Phew. What a relief. That was stressful. Since my last post, I practiced flute like my life depended on it. I took flute to work and practiced on my lunch breaks. I set my alarm 10 minutes early and practiced in the mornings. I was not going to let flute own me. The plan for the concert was that Heidi (flute coach extraordinaire) was to accompany me on the piano. On Friday afternoon, I took one look at Heidi and knew it was not to be. Red, stuffy nose and hoarse scratchy voice - she did not look good. Heidi left work early, assuring me that she just needed some rest and she'd be back in action for the Saturday concert. I wasn't convinced. So I went home, reached Eddie Vedder via youtube and requested his accompaniment at my concert (I pressed "play" on the youtube video). We worked well together but whoa, Eddie! It was fast. Really fast. But, if worst came to worst, we would figure this out. My fears were realized when Heidi texted me Saturday morning, "flu is worse. I'm so sorry, buddy." (isn't that super unfair when you get sick on the weekend?) Ok. Don't panic. The concert will go on.
Chardonnay: building confidence since 1997
I quickly ran to the liquor store and stocked up on wine, beer, vodka - anything and everything to get my audience as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible...and then I practiced. I practiced until my lips bled and my shoulder seized (well, not really, but I'm building suspense here people). As I practiced, something miraculous began to happen...I began sounding kinda, well...good. As 7:00 neared, I figured, what the hell. A little chardonnay would loosen me up. I poured myself a glass of wine and waited...and waited. 3 large glasses of wine later, my full audience was in attendance...and I was kind of sort of drunk. Well, pleasantly buzzed. Which was good. Hey, you can't tell me Pearl Jam never went on stage three sheets to the wind. So, plans changed. Performer drunk. Audience sober. Confidence was high (or perhaps the wine had numbed my frontal lobe - the part of your brain that prevents you from making a mockery of yourself). My audience consisted of Ev, my Lawyer, Lawyer's husband, and Colleen. You'll be getting to know Colleen in the next month, as she is leading me in my November challenge. She's a very positive person - someone you'd want in your audience when you're about to make a total ass of yourself. Surprisingly, Shaw Cable was nowhere to be found :) I could sense a nervous energy from my audience. I sat down and played. Eddie and I were slightly out of a sync a few times and there were a few notes that were misplayed; yet, all-in-all, it wasn't half bad. It was kinda almost good. Once the performance had been completed and wine glass was comfortably in hand, I broke up with Flute.
Me: Flute, we had a great run together. I think you're fabulous and you'll make someone really happy. But...I just don't think there's a future for us. It's not you, it's me.
Flute: Well that's 1 month of my life I'll never get back, biatch.
Well, who said breaking up is ever easy. It had to be done.
So - I did it! Here's what I learned:
1) It was fantastic hanging out with Heidi outside of our little speech office. We had a fabulous trip to Winnipeg together and I feel like although I've known Heidi, Speech -Language Pathologist, for the past 2 years, I really got to know Heidi as a person. It blows me away how self-sufficient and independent she is. She moved to Prince Albert without knowing a soul, bought a house on her own, and fixes pipes and doors with hack saws and various tools which I know nothing about. And she can sexy dance. That's cool and inspiring. Thanks, Heidi, for being patient with me. You were a fabulous instructor.
2) Playing the flute did not come easily to me. It was challenging. It's hard to be sucky at something. It would be much easier to just say, "It's not for me" and move on. I persevered only because the experience was being broadcasted on this blog. I am so happy that I didn't quit. I watch the video of my performance now and I feel proud. I learned how to play the flute in 1 month! That's kind of awesome. There is no doubt in my mind that areas of my brain that lay dormant for years are now buzzing with the construction of various new and intricate highways.
3) One of the most exciting, unexpected consequences of this experiment is the connections that I'm making with people. A LOT of people played the flute in their younger years. I received tons of tips, advice, and experiences from colleagues, friends, and family who played the flute at one time in their lives. Thanks for all the positive comments and support fellow flautists! Whether it's an encouraging email from one of Ryan's friends or a random nurse on level 4 inquiring about my flute lessons, people with whom I've never even spoken to are now approaching me. I'm meeting a ton of new, interesting people through this blog. So cool. And it's only going to get better.
Ok. No time to blog - practicing flute like a maniac right now. Public flogging concert is set for Saturday. Currently, I'm selectively choosing an audience (only friends/family who have humiliated themselves in front me in the past) and strong alcohol to feed my audience pre-performance (perhaps they will forget). I have the Pearl Jam song before me. It's a great song. One of my favorites. Although I presently know each and every note, I'm faced with some serious challenges here with d-3 days to showtime:
1) Why can't Eddie Vedder pick a regular rhythm and stick with it? This is no Jingle Bells, people. Heidi, flute coach extraordinaire, (it is of no fault of her own that I'm not excelling) attempted to count out the beats for me. I consistently played on the wrong beat...and Oh Heidi was so patient, "No, not quite." "just a little too early," and my favorite, "No, but that certainly sounded artistic." Shiiiit! Then Heidi had a fantastic solution: listen to the song and repeat a few bars at a time - brilliant! that I can do. That's why Heidi gets paid the big bucks...er, wait. She is not being paid. Why the h did she agree to do this?
Pick up your lips and carry on
2) After a few bars, my face begins to melt. F#, G, A...oh wait, there goes my lips. G, B, C - nose falling to the floor, C, A, A - left eye dripping down neck. I literally lose all control of oral/facial muscles and an odd whistling sound begins to emerge out of the corner of my left lip. It's embarrassing. I may have to consider that when selecting my audience. "You've been appointed the official retriever of the lips. Just pick them off the floor and place them back on my face. Thanks, that's great."
3) By page 4 (there are 6 pages of music), I'm so out of breath that I consider calling in Respiratory Therapy for a tank of O2 and a non-rebreather (I love RT's - they are so calm and cool. That's who you call in an emergency such as this). Seriously, I work out like 3-4 days per week (we own a gym for God's sake!) Where the h is my "fluting" endurance and how do I build it up in 3 days?
Ok, starting to panic. Must go practice. I hate butchering Pearl Jam whilst fluting!
I was in Winnipeg! Guess why I went...
No, I didn't go to the Jets game. Better. Guess again.
No, not the Bluebombers. Way better. Guess again.
Yes, Selena Gomez was in town, but, nope. Not Selena. Much better.
I went to Winnipeg to see...
wait for it... Dr. Joseph Duffy!!!....(crickets chirping...except for the 5 speech pathologists that read my blog - they are flailing their arms around madly, squealing with delight).
NOT this Joe Duffy (but he is quite cute, isn't he?)
Dr. Joe Duffy - the real deal
Dr. Joseph Duffy is the guru of motor speech disorders. He wrote THE textbook. He is a big fricken deal in the speech world. Huge. Try to suppress your jealousy - I listened to him lecture for 2 days. In a room full of Speech-Language Pathologists. From across the world (well Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and Minot).
This speech geek (love you, Anroup) thinks I'm taking a picture of her. but I'm not. Look waaaay left - that's him, folks! That's Joe Duffy's left arm!
You have NO idea. Let me sort this out for you:
Think way back to your elementary school days. Do you remember that one annoying little girl? That little girl who chose the desk front and center so that every teacher had a clear view of her springy little hand, which was constantly raised eagerly in the air. That teacher-pleasing, overachieving little girl had the answer to every question and a lengthy (almost always correct) explanation for each and every answer. While you played normal games at recess with the other children, that little girl was "chosen" by the teacher to remain indoors to mark exams. As "book smart" as that little girl was, she was oblivious to the fact that she was been used as child labor while the teacher slammed beers in the staff room. You remember that little girl? Odds are, she is now a Speech-Language Pathologist (that description is me, by the way - I know, you kinda hate me right now. I'm cringing).
So now picture 50 of those little girls, all grown up, Duffy textbook in hand, attending a 2 day conference, buzzing with the prospect of discussions of hypokinetic dysarthria, upper motor neurons, and (gasp!) maybe even palatopharyngolaryngeal Myoclonus (big impressive-sounding words make speech pathologists giddy). These ladies are eager to impress their "leader" of motor speech disorders with any remotely relevant anecdote or brain-busting question. These poor women haven't been officially "graded" in years. They are yearning for academic reinforcement. Lucky for me, my flute instructor, Heidi, was also in attendance and Ev, although not attending the Duffy Conference, had some business to attend to in Winnipeg as well.
On the way to the conference, Ev stopped at a Tim Horton's a few blocks from the hospital where the conference was being held. As we walked out of Timmy's, Ev pointed out 2 nicely dressed, eager looking women,
Ev: "I bet they are in your conference."
Me: "What? No way, Winnipeg is a big city. I bet they aren't,"
Ev: "Yep. All you speech geeks have a special "look" (he refers to us as speech geeks with the utmost respect and love) "Plus, you all walk the same."
Me: "What does that mean?"
Ev: "You speech geeks have a special strut. Probably from years of rushing to be the first to hand in your exam."
What the f? A look? A walk? No way.
I enter the conference room. The smell of Type A is overpowering. I glance around only to see that the 2 Tim Horton's ladies ARE in attendance!!! How can that be? I scan the room for signs of "a look." Shit. We DO have a look! Out of 50 attendees, approximately 35 of them are wearing a cardigan and/or scarf, "dressy" jeans, and leather boots. What's up with that? I look down. Double shit. I am wearing a cardigan, a scarf, "dressy" jeans, and leather boots. I glance over at Heidi. Ditto. Bahahaha - funny? Whilst ;) the speech geeks rush Dr. Duffy for signings of their textbooks (definitely a peppy strut), I struggle with the realization that I somehow unconsciously became a full-fledged member of this clubcult tight professional organization. Is this what Scientology is like? I am distracted by the speech geek to the left of me. She is wearing a beautiful pink scarf over her cardigan. I wonder where she purchased such a scarf. Pretty pinks and grays - such a lovely match to her cardigan. And then Dr. Duffy begins his presentation with a question. Hell, I know the answer to that! I eagerly raise my hand, with hopes that he will pick me. Positively reinforce me! Take me to the mothership.
Cardigans and Scarves: Did he just say spasmodic dysphonia? Whoo hoo!
Is that bear a speech pathologist? No, silly, he's not wearing a cardigan.
You probably assume that I've completely forgotten about Flute. Nope. Flute made the trip to Winnipeg. Flute quite enjoyed the trip and did receive some playing time. I'm not a quitter. I'm starting to see some improvement. Well, not really.
Oh I'll show you "Spirited Energy!"
Can you guess the 3 songs? Evan was super helpful in the taping of my performances.
On the day that we lost Ryan, I remember thinking, "I will never laugh again." How will ANYTHING possibly be funny EVER again? I recall my sensitivity to laughter that week - wondering what the h anyone could remotely think was funny while the lives of Ryan's friends and family were falling apart. At Ryan's service, we embraced, cried, and occasionally laughed - laughed while reminiscing about Ryan's unicycle; laughed about discovering the thousands of self-portraits on Ryan's computer - cropped to perfection (The dude was confident!) The laughter stung. I wanted no part of it.
On Sunday evening, after Ryan's service and the releasing of paper lanterns into the starry sky over Candle Lake (Ryan would have dug that), Jamie Chester (rockstar extraordinaire and one of Ryan's best buddies) put on a show at Rick's Lounge. It was a chance to celebrate Ryan. Friends, drinks, and Pearl Jam. The perfect tribute to our little buddy. I was sour. Miserable. I didn't want to be there. I would have preferred to sit in a dark house alone, wallowing in my sorrow. Ev, sensing my misery, handed me a glass of wine, threw his arm around me and said, "Let's take tomorrow off. I will text Whit and see if she can cover the class for me." It is important, at this point in the story, to introduce Whitney. Whit (as we lovingly refer to her) is awesome. Whit is a beautiful 20-something year old girl who's full of life and can't sit still. She's the epitome of fitness. She runs, walks, swims, and/or bikes everywhere - whilst lifting kettlebells overhead (well, pretty much). Lucky for us, she's a CrossFit coach at our gym. She's super dependable as well, so it didn't surprise me when she immediately responded to Ev's text, "Sure, no problem. I can cover tomorrow's class."
Ev quickly replied back on his iphone, struggling to see the keypad under the night sky.
Ev: "Oh No!"
Me: "What's wrong?"
Ev: "Can I get a text back? How do I get this text back? Oh my god, is there any way to stop the text from sending??" Ev was frantically shaking his phone, removing the battery, etc.
Me: "What did you write? No, you can't get a text back. It's like a fax machine. It transports things with no explanation. It's a fricken mystery."
Ev: staring blankly at iphone
Me: "What did you send her?"
Ev sighed and handed me the phone. I could see the speech bubbles, outlining the conversation between Whit and Ev. The last bubble from Evan read:
Thanks Whor.
Far right - Whit. NOT Whor. Obviously, she's awesome.
Me: "What? Did you seriously just call our 23 year old employee a whor? a misspelled whor? How did that happen?"
Ev showed me the tiny keypad on the iphone. Yep, "i" is right next to the"o". "t" is right next to the "r". It was an honest mistake. "Whit" can easily turn into "Whor" on the tiny iphone keypad - especially with man hands (Whoa, that didn't sound good). Well, once Ev explained to Whitney how such a message was mistakingly sent, she laughed it off, and it was determined that sexual harassment charges would not be laid, I couldn't help myself. I laughed. And laughed. And snorted. And laughed. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. I laughed until my sides hurt and my velopharyngeal valve (valve between nasal and oral cavity) burned from snorting so hard. It was funny. Funny things were STILL funny. I could totally hear Holowaty's high-pitched girlie laugh. He had the BEST laugh! His laugh was an over-the-top, bending at the knees whilst slapping your thigh kind of laugh. He was right there with us laughing away. It felt so good to laugh.
PS: There has been little laughter and flute playing in my house over the past few days. I have been suffering from the "sweat-puke-shake" flu since Sunday. It sucks. And contrary to what you might be thinking, it is not an extended hangover from my 90's flute session on Friday night. This is the real deal. But, the Shaw news story from my longboarding days is now available online. Check it out:
Have you ever driven along in your vehicle when suddenly a familiar tune on the radio transports you back in time, eliciting memories of your grade 2 teacher, a house you lived in as a child, or that first make-out session with a boy (Sidenote - Mom: "Making out" does not mean "going all the way." "Making out" is the equivalent to your 1960's definition of "necking." Clear? Love you!)
Music has a powerful effect on the brain. Although research is constant and ever evolving, there seems to be a common theme. First, studies of the brain have shown that listening to "pleasant" music (this, of course, is subjective. A love of Tiffany is not shared by all. Shocking), causes an elevation in serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain (the same 'feel good' neurotransmitters that are released when you are on cocaine). Essentially, music makes you feel good. It makes you "high." Oh dear. Someone in a small hick town will read my post and ban music and school dances forever, causing the teen community to host "underground" dances in barns and such...wait...wait...that's "Footloose." I digress. My point is that music is way cheaper (like 99 cents on itunes) with way less and horrific side effects than cocaine (I've watched "Intervention"on A&E. Never seen a music addict). The answer is music, not cocaine, my friends (duh). PS: contrary to what you may believe whilst ;) watching some of my incredibly whacked out videos, I am not "on" cocaine. I am "on" music. Just wanted to clear that up.
According to Davis, a researcher at the University of California, there also appears to be a "hub" in our brain, located in the prefrontal cortex (right behind our forehead), where familiar music, memories, and emotions are linked. Interestingly, in Alzheimer's Disease, this area of the brain is one of the last to atrophy, which explains why someone with Alzheimer's may not recognize or be soothed by his wife; yet, can remember the words to his favorite song, which in turn, improves his mood. I have witnessed this firsthand with many of the patients in the hospital. Music is powerful. You hear a familiar song, it evokes an emotional reaction (good or bad) and the memories (good or bad) come flooding back to you. Awesome, right?
So, Heidi and I decided to really throw ourselves into character - relive the early 90's when she was a flute sensation and I was...not a flute sensation. We fluffed up the bangs (hers were quite incredible, really), threw on some frosty pink lipstick (LOVED wet 'n wild), and along with Evan, my lawyer (she's back!), and laywer's husband, we watched some old music videos from our past to test the theory of music = emotion= memory.
Disclaimer: the following pictures were taken after an emotionally draining week of work. Wine, hot rollers, and hairspray were involved. You may want to remove young children from the room.
Heidi's bangs are legit. She's the true flutist.
The flute causes us to stare dreamily into the distance
Did someone fart? No, we're just gazing dreamily off into the distance
Can someone please stop serving us wine?
Here are the results (I've conveniently linked each to the youtube music video for your viewing pleasure)
"Whoomp there it is" Tag Team, 1992 = Triumph = Yes, I just spiked the ball and it was unreturned. My volleyball team demonstrate their approval by forming a circle in the middle of the court, pointing to the opposing court (hence, totally humiliating the poor player who failed to return my spike), while cheering, "Whoomp, there it is!" Lame in retrospect. Incredibly triumphant at the time.
"Get Ready for This" 2 Unlimited, 1993 = Exhilaration = Picture my lawyer, donned in her fabulous figure skating costume, bearing the Canadian flag during the National Anthem at the Raider game. As she skates off, she hears that familiar and powerful synthesizer intro, "Y'all ready for this?" Like, I don't know about you, but I'm pumped right now.
"Joyride" Roxette, 1991 = Hope = Picture a 12 year old curly haired, freckle-faced Evan, chillin' in his bedroom in Red Deer, blasting his favorite cassettes on his ghetto blaster. He dreams of someday owning a Mazda 626, picking up an unsuspecting blonde Saskatchewan girl, and takin' her on a joyride through the streets of PA. "She says hello, you fool, I love you. C'mon join the joyride...."
"More Than Words," Extreme, 1990 = Confusion = Picture my first boy/girl party. It's my first slow dance with a boy. Whoa. I am dancing with a boy! Whoa. He's touching my back! Boy is touching my back! Wait a minute...what is boy doing? Why is boy licking my neck? Ew, there's boy slobber on my neck! Is this supposed to happen when you slow dance with a boy?" Aaaaargh! What do I do? Do I wipe it off? Do I lick boy's neck now? I am so confused! "More than words...is all you have to do to make it real."
"Move This" Technotronic, 1993 = Sexy? = We don't know exactly what memory this evokes in Heidi's brain; however, the dance moves that erupt are reminiscent of Cindy Crawford's 1993 Revlon Commercial. Evan and Laywer's husband are transfixed on Heidi as she swings her hair back and forth...back and forth...back and forth...what? Oh uh sorry, lost myself there for a minute. Anyways, I'm pretty sure it's a sexy memory. I kinda want to know, but maybe not. "Shake that body for me."
Cindy:
Heidi (Yes, you will have to turn your head - trust me, it's worth it)
We ask Lawyer's husband to contribute a few of his song memories. He's oblivious to our request, staring off into the distance, reliving the memory of Heidi's hair tossing performance. You can bet that particular memory is safely being stored in his prefrontal cortex along with Technotronic's "Move This," and um...well, positive thoughts. As the night comes to a close, we've proven, without a doubt, that music evokes emotion and memories. We can also conclude that we are all very happy - music, does indeed, elevate the level of "happy" chemicals in the brain (as does the consumption of 3 bottles of wine). We are super happy, "high" on life, and we did not snort cocaine.
Ev's always wanted to live in Nanaimo. For all my non-Canadian friends, Nanaimo is a city located on Vancouver Island. According to Ev, it is an enchanted island with unicorns, talking whales, and beer-filled lakes. Ev's never been to Nanaimo. He doesn't even know anyone who lives there; he has, however, studied it excessively on the internet whilst ;) consuming Nanaimo bars. So he's pretty much a psycho expert. When we lived in Calgary (dark, dark days, my friends), Ev and I desperately searched for a new locale to where we could relocate. I was rooting for Prince Albert (friends and family), while Ev marketed Nanaimo to the max. He watched "The Island" news on our satellite TV, reporting back at the end of the day, "No crime in Nanaimo. Just wine festivals." He researched the housing market, "Look, we could live here! Ocean view from our roof. We can watch the whales!" He found lakes on which we would wakesurf year-round, "This one is next to a vineyard. We can wakesurf, then swim to shore and drink wine!" To be honest, I was sold. Let's move to Nanaimo! Problem: No jobs for either of us. Case closed. Contrary to what Ev would have anyone believe, you do require money - even in Nanaimo - to pursue the good life.
So here we are, 2 years later, living a lovely life in PA. Neither of us regret the move - but...life is life. Some days are shitty (no matter where you live, right?) Wrong. Ev continues to maintain that Nanaimo is the utopia of the world. The epicenter of awesomeness. Dare I complain (about anything), Ev reminds me (constantly) that we chose to forgo the Nanaimo dream of eternal happiness and move to PA (where shitty things sometimes happen).
Example 1:
My coffee mug slips out of my hands, spilling tea everywhere...
Me: "Shit!"
Ev: "That wouldn't happen in Nanaimo."
Example 2:
I'm attempting to relay some super important news to Ev; however, he's all wrapped up in one of his lamo money books, "Found money - Simple Strategies for Uncovering the Hidden Profit and Cash flow in your Business" (boooooring).
Me: "Why won't you just listen to me?"
Ev: "I would be a much better listener - in Nanaimo." (How do you not crack up?)
Example 3:
Ev has even programmed the Nanaimo weather forecast into his iphone. One August day, as the wind howls and the waves crash over our boat, completely kaiboshing any dreams of wakesurfing, Ev checks the Nanaimo forecast on his iphone and proclaims, "3km winds in Nanaimo. Perfect day for wakesurfing."
So this is what I'm dealing with.
Yesterday, as I hyperventilated "Ode to Misery Joy" on the prescious flute, I admittendly pondered, "Would this sound better in Nanaimo?"
You know what? It doesn't matter. We are not living in Nanaimo. It is what it is. The flute and I only have 18 more days left together. Let's just enjoy it. In the words of "Trooper" (ever notice how PA radio LOOOVES Trooper?), "We're here for a good time, not a long time."
So, flute and I are gonna rip it up in PA...because we ain't in Nanaimo, princess.
Ok. So I'm trying to be positive. I have to keep focusing on the purpose of this year-long experiment. I even stated it in my very first post: "I won't become exceptionally "good" at any of these skills. But I will give it my best shot." But, let's just be honest here. I've never really sucked big time at anything in my life...and when I did suck big time, I quit. Case in point: "Weather 210." I needed a 200 level University science course to complete my degree. I thought to myself, "Weather - how hard can it be? Like, hello, it's sunny. Hello, now it's cloudy. A+ right?" Wrong. It was frickin complicated. There's like jetstreams and isobars and...well, I can't even talk about it anymore. It hurts my head. I took the first exam, received a 63% and abruptly dropped the class. Done. Moving on (Oddly enough, I now have this strange fascination with the weather - someday, ask me about the Environment Canada Weatherman who is currently on my speed dial. True story). Well, it's day 10 and this flute is sucking the life out of me (or perhaps I'm sucking the life out of this flute?). I dunno. It's not good.
I would like to thank my family and friends for all the positive comments they've provided, which include:
"Is it supposed to sound like that?"
"Maybe it needs to be tuned?"
... and my favorite
"It looks like it hurts."
(That's courtesy of my BFF, Janna, who actually winced as I played)
Oh dear. How the h am I going to learn a Pearl Jam melody in 21 days? COACH??? (Heidi is presently eating turkey with her family in s'toon).
Just for fun, I've put together a clip of 3 little ditties. They are all played in the key of C. It's currently my most successful note. See you if you can guess the tune. Kudos to you if you can figure it out - I'm watching it back and don't remember what those songs are. I can't even find a place to insert "whilst" into this post.
I didn't have to look far to find myself a top-notch flute coach with the patience of a saint. Enter Heidi Funk, flute coach extraordinaire! Heidi is the other adult Speech-Language Pathologist at the hospital (there are 2 of us in the WHOLE health region. Obviously, we are tres important :)). We share an office, a love of adult clients, and many deep and meaningful conversations in our little office at the end of the day ("Don't fax machines just blow you away?" "I know! Things just magically go places!"). Sharing an office is a pretty intimate experience, you know. Heidi has walked in on me popping a zit (And why, at age 32, am I still getting zits??), eating jam straight of a jar (I loooove my grandma's jam and was feeling faint after seeing a particularly phlegmy patient) and recently, rolling on a tennis ball (in agony) on our office floor (hurt my back. May be flute-related injury). Although we've only been office mates for 2 years, I feel like I've been able to share a few monumental experiences with Heidi - her first adult stroke patient, her first blind date (not good. He's a dud, obviously), and her first home purchase (all by herself, smart girl!). Heidi has also been one of my great supports with Ryan's passing. She always listens attentively (that's what good Speech Pathologist's do) and has encouraged me to get this blog rolling. Basically, Heidi rocks. Heidi played the flute in high school (with seriously bangin bangs), majored in music for 2 years in University (do you know anyone who actually majors in music?), and has agreed to coach me, med-free, despite my deep-seeded "issues" with the flute. Perfect.
Lesson 1: Why can't I make a f&%*(^& sound on this F*%$#^$ flute?
What are you up to Meow?
7:15 - Heidi arrives, flute case in tow. Flute case is dusty. Biloxi, the cat, is interested, "What the h is this crazy biatch up to now?"
7:20 - Heidi opens up the case. Wow. It's shiny. It's silver. My heart races. It's laughing at me. I can feel it.
7:30 - Heidi hands me the mouthpiece. "Just get used to blowing into the mouthpiece first." Of course. Start slow, work my way up. I get it. She demonstrates. A beautiful haunting whale cry is emitted from the lovely instrument. Biloxi, the cat, goes wild. He howls, he jumps in the bathtub, if he could, he would cover his ears with his paws and scream, "STOP IT!". Apparently he does not love the flute? Dundee, the dog, is completely oblivious, chasing and tormenting Biloxi, "Exciting things happening in our house - don't know what to do - must chase cat!!!"
Ok. I'm ready. My lips are much more mature than they were at age 12. I can totally do this.
7:35 - I press the mouthpiece to my lips and blow. No sound. Flute mocks me.
7:38 - I rotate the mouthpiece slightly forward and blow. No sound. Flute cackles wickedly.
7:40 - I rotate the mouthpiece slightly back and blow. No sound. Flute rolls around on the floor, laughing hysterically.
7:42 - Heidi remains cool and calm, "just keep trying. You'll get it." I notice her fidget ever so slightly. "Pull your lip a bit tighter."
7:45 - 8:15 (that's right - half and hour) - blow. No sound. blow faster. No sound. blow slower. No sound. I'm about to pass out. Flute yawns. Flute is bored. This F&*%$#& stupid piece of s*^&! A look passes over Heidi's face. I've seen that look before. Pity.
8:15 - Heidi, sensing my frustration, comes up with an alternate plan, "It might help if you practice on a bottle first. Like a beer bottle." Right. Atta girl, Heidi. Intoxicate me to the point of forgetting. I like it.
8:20 - We open our first Corona. It's much too full to make a sound. Must drink. Fast.
8:21 - Corona half full. Feeling relaxed. Picturing myself on a white sand Mexican beach, playing lovely tunes on my lovely flute.
8:30 - Heidi and I play a duet - me on the beer bottle; she on the flute. In my opinion, we sound really good together. Perhaps I will change October goal: Play pearl Jam on beer bottles whilst :) shitfaced.
8:35 - Heidi hands me the flute. "OK, you're ready."
A match made in heaven
8:40 - I blow. THERE IS A SOUND! It's breathy. It's off key, but it's A SOUND! (See, Mr. M, you just didn't have the right approach).
8:45 - We celebrate by downing our beer and taking a picture. Biloxi, the cat, is losing his mind.
8:50 - Heidi puts the whole flute together and begins showing me notes. Real notes. B flat is my favorite.
9:00 - I am pumped. I've conquered this thing (well, it's a good start). The flute and I have come to some sort of understanding. I tweet away b-flat (5 sec pause to reset fingers), C (7 second pause to reset fingers), b-flat (5 second pause to reset fingers), C. I'm not gonna lie to you, that's pretty much a trill.
9:10 - Heidi leaves for the night. I am elated....and tipsy. Biloxi, the cat, is pissy. Real pissy.
Check out the vid!
Disclaimer: Not the most flattering video of Heidi and I. To be fair, we just returned from the gym. We are much more attractive in person. Trust me.
You laugh, but that's actually how the story kind of begins. Let me set this up for you:
It was September 1991. Picture a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed (spiral permed) 12 year old girl, fidgeting in her desk, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Mr. M - Vickers School's "celebrity" band teacher. Mr. M was a favorite with the kids - not only could he play any and every instrument ever invented (including the bagpipes), but he was "cool". Mr. M lobbied to send his bands to exotic locales such as Moose Jaw and Lloydminster for band competitions. What 7th grader doesn't love traveling on a bus for 4 hours? Today was the big day. It was beginner band "try-outs." Basically, Mr. M entered the grade 7 classroom, armed with every instrument in the band, allowed each student to give every instrument a whirl (a quick whirl), and then made recommendations regarding which instrument was most suitable for that particular student.
Ask them - pretty sure they played the flute
The little girl waited patiently as her classmates banged on the drums, tooted on the horns, and strummed on the bass. Finally, Mr. M released "it" from it's case. Shimmering silver, Mr. M gently placed the delicate instrument in his hands. "And this, class...is the flute." The little girl gasped. Oh how she dreamed of playing such an elegant, stylish instrument. Plus, everyone knew that all Vickers School flutists were "cool girls" (the girls with the biggest bangs - AKA the "waterfall" or the "claw")
"Who would like to try the flute?"
8 hands belonging to wannabe big-banged 7th grade girls shot up. Mr. M called on the little girl, who enthusiastically raced to the front. She felt electricity from the powerful instrument as the cold silver touched her lips. This would change her life. Visions of hairspray, band trips, and beautiful flutey tunes danced through her brain. The little girl pursed her lips (that's what flute players did) and blew. Nothing. She blew harder. Nothing. She blew faster. Nothing. Desperate, she began whistling - hoping for a noise. Any noise. Mr. M nodded supportively, "The flute's not for everyone. Sometimes your lips just aren't made for playing the flute."
The little girl heard: "You are a failure and have freakishly abnormal lips." (everything's really dramatic when you're 12).
The next day, the little girl received a neatly folded piece of paper containing the instrument recommendation from Mr. M. Hoping for a miracle, she unfolded it and gasped:
LAME
Recommended Instrument: CLARINET
Not Katrina, but close - perfect "claw" bang
Shit. The clarinet? Wasn't the clarinet like the default instrument -saved for the kids who were epic failures at life? (no offense if you played the clarinet with pride). Honk. Honk. Honk. Brutal. The little girl glanced over at Katrina Harnett's paper (side note: Katrina, if you read this, e-mail me! :) Katrina had the best hair in grade 7. Top bang curled back, held firmly in place with a bottle of Vidal Sassoon, bottom bang neatly curled under with a 3" barrelled iron. Katrina had "the claw" styled to perfection. Sure enough, there it was in black ink, "FLUTE."
Damn.
Now, this may come as a shock to you, but this "little girl" that I speak of...
Is me.
Now don't go getting all angry with Mr. M. To be fair, I don't think that he was even aware of my flute-playing dreams. Otherwise, I'm sure he would have spent more time trying to teach me. It wasn't his fault that I angrily honked on that friggin clarinet for 3 years of my junior high band career.
Now I understand that the flute isn't uber exciting (I can see Ryan's wide disbelieving eyes, "The F'n Flute, Kirst?"). But...THIS will be awesome. Trust me. To make it a little more interesting, I will be attempting a simple Pearl Jam melody (totally getting ahead of myself, given that I do not know if I can actually produce a sound). Although the "music center" in my brain has been activated before (I did play a little piano as a kid and my BFF (Janna) and I shared the PA Music Festival honors for "best duet" in 1989 when we played a magical rendition of "This land is Your Land" on the recorder), this will definitely challenge me to retrieve those "lost" musical skills (Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge?) whilst :) confronting my flute fears/painful memories head on.
Ok Ok, I am just buzzing with excitement (or maybe it's the energy drink I just consumed, and the fact that my Doctor has advised me against consuming energy drinks. Ever.). What an epic ending to a fantastic month!!!
First off, Shaw Cable attended my last lesson today. That's right. Shaw (basically the NBC of Prince Albert). Lisa, the "Diane Sawyer" of SHAW, contacted me last week, inquiring about my blog. I invited her to my last lesson to check it out. I didn't want to announce this on my blog prematurely because a) I wasn't sure if she'd ACTUALLY show up and b) I suspected it could possibly be a prank call from one of my "friends." Well guess what. She frickin' showed up - next stop...Ellen.
Kind of how my board looked. But not really.
Ok, so throwing a TV camera in the mix does add a fair amount of pressure to the finale (in which I'm supposed to land the trick). I'm not going to lie to you, I was pretty nervous. Last night, I practiced until my thumb started to bleed. A tiny smear of blood landed on the tip of my board. It choked me up...just a little - you know: blood, sweat, and tears and all that sensitive stuff. Then I realized how badass the board looked with blood on it.
I immediately texted Randy, "Thumb blood on my board. Badass."
Randy: "Rule is never clean your blood off your board...but didn't you just get thumb blood on MY board ;)
uh, right. oops.
I went to work that day and mentally landed my trick at least 50 times whilst :) speech pathologizing. At lunch, I peeked in on my board (nestled cozily in my trunk). "We can do this," I whispered. A parking lot security guard (who has gifted me with at least 3 parking tickets in the last 4 months reading, "not in line with parking post." Are you kidding me?) glared at me suspiciously, "Don't worry about it," I snapped. Gawd.
On my way to 10 foot touque, I searched the array of PA FM stations (two stations, to be exact) for a kickass song to get me stoked. Ok, "Adia" by Sarah Mclachlan?? or Meatloaf's, "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad." Ah man. Sucky. Screw the radio. I began belting out "Eye of the Tiger" with feeling (Ev loves to hum the intro when he sees someone running - cracks me up).
This is for Real!
At 10 foot touque, I was greeted by some of my favoritest people in the whole world: Randy, Ev, MY MOM (that's right, folks, my mom came - with a new hair-do - it looked frickin' awesome (that one's for you, mom ;)) and of course Lisa from Shaw. Lisa mic'd me up (this is big league) and proceeded to interview me. It wasn't so bad. Randy surprised me with this sweet energy drink called...wait for it...STEAZE. Yep. It was Steazy. I took a gulp of that steaze and proceeded down the path. Boom. Landed my Tiger Claw. Just like that (Well...I'm lying. It took a few tries). My mom yelled, "That's my girl!" Randy nodded like it was no big deal - he was a believer. Ok...let's be honest - after actually reviewing the video footage, I could definitely see that my acid drop needs some work. Well, a lot of work. It was much more impressive in my mind. But, hey. I did just recently get the whole "acid drop" lingo straight. I landed it. It was legit. I landed a few more. My cheering section (Ev, Randy, and Mom) went wild (well, not "wild" but, you know, appeared mildly impressed). Some drunk lady on the Riverbank picked up my purse and threw it across the grass. For real - and it's a "Coach" (Gasp!). Damn. Where is my lawyer? As a grand finale, Randy and I did a tandem Tiger Claw. Ev missed it. He was on the phone. Boo, Evan. Lisa from Shaw got it. I hope. All-in-all - AWESOMENESS. I did it. Done.
As month 1 comes to a close, I feel: stoked, energized, fortunate, nostalgic, confident, loved, funny, supported, excited, hopeful, proud, steazy, and legitimately happy. Whoa. And who says I'm not a touchy-feely kinda gal.
Here's what I have learned:
1) Longboarding is gnarly! It's a sport. It requires balance, coordination, guts, and overall athleticism.
2) I can longboard. At the beginning, I sucked. Now...less suck, more steaze. I went for it. It scared me. I almost broke my ass and ruined my sister's volleyball career, but it was worth it. Ryan would have dug it. I will continue to longboard - I'm slightly addicted.
3) Although I am lacking evidence-based proof, I'm like 99% sure that at least a dozen new highways were constructed in my brain since September 1.
4) Writing is not only therapeutic, but fun. I laugh when I write. I laugh when other people laugh at what I write. I like laughing at myself and it's even more fun when people are laughing at me, with me. (got that?)
5) I still think about Ryan every day.
6) I met amazing people that I would have, otherwise, never have met. It was such a pleasure to ride with the kids from Team Touque. They are incredibly talented and hilarious.
And, last but not least, there's Randy. From day one, Randy was more than willing to help me accomplish my goal - he provided me with complimentary weekly lessons, a demo board for the month, 10 Foot Touque swag, and never-ending enthusiasm and positivity (as well as responses to every single lame text I sent his way). I couldn't ask for a better coach! Ev and I can't wait to kiteboard with him this winter! In addition, I also had the opportunity to get to know Randy as a person. Randy is unique - an individual, he's passionate about what he does, and he's full of life. Essentially, I happened upon another "Ryan" of this world. Lucky me.
