitting next to me the whole time was one of the best violinists in the Spokane region.

These things only happen to me.

Dear George Clooney Jr. (You’re my FB friend so we’re just keeping it to this),

You had me fooled. For a short time I thought I had escaped being the worst violinist in the symphony – it was supposed to be you.

In reality, something prevented you from being able to attend the auditions that night; as a result you were forced to take the last seat…next to me…only to later become concert master of the youth symphony for many years to come, as well as go on to be a highly acclaimed violinist. So, it was me all along – I was the worst that night.

But you know what, we had a lot of fun back there…and I think I secretly knew you weren’t supposed to be there – you played too ridiculously well. And…despite my constant talking throughout rehearsals, I think you knew I didn’t really belong back there either.

Yes, we both left that stand – improving our chair placement…you definitely more than me – leaving it open for another sorry pair. But, what started out to be a crushing blow to the ego for me, turned into a pretty funny and fond memory of mine to this day.

Thanks for humoring me and being my stand partner,

Valerie

p.s. – that may have been the name written on my sheet music, but please, call me val

Lady in Waiting...err...Training

2011-10-16T23:17:00.000-07:00

I was privileged enough to have the opportunity of being raised by not only a classy mother, but a classy set of grandparents throughout my adolescence and young adult years. I’m sure there were moments that I wished things had been different – I’m sure the feelings were returned…but, I have come to understand what a blessing it was to be raised by two generations of thought which stressed the need for me to be proper, civilized, well-mannered and gracious.

These characteristics were of course expected, not only for my own good, but because those were the very attributes exercised by my family. From grandpa I learned that “waste not, want not” was the motto to live by each and every day…as well as the need to be self-reliant; no need to ask for help, when you can do it yourself…even if it means engaging in the activity much longer than necessary. From grandma I learned the appreciation of British television, not over-staying my welcome, sending thank you notes, literature, not over-sharing my life story with just anyone and everyone and a well-stocked kitchen for visitors. From my mom, a keen sense of pulling myself together, having a spotless home, and an overall appreciation for culture and fine things. This of course skims the surface of what I’ve learned from each of them…but, I think you understand…you’d think I was fit to be besties with Kate, Duchess of Cambridge.

However, as many know me today - while I certainly cherish and appreciate the upbringing that I was given - I unfortunately hardly do it the justice that it deserves…and flunk in quite a few areas. Like any diamond in the rough story, I had the all-star grooming team with all the makings of being a true lady…but unfortunately there is at least one characteristic (many actually) that to this day has proved to be a buffer to all the good invested in me…

Stubborn impulsiveness.

I’d like to think a certain amount of class has withstood the effects of this horrible, yet intrinsically-Val characteristic. I was reminded recently however, that my lady-in-waiting status is very much a lady-in-training status to this day.

[Enter Aircraft Interiors Expo – Seattle, WA]

Two very large airline exposition conferences were being held at the downtown conference center recently. My company was a part of the conference focused in airline onboard entertainment; think: Paramount Pictures, Disney, Sony, Boeing, Airbus, Panasonic, etc. Adjacent to our conference was the Aircraft Interiors Expo which focused on the luxuries of reclining lazy-boy seats, electric blankets, feather pillows and FOOD.

The purpose of having the expos at the same time was to be a convenience factor for all the airlines that were in attendance, both domestic and international; exhibitors at either expo were allowed to enter the other. Aside from larger-than-life booths – complete with a mini replica of the Paramount Picture arch - my conference was hardly a draw compared to what sounded like a feast happening over at the Aircraft Interiors expo. All day long friends in the industry, as well as booth neighbors dropped by telling me I HAD to head over to the other expo for all the amazing food samples being practically thrown at them. By the time 3pm came along, I decided to take a break and check out what everyone had been raving about.

Yes, it was true. There were literally mountains of packaged goodies piled high in each booth in a room that housed at least 100 booths. It was Costco meets Dean & Deluca times 100. People were walking around with bags stuffed full of foods that I had never seen on any of my flights – where have I been traveling and on what airline?! Wine was flowing, packaged gourmet desserts and fancy nuts were being tossed, and platters of quiche and fine cheeses were being sampled as though we were at some VIP party.

I felt a little embarrassed, I mean…I walked in and while everything seemed to be piled so high that food avalanches were inevitable…there was still a sense of each booth being unapproachable. The mere fact that I was there for FREE anything, let alone food, caused me to check any class I had at the door. I had no real purpose there other than to eat. Would Kate do that? …. Strike number one “Ms. Lady in Waiting...I mean...Training.”

I had been sent on a hunter and gatherer mission…but, I didn’t need a bag full of food, I just wanted a couple of samples and return a couple of goodies to my fellow exhibitor. It took me a good 5 minutes of just staring at booths and feeling awkward before I made my first move. I couldn’t get over the feeling as though I were some poor peasant looking to steal a loaf of bread…while so many around me, without hesitation, walked right up and practically bulldozed treats into their bags.

It was some German dessert vendor that I finally strolled up to. It appeared to be empty – no exhibitor in sight who I would need to awkwardly try to avoid eye-contact with while taking a food sample. Nope, I was free and clear… so I strolled up to a large display of tarts, cookies, brownies and miniature pies evaluating whether I wanted carrot cake or pecan pie and whether my co-worker would prefer chocolate mousse or an apple tart.

It hadn’t been but 30 seconds, when from the back right corner of where I was standing I hear snickering followed by a thick accent muttering, “ohhh, just another American here for free samples.” In that moment I immediately feel my temperature rise sparked by an initial jolt of embarrassment followed by spite towards this gentleman, who couldn’t have been 5 years my senior.

I sensed him getting up from a table I had not even noticed and coming toward me in an obligated manner when I immediately turn around and quip, “actually, I'm not here for free food…” [LIE] “…I was looking to learn more about your offerings.” [LIE] Would Kate do that? Strike number two.

Now, we were both uncomfortable. “Good” I thought…misery likes company. This guy was clearly taken aback by the fact that 1) I had heard him mutter under his breath to his colleagues and 2) I had put him on the spot to essentially give me the classic 30-second elevator pitch....which I actually prolonged for a good 10 minutes with a string of meaningless questions torturing both of us just to spite him.

I walked out of that expo with a measly pack of nuts, a packaged brownie and brochure that was forced upon me while pretending to care about European airline dessert offerings. The brochure went straight in the trash on my way out and the brownie went to my colleague…sparing him the details.

Dear Kate,

It appears our bestie status might be on hold.

Despite my family’s best efforts, my love of food and stubborn impulsive behavior has gotten in the way of me being a true, well-groomed lady.

It’s true, if I were a lady, 1) I wouldn’t have sought out free food to begin with and 2) I would not have reiterated multiple times throughout my self-inflicted conversation that I was not there for free samples – even though I was – just to spite the vendor and to watch him stammer uncomfortably.

It’s all very disappointing really…I know Steve and William would get along smashingly. Give me a little more time though, I hope not to disappoint.

I’ll be giving Pippa a call for some pointers in being a true, lady-in-waiting -

Valerie

p.s. I know it’s terribly informal, but please, call me val

It's Not You, It's Me

2011-10-10T22:34:00.000-07:00

I’ve been both the bearer and recipient of this phrase multiple times in my life. Most people know that, “it’s not you, it’s me” most of the time means “it’s actually you.”

[Enter Long-time Love - Washington]

For the last couple of years my restlessness of living in Washington has increased more and more. Washington is nice; I’ve traversed it from East to West, West to East, then East to West. Yes, I’d say I’m quite the expert on Washington and could list off all the random exits on I-90 from Spokane to Seattle, spout off the number of windmills on the plateau overlooking the Columbia River, tell you the best place to stop for gas in Ellensburg, as well as where the cops like to ticket best.

Like any long, well-established relationship…Washington has become comfortable for me. Most of our family resides here. History and memories have been created here. And arguably, Washington is one of the more beautiful states in the country. But.

But. This one-syllable word seems to disrupt complete satisfaction after a lineup of several amazing attributes.

[Enter New Love Interest – Charleston, SC]

In the effort to escape rain, high cost of living and the our status quo life in Seattle, Steve and I began a search to move elsewhere and start over with new jobs, people, places, etc. Such a romantic idea – it would be the solution to financial woes, sub-par weather, and an overall restlessness. So when we were offered the chance to move to Charleston, SC this summer it seemed it would be a no-brainer. Beach, sun, amazing history, charm, just hours from amazing locations...it was the perfect pair of shoes spotted in the department store. Even Travel & Leisure validated what a grand trade-in we’d be making from Seattle to Charleston. In 2010, Charleston was their number one city on The Favorite US Cities list…Seattle came in toward the bottom of the list. Charleston was the clear winner…the date to have at the prom above everyone else. I was so in love and ready to commit, I had a FB status prepared and ready to proclaim that commitment (that’s when you know things are for real, right?) It would have read: “Uh oh. Looks like the Payettes need to head to reform school – they’re moving to the “Most Mannerly City” in the US.”

But. There’s that word again. Like the perfect shoes spotted in the department store – in order for it to be the perfect purchase, the perfect fit, it needed to be a size 9…and unfortunately it was 8.5. So close, but not the right fit – miserable in fact if stubbornly bought and worn (I’ve done it).

So. We’re back to the drawing board, but it seems as though Washington may be the relationship of choice…for now. But, how does Washington feel about that? How do I feel about that? I guess we’ve got a Determine-The-Relationship (DTR) on the horizon...

Dear Washington,

It’s not you, it’s me. So many are in love with you and yet, I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. However, there’s something you must have in store for me, a nugget of self-exploration that has yet to reveal itself. I trust that, like in all established relationships, we’ll work through our differences and come out better for it.

The truth is you’re my black flats; the ones I wear day-in and day-out. Comfortable and stylish enough – they go with just about everything. I haven’t been able to part with them. But. Yep, but…they’re starting to show wear and tear and soon enough, polish won’t be enough to cover the clear indication that a replacement will be necessary…and probably not with the same pair…I just don’t know what those replacements will be yet.

So while many times that phrase has been uttered meaning the opposite...I’m beginning to believe that this time around, it really is me and not you.

Valerie

p.s. - you’re right…call me, Valerie? That’s just silly…please, call me val

Improv

2011-04-03T23:49:00.000-07:00

I realize anyone visiting my blog probably thinks I’m stuck in middle school. They’d sort of be right. The funny thing about middle school is that while it served up some of the worst years of my life…it has become a time that has yielded a host of stories and memories that have inevitably shaped who I am today (scary!).

So remember that music decision that most middle schoolers make (see my post below)? Yeah, I was in orchestra. I started playing violin for two reasons:

1)The Little Mermaid soundtrack : the jig song played on Eric’s boat featured a violin…yes, because of The Little Mermaid I wanted to play the violin.

2)My grandma Bernice is an extremely accomplished violinist…and since I lived with her she agreed to teach me.

Every Spring a number of music festivals occur where students play prepared pieces for judges. One festival, Solo and Ensemble, as I recall was a requirement for the students in orchestra at my school. The music director insisted that we be involved in at least one piece, whether it be a solo or ensemble piece.

That year, I was involved in a couple of entries at Solo and Ensemble; one was a solo piece and the other was a trio piece with two other violinists. Solo and Ensemble arrived and this was my first time performing in this kind of performing situation (being judged) – so it was no doubt a little nerve racking! I had my solo first thing that morning, and from what I can remember it went very well.

It was time for the trio – I was almost done with my first festival experience! The three of us girls walked into our assigned room with our violin cases ready to set up for our trio piece. The process of getting ready to play the violin can be a time-intensive one…especially when you are mostly dealing with beginners (7th graders!). First you take the violin out, get your neck rest situated correctly, get your bow out and tightened correctly…and of course the incessant rosining of the bow (kind of like someone who chalks their pool stick before each strike of a ball - unnecessary), and then tuning. Oh, and tuning at that level of play…that was a good 10 minutes right there; so this wasn’t some simple production for us 12 years olds.

Finally, the violins are out, situated, adjusted, rosined, and relatively in tune. The adjudicator for our piece walks in with his note pad and a copy of the master piece so that he can follow along. As I reach into the side of my violin case I feel what I believe to be my sheet music…only to realize it was merely the program for the festival that I had shoved in the side of my case earlier that day.

Unbeknownst to my fellow ensemble members and Mr. Adjucator, I begin to frantically look for my music…that is nowhere to be found. By this time my fellow trio members have walked up to their respective music stands and prepare to begin. In a moment of panic, I grab the program from my case and march up to my stand – which was situated in between the two – pretending as though I have my music.

I was the designated leader of the trio and as such had the responsibility to “lead off” and begin the piece. Standing there staring at my music stand that merely held one event program, I could see the top of the adjudicator’s head and realized right there and then as I lifted my violin scroll (for the upbeat), that once that scroll came down we’d all be playing this piece….and well, I’d be playing something. It began and yes, I played something. To this day, I have NO IDEA what I played…but for 2 – 3 minutes I played some variation of notes alongside my peers.

It is standard practice for the adjudicator to provide feedback on your performance – it’s part of the learning experience. I’m sure he knew something was awry – he had the master sheet music. But, for a good five or so minutes he acted as though we had done a wonderful job of “phrasing” and really melding our sounds together. I thought I was off the hook – that I had somehow made my way through unscathed - until I heard, “girls, I’d like to hear a certain portion of the piece again…why don’t you all start at measure 10 and play for about 5 bars.” Oh no. The panic was back and to be honest the only thing I remember next was Mr. Adjudicator getting up to come around to our stands only to see on my stand the single piece of paper that read, “1994 Solo and Ensemble Festival, Shadle Park High School.”

If I ran into that judge today, I’d have this to say:

Dear Mr. Adjudicator,

Were you not impressed? Or did you know the whole time? Yeah, I think you knew the whole time. You had the master sheet music the whole time – you knew. I can’t help but think this must have been one of the more amusing pieces of the day for you.

You know, I don’t even remember what my peers said or how they reacted, but I know they were thrilled that we even pulled out a 2+ score (I know, not that great of a score) - guess they didn’t have very high expectations. So, thanks for humoring us and protecting our fragile 7th grade egos.

While I don’t think I was caught empty-handed without sheet music ever again, this incident definitely marked the beginning of a lifetime of improvisation that, well, sometimes seems as confused and unharmonious as the piece you heard that day. I guess I should be thankful for the trusty “adujactors” in my life who seem to mirror what you did that day: call my bluff. Not everything sounds that great improvised...

Hope you’re no longer subjected to judging 7th grade violinists,

Valerie

ps – Who am I fooling - Not you! So, please, call me val

7th Grade Pipe Dream

2011-02-10T17:45:00.000-08:00

There’s a lot to potentially write about; it’s been a wonderful year since I last posted. I had my “flour baby” and he’s still alive and doing pretty well, so I think I’m on track to pass my real-life home-education class (that is if I’m not graded on other “domestic duties”).

While there is a lot I could share on the first 9 months of Harry’s life and how that whirlwind of an experience has forever changed my life in the most positive of ways – I’m not going to. Instead, I was reminded recently of an experience I had in 7th grade that I’m looking to draw motivation/inspiration from.

In the world of middle school there are certain activities that everyone is involved in. Everyone seems to be good enough for sports and everyone seems to be somewhat trained to play 3-4 notes on an instrument (or sing relatively in tune) which was enough to get you enrolled in orchestra, band or choir. So, really about 90% of the 7th and 8th grade classes were enrolled in one of these three music choices.

My course was orchestra and I played the violin. I don’t know which is worse: kids trying to play string instruments or kids trying to play brass instruments? But I’ll tell you what band did have over orchestra…they marched. They marched and I was jealous.

Every spring that I can remember growing up in Spokane, I would hear the Ferris High School band marching through the streets of my neighborhood in preparation for the annual Lilac Festival Parade. It was exciting – all the neighbor kids would run out of their houses accompanied by their bikes, trikes and dogs - trailing behind the percussion section that was usually the last part of the band. It was exciting, and I always wanted to be a part of it.

Every year there was a Junior Lilac parade – it’s usually the week or two before the official big Lilac Festival Parade that features a number of floats and all the regional high school bands. This particular year during the Junior Lilac parade, I was downtown with my mom and happened to see a number of the middle school bands performing, including my school. My school seemed to keep coming and coming, almost wrapping around two – three blocks, since well, it had a majority of the school in it. I was mesmerized – I wanted to be in the band marching, but I couldn’t, because I was an orchestra member….besides, the opportunity was truly marching me by…right before my eyes.

Except! Every year, one lucky middle school was selected to march in the main parade and my school was picked. I remember seeing our name announced on the news – because Spokane news only reports the best – and thinking to myself, “This is it! This is my chance!” Now, how was I going to get myself into the band….

Well, the band seemed to have 5 parts to it and this is where the 7th grader logic came into play:

1. Very front: The school sign carriers. This is exactly what I needed to do – I could hold the sign of our school! However, this was an elite job – there were only 3 people for this job, and they were all upperclassmen…not going to happen.

2. Near front: The drill team. that wasn’t going to happen, considering I couldn’t even do a somersault

3. The middle: The band – I’m sure I could have pulled enough skill together to play three or so notes for one instrument…but considering the finagling I was already looking at, I figured that was not going to happen.

4. Toward the back: More drill team. Nope.

5. Last: The flag pole carriers. This…this, was my ticket – surely they could use another flag pole carrier?!

So that Monday, I rushed to the band room to introduce myself to the band teacher, Mrs. Bateman (?). She had no idea who I was. But, I made it clear that I would do AB-SOL-LUTELY ANYTHING she wanted if there was some way for me to march with the band that following weekend in the Lilac Parade. ANYTHING. After considering my plea for a few moments, she said something similar to, “well, maybe – but I could really use help wrapping some of these flag poles with lights after school – would you mind helping?” YES! I’d love to, I exclaimed and promptly came back after school to spend a few hours wrapping those poles. Upon completing that job Mrs. Bateman granted me my wish – I was to be a flag pole carrier the next weekend. And what a proud moment it was.

Dear Mrs. Bateman,

You have no idea the seed of determination you nurtured by allowing me to join “the band” that year. To me, I thought I was proving my worth by providing critical assistance in wrapping those marching poles with lights and thus earning an elite opportunity. When in reality – if the whole school was in the band already, what was adding one more individual - and to the most unnecessary position of all: the flag pole carrier? But, it didn’t matter to me and it has made all the difference in the world.

To this day, I can remember the thrill and excitement of knowing that I was going to march. And not only that, I reflect on my experience as a flag-pole carrier and tell myself, “I really can do anything.”

Dreams really do come true.

Thanks again,

Valerie Farnsworth (now Payette)
p.s. but please, please, call me val – I promise to wrap more flag poles if you do…

Flour Baby

2010-02-07T23:56:00.000-08:00

Home Economics: the quintessential 8th grade class requirement. What does “home economics” really mean? Apparently it meant a number of things for 12/13 year olds: cooking pizza, blending orange julius drinks, sewing pencil pouches (which I sewed my opening completely shut…oops) and most importantly flour babies. Yes, the Flour Baby project. The next level of “sex education” – a graduating step from 70s projector films. As eighth graders, we were to tote around a 10 lb sack of flour that represented your “child” for the week. Here were the stipulations of the project and my subsequent ability to abide by these rules:

1. You will create a flour-child (an artfully designed 10 lb. sack of flour or sugar.) Make your child distinctive yet appropriate (e.g.: no tattoos, piercing, hair coloring), with his/her own personality or style.

2. Name your child.

3. During the school day, you must carry your child at all times. In this class you must hold your child at all times. Lockers and trunks are not cribs or day-care centers.

4. You should be extremely protective of your child. If a tragic loss or injury occurs, you will be responsible for clean-up (NOT the custodians.), reporting to instructors, and negotiation of the penalty. Penalties range from additional research to a report on child abuse. If someone else attacks your child, or uses him/her in a recipe, find a teacher as a witness to spare you some penalty.

5. You are not allowed to put the baby in your backpack, go anywhere without your baby, leave your baby in the care of anyone else, or let anyone abuse or neglect your child.

6. You will lose 25 points every time you are seen without your baby! There will be no negotiation or discussion, just a 25 point deduction!

Valerie Farnsworth’s Flour Baby evaluation:

1. Appearance: To this day, my mom laughs at what she looks back on as a unique dry sense of humor that no one else really understood…I think most people thought I was weird…but I thought it was hilarious. I decided that on one side of my baby would be George Burns and the other would be Prince Charles. Why? I obviously took this project seriously. Based on the pictures you are about to see, you could probably guess my teacher didn’t necessarily agree with my take on “distinctive yet appropriate” – whatever, I laughed every time I toted Charlie-George around…

The following are as close to the pictures I carried around for one week as I can recall:

2. Name: Charlie-George.

3. Pretty sure Charlie-George was left in at least two classes in my daily 6-class schedule. Pretty sure my teachers did not have a hard time identifying whose “child” was constantly left behind. Pretty sure this racked up an extreme amount of deductions resulting in a not-so-fabulous grade.

4. Hmmm…well, Charlie-George developed a couple of leaks throughout the week…all of which were lovingly attended to with duct tape – he may not have weighed the full 10 lbs at the end of the week, which well, could’ve ended up in an additional amount of deductions towards my grade…

5. No comment.

6. And well, this pretty much was the nail in the coffin.

Let’s put it this way, if the Flour Baby project were any true indicator of things to come for me it was this: I would be an awful parent, with an extremely not-so-attractive baby, that leaks incessantly. Hmmm…mission accomplished for this 8th grader.

Fifteen years later I find myself expecting my first child, a boy, in the next couple of months. To my eighth grade teacher I have this to say:

Dear Ms. Home Ec (your name escapes me),

I don’t know why I got a B- on my flour baby project. Could your personal opinions regarding Prince Charles or George Burns have anything to do with it? Or could it have possibly had to do with my constant lack of attention to where my “baby” was half the time?

Well, here I am 15 years older. I still have a hard time holding on to critical things each day…my keys, my driver’s license, cell phone, mascara. Keeping this chronic absent-mindedness in mind, I find myself 3 months away from having my first real “flour baby” and I can’t help but reflect on my success (or lack thereof) of my flour baby project.

Let’s hope I can keep track of my real “flour baby” this time around, that he’s a bit more attractive than Charlie-George and that nothing will come to duct tape repairs. In terms of a grade however, I have a feeling I’ll be lucky if I end up with a B- at the end of this “project.”

Here’s to Charlie-George Jr. -

Valerie Farnsworth (now Payette)

p.s. this time around…please call me val.

The Sour Patch Effect

2009-06-17T22:51:00.000-07:00

I love Sour Patch Kids. They are a must for every movie theater visit. The red, the green, orange, and even yellow – I love them all. The kick that you get each time you pop one (okay maybe four) in your mouth is what brings you back for another handful – enough sweet to keep you grabbing, and sour to make it interesting. However, as the mouth-stuffing minutes go by the sweetness starts to be a bit much, and the sugar overload combined with the tongue-numbness caused by the sour sugar coating makes for an undesirable combination. Perhaps if I just paced myself it wouldn’t come to such a sugar-inducing coma…maybe. But, I doubt it; not with Sour Patch Kids.

Facebook: my social networking equivalent to Sour Patch Kids. It tasted good in the beginning, I paced myself. But the sweet, punchiness of Facebook kept me coming back day after day and eventually multiple times a day…until the Sour Patch Effect started to set in: the sugar overload of information, and the tongue-numbing sensation of mindlessly reaching for more made what was once appetizing , sickening. Many people don’t get to this point – they don’t stuff 3-4 Sour Patch Kids in at a time, they enjoy one at a time in moderate increments. Not me.

So, how to counteract the Sour Patch Effect? Cut back on the intake and drink lots and lots of water.

To follow the prescribed course of action, I recently deactivated my Facebook account. I have been without “liking” things, being a “fan” of things, “status updates” and commenting for over a week now. Withdrawals have been present…I have had the desire to “reach for more”…but, I haven’t. The sugar coma, while still there, is not as serious. The taste buds, while still numb from tartaric acid, are starting to recognize other flavors.

The thought has come recently to take it one more step and cut out all “sweets” (aka social networking) as well …since eating Milk Duds, Junior Mints, or Skittles after feeling the Sour Patch Effect, doesn’t help recovery much. So, I’m committing myself to a “Sweets-Free” Challenge. No Facebook, Pandora, Twitter, LinkdIn, Lala or Blogging for the next 30 days. Why the drastic challenge? I don’t need it. And, social networking, like Sour Patch Kids, isn’t the staple food group that I’ve made it. I once lived without it all – without the knowledge of who ate what for lunch, who was listening to what at 9:34am, or what profile picture would define me that day – and did just fine. I’m interested in returning to the diet of being naive, oblivious, and out of the loop…at least for a while.

So to the “pseudo food group” that is social networking, I have this to say:

Dear Social Networking,

You are like Sour Patch Kids, and Sour Patch Kids, at least to me are a “must.” It’s true…despite the Sour Patch Effect and the less-than-desirable aftertaste that you sometimes leave, I do always come back for more. And so it will be for me and my social networking indulgence…I will inevitably be back.

But first, I need to get over the stomach ache, numbness and sugar-coated taste that have left me parched and thirsting for reality.

Officially “deactivating” my account(s),

"Valerie Payette"
"valeriepayette"
"Valerie P."
"ValSchmal"

p.s. oh, and I almost forgot…"please, call me val"

The Man in the Moon - Or Kitchen Window

2009-05-19T00:16:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I went “home” to Spokane to visit my mom and grandparents. Every time I visit, I’m filled with memories of growing up in that house and neighborhood. These memories are oftentimes pleasant, but sometimes embarrassing and awkward. This past weekend one vivid memory in particular seemed to come to mind – and let’s just say it could be classified under “embarrassingly awkward.”

Growing up I was obsessed with space, like most kids are. I was convinced that I’d go to Space Camp. Christmas after Christmas I would ask to be sent to Space Camp for the summer – this request along with the request to have a power wheels jeep to drive around in, never came to fruition. However, when I was eleven my dad gave me a telescope for Christmas. It wasn’t anything fabulous – but I thought it was the greatest thing ever (I really did Dad!). The first night, I went out ready to see into the far depths of the galaxy – only to see past the fence into the next door neighbor’s kitchen window. Night after night I would diligently go out looking to identify different constellations – when in reality, I could see them much better without the telescope.

Time passed and that telescope was no longer of interest to me.

As many might know who are reading this, there is a family who lives next door, named the Matthews – there were three boys, all of which I grew up with and were considered family. I am perfectly comfortable admitting however, that this view of them being “brothers” was not always the case. Throughout the years of middle school and into the beginning of high school, it could be said that I would go in and out of crushes on the two older Matthews boys. Now this may be a complete surprise to them both – but I highly doubt it. From the time I was four and well into middle school, I was over at the Matthews often, but that started to dissipate as we started make different friends at school. As a result, I didn’t see them as often, but continued to be intrigued with what their social lives entailed (we all know how intriguing twelve and fourteen-year-old boys’ social lives are…not very).

This brings me to my vivid memory: a red telescope, a kitchen window and dishwashing.

There was one summer day in particular that I wanted to know where one of the Matthews boys was (to be honest I don’t remember which one). Being the sneaky twelve-year-old that I was, I wanted to “spy” on him and see if I could tell what was going on next door – since obviously he wasn’t around me! The layout of my backyard in relation to the Matthews’ didn’t lend itself to me looking through the fence unseen – they’d be able to see me coming the entire way from both their kitchen and dining room window. Plus, any movement made by anyone was immediately met with a bark from Molly – our dog, who made it a point to make as much noise as possible as she sat perched atop the deck in our backyard.

What was a girl to do? I could hear voices and activity – but couldn’t adequately see what was going on…I had to know what was going on! When the thought struck me…“the red telescope.” I rushed in and dusted off the telescope that had never seen the man in the moon but had clearly seen into the neighbor’s kitchen window...perfect. So there I was, cramped under the deck with the telescope situated just so, allowing me to finally peer over to the Matthews and see who this boy was with.

After several minutes of adjusting and clearing the lens, I was finally looking right into the Matthews’ house. “I knew this telescope was good for something” I thought to myself! There I was - ready to spy and get myself some juicy information on the boy next door. Just how juicy was it? Well, I could clearly see Mrs. Matthews washing the dishes - with Dove dishwashing soap to be exact – while scenes of Days of Our Lives flashed in the background. As juicy as that may have been…it certainly was not the “juicy” I was counting on.

And so, I come clean and admit my indulgence – one that has never been disclosed before. To the innocent bystander that ended up being spied on I have this to say:

Dear Mrs. Matthews,

You know how dearly I love you and your family; you have been so good to me all of these years. I must apologize for violating your sense of security by peering into your kitchen window with my red telescope. But, let’s be honest – I could have seen the same thing with my own eyes standing on our deck. The fact is, that telescope signified an interest in your boys – one that lives on today…but in a much, much, different way.

I no longer have a red telescope to stalk them…but not to worry, I have Facebook. Until I see you again – continue to peer into our backyard and we will continue to peer into yours.

Your “daughter,”

Valerie

p.s. scratch that, please always call me val.

Camelot - the Payette version

2009-03-29T23:19:00.000-07:00

Enter: Richard Harris (as King Arthur)

“Camelot! Camelot!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Camelot, Camelot
That's how conditions are.
The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.”

I remember being exposed to this 1967 musical about the story of King Arthur, Queen Guinevere and Sir. Lancelot as a little girl. My mom absolutely loved this movie and it was my first introduction to the story of King Arthur. The tale of Camelot was always so romantic and tragic at the same time. The triangle between Arthur, Lancelot and Guinevere was heartbreaking, but you couldn’t help but be wrapped up with the relationship between Lancelot and Guinevere.

Camelot with a Payette-twist: Casting the roles.

Steve and I experienced our first stupid marital decision about eight months into our marriage: we bought a dog. We both grew up with dogs and knew that we wanted to have one for ourselves one day. Well, one day turned into “now” when we made the brainless decision to visit the pound. There, we found a little black lab puppy trembling and crippled – recently deserted by his brothers and sisters that had already been picked up. After being struck with concern and love for this pitiful puppy we took him home; the first night, week, year was awful. Crying, coughing, pooping, peeing, biting, chewing, shedding, barking = all the luxuries of being a dog owner. What was this charming dog’s name? Sir. Lancelot. How we decided on that name, I have no idea – but this much I can tell you: our Lancelot isn’t so dashing or brave like the medieval tales purport. Instead, he is probably one of the most paranoid, skittish and dopey dogs that ever existed.

Payette-Camelot Lancelot: A handsome character, but scared of: boxes, the kitchen floor, doors, noises, babies, balloons, feathers, whoopie cushions, citrus fruits, anything really.

Since that first majorly stupid marital decision many others were made, but the next monumental idiotic decision came two years later in the form of yet another dog. In all honesty, Steve and I thought we were being logical: “we’ll buy a small dog that will keep Lancelot company and it will be easy to take care of.” Right. This time we visited a pet store and bought a little, white, female, cockapoo. She was adorable. It was perfect – she would of course be named Guinevere…the Payette-Camelot casting was complete for now.

Payette-Camelot Guinevere: Absolutely adorable, but not at all a “lady;” an absolute terror in every sense of the word, and needs to permanently wear diapers.

Well, the Payette’s version of Camelot involves: hourly brawls, peeing, pooing, chewing, biting, barking and well – nothing of the “happily-ever-after” mentioned in Richard Harris' ballad. Poor Lance has wondered from day one why we brought in a furry monster whose sole desire in life is to “hunt” and torture him.

Note to self: Cathy and Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights would have been a much better literary pair to name our dogs after.

So, I believe we owe the following letter to the honorable King Arthur:

Dear King Arthur,

You’d be pleased to know that Lancelot and Guinevere really didn’t live happily ever after – at least not in the Payette version. No, there’s no need to be jealous over a budding romance. Instead, battles brew on an hourly basis and while there may be a deeply rooted appreciation of each other (mostly for chew toy purposes) – Guinevere and Lancelot have a propensity for attacking each other in a not-so-loving manner.

While I realize you have had centuries to get over this indiscretion…just thought I’d let you know, it didn’t really turn out all-that-well after all.

Here to set the record straight,

Valerie

p.s. oh, and your majesty...please, call me val

Confessions of a Part-Time D&D Dealer - Conclusion

2009-03-11T23:38:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: Before I go any further – let me state that the individuals I worked with were great, and I enjoyed getting to know all of them. That being said…

Enter: Rod Serling.

"You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone."

Episode 6.1 – Valerie Works at Uncle’s Games, Bellevue, WA.

So, I got this great new part-time “burn-money” job…

I quickly realized that this Uncle’s had a particular following – the role-playing, magic-card dealing, 20-sided die-throwing following.

So, the quiet, dimly-lit, calming atmosphere with the smell of old hardwood floors was replaced with the sounds of cursing Magic players outside the front door, a combination of smells wafting in from the food court just steps from the entrance, bright florescent lights, and the constant traipsing back and forth of “mall rats” (as they called themselves) that used our external facing entrance as their fast track into the rest of the mall. Not quite how I imagined it.

One of my first conversations with a co-worker involved my being educated of what “Role-Playing” really meant and that those who show up in costume ready for play-fighting are “LARPs” – Live-Action-Role-Players – not regular role players – oops…my bad! Thanks for clearing that up for me Darrell.

So, what about those games that I identified with? They did have a German board game “corner” and that’s precisely what it was…a corner, which in comparison to the rest of the store really was pretty small. In contrast, the “Magic Card Game-World of Warcraft-Dungeons & Dragons” area covered a 30 - foot wall – most of which existed behind the registers – thus forcing the sales associate to find the different items that a customer is looking for.

To give you an idea of my great knowledge in this area of product, I will illustrate a typical role-playing/magic-specific transaction with a customer:

Me addressing the individual coming into the store: “Hi, how are you doing?” (wait for response) “Is there something I can help you find?”
Bob - the Magic player extraordinaire – “Yeah, I need several packs of the 10th Edition, Chards of Alara - I’m needing to beef up my black, red, non-basic land, and artifact cards…”
Me – “?” “Um sure” (I chuckle out loud)…”you’ll have to point all of that out to me. Here, I’ll point my finger starting from the top (all of the boxes of cards were lined on shelves behind me) and stop me when I get close.”
Bob – Smirking and obviously thinking, “what in the world is this chick doing here” answers “sure.”

{we play the “getting warmer” game and I am finally able to identify the packs he wants}

Me –“alright a couple of packs you said?”
Bob – “yes, but can I see the box and pick out the packs myself?”
Me – “Sure…” I take the boxes down and set them on the counter in front of me. I stand and watch while Bob has a mini séance to determine which packs in the box he wanted to purchase. Touching them, weighing them, etc. he finally makes a decision.
Bob – “I’ll take these” – meanwhile I put back all of the packs that had been taken out during his ‘process of elimination’ exercise.

Great customer service, wouldn’t you say?

So, my last day at Uncle’s was last week…here is my letter to the clientele I leave behind:

Dear D&D/Magic Player,

I know you will miss me and my misinformed help. Know that I will miss your constant traipsing back and forth through the store – occasionally stopping to drop $4.35 for a pack of cards or perhaps a glimpse into the newest D&D book to further craft your character. I will miss having you talk to me as if I know what using a “High Ground white card” will do for your deck and how you plan to overthrow everyone with your particular strategy.

You dealt with me for 6 months. But alas, it must end. I haven’t been converted and I do not intend to ever play D&D, World of Warcraft, Star Wars minis, or Magic…I think I’ll stick to trading brick for wheat.

Thanks for your patience all these months.

Off to buy my last tube of Uncle’s subsidized- Dior mascara,

Valerie

Enter: Rod Serling

“Expectations that were neither warranted or lived up to. A demographic, tortured by the ignorance of an outsider…two worlds collide…only in…The Twilight Zone.”

Confessions of a Part-time D&D Dealer

2009-02-21T09:47:00.000-08:00

Daisies & Daffodils? No.

Dean & Deluca. I wish.

Dishwashers & Detergents. Not quite.

Try, Dungeons & Dragons. It’s true. Or, it was true.

The following three statements explain how I got here:

I swore off board games. I thought.
Spokane was so much more romantic.
My husband is an accountant.

I swore off board games. I thought.

Growing up I used to play games quite often with the next-door neighbor boys, The Matthews: three intelligent, rambunctious, competitive boys. They were like family, and we’d have them over often. But, as I recall there was an evening that I thought would taint games for me for the rest of my life. We played Monopoly, with Trevor Matthews – the youngest of the Matthews brothers. Now, I can hardly stand Monopoly as it is…but played with probably one of the most intelligent people on the planet – who at the same time is ruthless about Pennsylvania Avenue and every utility on the board…well I had sworn off Monopoly and all board games from that evening on.

In college, I bumped into games – obviously through parties and such - but I remember one in particular that people went gaga over “Settlers of Catan” – I observed four friends who got together on a weekly basis to play –nicknames and all. I didn’t get it…sheep, wheat, wood, brick...what could possibly be entertaining about that???

Then I lived with Megan and eventually met Steve. Megan was my best friend and roommate in college – she was bonkers over a game called Skip-Bo. Anyone, and I mean anyone who entered our apartment for any amount of time was more than likely challenged to a game of Skip-Bo with Megan…it was a rite of passage...and they’d lose every time. Now, while it wasn’t a board game, it started getting me to accept and enjoy games once again…even though she beat me every time. Then Steve came along with fantastic unique, foreign card games that I had never heard of, but they were fabulous. I started to be intrigued with the fact that there was a whole world out there that did not include Parker Brothers. Instead there were European game makers that took board games to a whole new level – I liked.

Spokane was so much more romantic.

I lived in Spokane, WA before coming to Seattle. Spokane, it could be argued does not have a lot of the shopping that New York or Beverly Hills has to offer…slightly true statement. However, it DID have a charming turn-of-the-century brick building by the name of Liberty Square that housed two of the most romantic, independent shops that I have ever visited: Auntie’s Book Store and Uncle’s Games. You walk in and the smell of paper from thousands of books combined with the creak that comes from the old hard-wood floors was soothing and welcoming. One could hear either independent folk music or classical as they entered the shops. Softly lit surroundings and the white lights glistening through the large windows from the trees outside made for a picturesque environment. A little café sat to the side of both shops, and live music played on the weekends. This was where my love of board games flourished. Uncle’s was a fabulous little boutique carrying games from what I now know are renowned European game makers – like mentioned above. Beautifully illustrated, thematic, and strategic all at the same time…the games were a delightful change from tv, video games, and homework. Steve and I started to get sucked in; we spent hundreds of dollars on games in that little shop. From Pirates to the French revolution, to the Roaring Twenties, these board games were pieces of art and incredibly engaging.

I was certain that this would be a fabulous little part time job to wind down from the awful stress of a regular job and at the same time earn a little extra cash – perfect surroundings, learn about and play fabulous games while working, and help a patron find “their” game. Perfect.

My husband is an accountant.

Enter: Seattle, post-grad school jobs and loans, and “the” budget.

So, Steve and I moved from Spokane after graduate school, and that quaint little shop that we frequented so often was but a memory. We started jobs and all that money that it took to get through college? Well, it all of the sudden came knocking on the door…you mean, we actually have to pay that back?!?

Steve is an accountant, and well, excel spreadsheets and “budgets” are the norm in our household. I should like budgets, but I don’t. I don’t at all. They’re annoying and restricting and no fun. Now don’t get me wrong, Steve isn’t a scrooge by any means, and he doesn’t hold back on spending on fun things – but there was still the, “we have to allocate” aspect that, well, I didn’t want to abide by.

So, in addition to my “real” job, I decided: I want BURN money, that’s right…money that doesn’t get put in a budget, except for a: Valerie is wasting money on frivolous things budget. Fair enough, I’d spend a couple of extra hours each week at a “no-brainer” job to get extra money that didn’t have to be accounted for – that could disappear on Dior Mascara and no one would know.

But, what the heck would I do? And then I saw it, Uncle’s was in Bellevue. I couldn’t believe it, the dream of enjoying my evenings in that quaint, romantic shop returned. I applied, I was accepted and voila…my dream had come true. OR not.

To be continued.

Ravel, Rachmaninov and Romance

2009-02-15T13:41:00.000-08:00

I should’ve known. Actually I had a sneaking suspicion. It WAS Valentine’s Day after all.

So, before I go any further, let me preface by saying that I had the privilege of learning classical violin and piano growing up. It was a serious deal, considering the fact that my mom at one point was a piano music performance major and my grandmother performed violin seriously for many years. As a result of learning these instruments, attending the symphony was a common occurrence…the music, culture and MANNERS have all been ingrained in me.

Back to now. My husband, Steve was the sweetest and got tickets to the symphony performance for Valentine’s Day. It included one of Rachmaninov’s piano concertos – and considering the fact that I think Rachmoninov could save the world – it was an excellent choice of activity for v-day.

The program was promising – romantic Russians and French composers – what failed register in my mind was, that v-day is a day that inspires people to engage in activities that they would not otherwise engage in or initiate, but for the expectation to do something “sophisticated,” “romantic” or “impressive.” The symphony for many, is one of those activities…need I say more?

So, we take our seats and immediately my attention is not drawn to the beautiful surroundings of Benyaroya Hall – rather, it is focused on the smacking taking place right in front of me. No, not a wife smacking her husband with her hand or purse – I’m talking about lip on lip “smacking.” Let me try to explain what this looked and sounded like – because every time I refer to it (and that will be many), I want you to, as closely as possible, experience what I experienced for two hours. Both the boyfriend and the girlfriend made a point to not lean into one another, but stretch their lips out as far as humanly possible, so as to provide a clear profile of what was about to happen. Following the extended fish-lip stretch came the “smack” which with Benaroya’s acoustics, could I’m sure, be heard at each tier in the hall. You think I’m exaggerating. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with sweet public displays of affection – but really? Every, 2-3 minutes? Not exaggerating. The couple’s affections will now be represented by *smack.*

Almost everyone in the orchestra is seated and the concert master stands up to tune *smack*, the symphony begins to tune to her “A” *smack* and one could not help but notice the empty chair at the far right, the second violin section…everyone was seated except for that chair. The orchestra has stopped tuning and for a moment while we wait for the conductor it is quiet…*smack* and still no sign of the last chair second violin. Guest conductor JoAnn Falletta runs out and everyone begins to clap. My attention (aside from the couple in front of me) however, is fixed on that empty chair. Until wait, the side stage door opens and you see one foot step out with a violin – simultaneously however, Falletta starts to raise her hands and….in that moment of quiet anticipation for the performance to begin….*smack* the side door shuts. The Ravel Waltz begins without that second violinist…unbeknownst to the couple in front of me…*smack.* I think you get the point? I’ll spare you for the rest of this entry.

The Rachmoninov piano concerto was exquisite. So exquisite that after the first movement, what seemed to be twenty-five percent of the audience broke into applause – which in symphony world is a no-no. Generally speaking, with a piece that has “movements” or different sections you wait for the entire piece to be completed before the applause is appropriate. Nikolai Lugansky, the pianist, quickly moved on to the gorgeous middle movement. Delicate, languid, and dramatic, Nikolai made playing the piano look incredibly easy. In the middle of one of the most beautiful and quiet passages…a new sound could be heard – but it wasn’t from the symphony…it was from five rows up. It was the crackle and unwrapping of candy – perhaps the mentos or peanut M&Ms that were sold downstairs? This combined with the girlfriend’s need to snap photos throughout the piece made this an unforgettable portion of the program.

The final piece was from French composer, Faure’s Requiem. The Seattle Chorale was ushered onto the stage and a baritone and soprano joined for several movements. It was beautiful – but by this time, those not accustomed to two hours of classical music are getting antsy. Case in point, take our lovable boyfriend sitting in front of us – when he wasn’t engaged in reassuring his love for girlfriend – he started to crack his knuckles for the span of five minutes. He made it a point to make sure every finger on each hand was properly “popped.” I couldn’t believe it; I had almost all that I could handle. I looked over to Steve, sure that he was as disgusted as I was…indeed he was chuckling to himself and I whispered, “what, the knuckles?” Surely he knew what I was talking about. No, instead he whispered back, “no, I was thinking about how funny it would be if the conductor knocked the baritone in the back of the head.”
So, my experience has led me to the following letter of apology:

Dear Nickolai Lugansky and company,

You’re playing this evening seems to have brought out the romantic, snack-eating, impulsive hand-clapping, camera-flashing best of Seattle. We have Rachmoninov, Valentine’s Day, and your beautiful playing to thank for that. Please forgive our inability to appropriately appreciate the marvelous program that you were so graciously a part of. I look forward to your return…hopefully you will return.

Please come back, but not on the 14th of February,

Valerie

p.s. – oh and please, call me val.

So, hi.

2009-02-13T13:31:00.000-08:00

For years I've heard about "blogging." And for years I've avoided it. It seemed to me to be a mix of scrapbooking and journaling...both of which I am lousy at and do not enjoy.

I remember visiting one of those crazy scrapbooking stores in the mall where every item in the universe was depicted in either a sticker or a stamp. Despite how overwhelming it was...for one hour, I was convinced that perhaps I could become one - a scrapbooker. I purchased more stickers that day than I ever earned in gradeschool, got myself scrapbooking paper and even a scrapbook.

The result? Family, friends, travels, and a wedding later those stickers and momentos from that initial purchase are nowhere to be found. Instead, pictures from the past are stuffed in shoe boxes, along with love notes, cards, maps, ticket stubs, metro passes, etc. The biggest day of my life exists on a cd and dvd - the cd of pictures, I don't even know where it is...maybe mom has it?!?! The DVD, thank heaven for the Erickson's who captured our reception on video and made a beautiful compilation of the events that evening.

Every Christmas, I'm given a journal. I have probably 10 - 15 empty journals, collecting dust on my book shelf...symbolizing years lost.

I think I've made the point; I've enjoyed life, but I haven't savored it.

Which brings me to this blog. Over a year ago I started a blog - nothing was on it - but I registered one. It was supposed to be the forum for my new hobby at the time: photo journalism. While I had both the film and digital SLRs, I didn't get around to the most important part - learning to use them. Pictures were never taken and well, I forgot about that blog I registered.

But recently, my interest has been piqued. I have several friends that write incredibly entertaining blogs - I admire their candor, wit and intelligence. While, I in no way intend to be anywhere near as entertaining as any of them - I can at least get off my duff and try.

So, let me introduce myself. My name is Valerie, and while I'd like to think I am as beautiful, romantic and sophisticated as Valerie suggests...please, call me val.