What a strange/awful thing to think you need to be – cute enough to be attacked. Something recently reminded me of one particular exchange I had with someone I hardly knew so many years ago.
Before I go any further, I realize the subject of attacks and attack victims is not a topic to speak of lightly – I really don’t intend to treat it as such.
[Flashback] In a conversation with others about everyone’s plans for college and where we were going, I made a quip about needing to get mace for my experiences in traversing the city I was headed to. The response that came from this half-way serious, mostly joking comment, has lived in my memory ever since: “Why? You’re not cute enough to be attacked.”
What a puzzling statement. I mean, I guess that’s a good thing…?! To not be cute enough…to essentially be your own natural mace? It was a slight – for whatever reason – from an individual I hardly knew. To this day I have no idea what I said in response to that comment, but it has been seared into my memory. And while I haven’t been terribly affected by it – it has actually served more as a laughable example of ridiculous things NOT to say to someone - it has unfortunately been associated with this person and…to me.
Thinking about this has automatically spurred the self-reflection of all the ridiculous things I’ve said throughout my life, to or about people - some of which may unfortunately be on repeat in someone’s mind as a part of their memory or opinion of me.
In some cases we have time to repair our “stranger things have been said/done” statements, judgments, actions, etc. But, not all the time…and oftentimes, while the person may graciously accept an apology or choose to overlook it – it can still live, because it was said/done.
What a harrowing thought - kind of paralyzing if I think about it too much. Could I possibly recount, return to, and repair every stupid/thoughtless thing I’ve said to/about people I’ve encountered over the last 29 years? Unfortunately, no. In fact, I doubt this person would even remember this exchange – and I wouldn’t even want them to.
I guess we’re here to live, let-go, and LEARN from not only the things said/done to us…but really, and more importantly, the things we’re doing/saying to others.
Dear Person from the Past/and the World,
Crappy things have been said to me. Crappy things have been said by me. I don’t really like the taste of said crap – either coming in or going out.
So I guess it's best to really live that golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you...(with the addendum: even if “others” don’t always hold up their end of the deal).
The thing is, I would bet most people don't truly mean to have their words/actions live as long as they may be living in our minds - I know I don't. If I were confronted with all the things I’ve said I would be hurriedly looking for an eraser or the “edit” option. So, I guess why say or do it? Hmm, I don't know why I'm a jerk at times and why others can be too. But...
Here’s to a continued effort at a crap-free diet – because really, this is not only better for my health, but better for everyone else’s as well. Just don’t listen to me during rush hour…that doesn’t count, ok??
Val
Yep, please just call me val because, in my book, we’re friends.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Myrle Johnson
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
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
Monday, October 24, 2011
Second to Last Chair
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
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
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Lady in Waiting...err...Training
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
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
Monday, October 10, 2011
It's Not You, It's Me
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
[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
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Improv
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
Thursday, February 10, 2011
7th Grade Pipe Dream
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…
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…
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