Flour Baby

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

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

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

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-aftering” 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

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

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:

1. I swore off board games. I thought.
2. Spokane was so much more romantic.
3. 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

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.