Alphabet Soup

It struck me this morning just how many words there are in the English language that are taboo. We can THINK them all we want. It's just not very dignified to actually SAY them. Remember the fervor that was created by George Carlin with his list of Seven Dirty Words That You Can't Say On Television???? I remember laughing my hind end off when I first heard his skit. HA!!!! YOU thought I was going to write ass, didn't you? Even though this particular word was not on George's hit list, it was years before we heard it used regularly over the airwaves.

Quite a few of these words have morphed into acceptability over the years. Fart is such a word, a real no-no to be said OR heard in my day. When I was little, it was the utterance of this word that honestly and truly caused my mother to shove a bar of Lux into my mouth. I also recall a student, Gary, who was in my sixth grade class. He always had to sit in the front row so that he could be within arm's reach of the teacher. Gary was a living legend because he could burp AND pass gas on command. Mr. Gibson would be writing on the chalkboard yet ANOTHER sentence that we were to supposed to diagram, his back turned to us. Gary would glance over his shoulder, wink at us with a grin on his face, and the next thing you knew, PHFFFFFFFFFFT!!!! The class would erupt in laughter, Mr. Gibson's arm would shoot out for Gary's shoulder like some robotic device, and off to the principal's office they would trudge. While they were gone on their little visit, a classmate would get out of his seat to open the window.

I noticed in last week's Dear Abby column that a writer could not bring herself to actually write the word fart; she chose the word "fluffie". I had NEVER heard this particular substitution before, so off to Googleland I went. Oh my. Did you know that a fluffie can be 1)a girl in her 20's, living with her parents, no kids and in a loser job; 2)a pair of flip flops; or 3)an Australian beach thong. I can now cross off "Learn a new vocabulary word" from my to-do list.

We come up with all sorts of ways to say words without actually having to say them. One very popular way is with alphabet letters. You can get away with lots by using them. Examples might be T&A, GD, or son of a B. The mother of them all is the immortal "F" word. YIKES!!!! But there is no doubt in anyone's mind which f word out of literally thousands is represented by this solitary letter. Another one that I remember was overhearing my Aunt Dorothy whispering to Aunt Carol that one of her neighbor's daughters was PG. SHE figured out the F word REALLY good, didn't she?????

In our house, I try hard not to use any of these words or acronyms. But I will admit that my husband and I do say one letter on a frequent basis in code. We're not allowed to say the actual word anymore because it's politically incorrect. You see, we have Venus the cat. Don't let this cute little white hairball fool you. She's H-E-double hockey sticks on wheels (See how easily the alpha code works???). We know in our hearts that something is not quite right with Venus, and if she were human, she would be mentally challenged. Yes, Venus is R.

For the past seven years, we have dealt with our little R kittie, as we affectionately call her. I really don't mean any disrespect or to be offensive to any reader with this term; and if you are offended, I apologize upfront, it's not meant to be hurtful. But if you knew Venus, mentally challenged simply just doesn't begin to cut the mustard. Take Lily, who is a litter mate of Venus. Lily sleeps most of the time, purrs on your lap occasionally, snorts catnip upon occasion, and ignores you whenever the mood strikes. But VENUS is the reason why I have to sleep with earplugs in my ears, otherwise I wouldn't get ANY sleep. She practices her gravity skills from the time we go to bed until about 5 A.M.. She will knock any item left on the bathroom counter onto the floor. Combs, toothbrushes, drinking glasses, the basket containing the extra roll of toilet paper. The actual item makes no difference to Venus. I am not making this one up: this morning, I fished my soap dispenser out of the bathroom trash can. TRUE! A couple months ago, I wrote about weaving a basket. Yup, it was on the floor this morning in the kitchen, along with a wisk and a pepper shaker. Venus is the reason why the Faberge egg that I inherited from Aunt Carol died a slow and painful death from multiple contusions. That was one bad ass Humpty Dumpty Day. She's the reason why my coffee canister is a testament to superglue. BAM BAM BAM, all night long. She's the reason why anything that I have of value is in a cardboard box in the attic. Plastic and wicker, if you please.

For being an R kittie, Venus accels in science. Constantly working on the notions of Sir Newton, the wonderful world of reflectivity also allows Venus to test her Bam Theory. BAM- she hurls herself into the wall because a car has reflected its headlights into the livingroom. My husband likes to taunt her with one of those laser pens. For an hour solid, she will chase that little red dot in circles or up and down the hallway. She'll skid across the kitchen floor, BAM! Into the kitchen door she sails. If he shines the laser on the wall, she will run right into it. If I get a pan lid out of the cupboard and the sun hits it just right, I'll hear this cackling. There is Venus, chattering away at the reflection on the ceiling with this blank look on her face.

Venus also likes to open things. My husband had to devise metal bars to hook our louvre door handles together that lead to the washer and dryer because Venus has discovered how to open the doors. If she throws herself enough times into our sliding doors that we have on all of our closets, they will jiggle bit by bit, allowing her enough space to stick her paw through until she can open these, too. A couple of years ago, hubby and I purchased this automatic cat feeder. What a GREAT invention, we both thought. You fill up the food dish compartment, put on the lid and then set the timer so that the lid pops open at the appointed time. Venus discovered that by placing both paws on the dial and then dancing in circles, she can unset the timer and make the lid pop open, anytime she wants. As I watch her do this, I scratch my head in disbelief, wondering how she ever figured this out.

Venus's gifts aren't just science related, they also span the musical world. When I sit at my piano and let my finger hit ONE key, she comes running. Up she jumps and runs up and down the keyboard. No wonder I stink at piano, I never get to practice. Have I mentioned that Venus is deaf? She must feel the vibrations from the music, and she obviously likes that. Perhaps her deafness is also why she has no fear at all, because she's never heard me scream at her, or has never heard the BAM of something breaking on the floor. It's just her and her little mind in her little world as she gleefully chases her tail or curls up on my lap every evening at exactly 8:30 on the dot. She enjoys chasing the cursor on the computer monitor, and she likes watching television until the heat from the set lulls her into a deep sleep. That's her, pictured above, fast asleep after she caught up on her current events from the evening newscast. You can frequently hear me say, "She is sooooooooo cute, I just can't stand it." And I mean it. She's our little R kittie, and I don't mean Republican.

Identity Crisis: Goo Goo Goo Joob

Okay, so I just retired this past July. After spending thirty four years of my life being a band director, I must say that the hardest part so far over the past few months has been trying to find my new persona. I would venture to say that most retirees go through this phase. I think it all boils down to this question: Who am I?????

My identity used to be easy: School Band Director. This is all I ever aspired to be; I really can't recall ever wanting to be anything else. Well, ok.... I do recall having this "thing" for my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Blake. I dreamed every night that we would ride off into the sunset on a white horse and we would live our lives happily together on a secluded desert island. Yes, there was that. Years later, my mother told me that Mr. Blake requested a parent conference with her because he was concerned about me. He should have known that this was the simple crush of an immature fourth grader.

After being scorned by Mr. Blake, I set my eyes elsewhere. No longer a child, I discovered that in just one summer's time, I had morphed into this totally mature fifth grade woman, capable of totally mature feelings. No siree, Bob, no crushes here. We were talking LOVE. It was plain to see that I was destined to be Mrs. Paul McCartney.

The way I saw it, I was a picture of sheer beauty: white Buster Brown ankle socks, penny loafers, complete with a shiny penny inserted into each of those little leather slots. My blouse with the Peter Pan collar was securely buttoned all the way up to the top. These were all purchased in the Chubbette section of our local department store. My mother had just given me another Toni Permanent. God, I hated those things. The strong chemical smells would permeate through the entire house. While my hair was being rolled into snug little curly-Qs, I would envision mass explosions each time Ma lit yet another cigarette. She coiled my hair so tight, the U.S. Olympic Diving Team could have used my head as its springboard. But make no mistake, I was a LOOKER.

By day, I would trip down the hallways of my school, clutching my Beatles notebook which contained my Beatles pencil case which contained my official Beatles Fan Club membership card. Surely, Paul had to know all that I did, just for him. Forever and always, and I had the membership card to prove it. Why, it was ALMOST as good as a marriage license. I knew every lyric to every Beatles song on that first album, and I knew that Paul sang his songs to me. My girlfriends and I would sit at the cafeteria tables at lunchtime, and over peanut butter sandwiches, we would discuss the latest Beatle news. All conversation, of course, had to be spoken with a British accent. At night, I would remove my training bra, the huge balls of wadded-up Kleenex falling to the floor. I would bend down, pick up the tissue along with the crumbled picture of Paul that I carried close to my heart (along with other budding anatomical parts) and I would whisper his name. I just KNEW that Paul was going to ask me to marry him, any day now. Sigh. Maybe if I played a musical instrument, he would see that my talent and his were destined to be together. Little did I know that this would lead me to my identity for decades to come.

I also developed a crush on my middle school band director. Wait a minute. Before we go any further, I would like it to be said that...."Crushes are a normal, essential and healthy part of growing up, particularly throughout the adolescent years"- Psychology For The Educator. Okay, so I just made up this quote and the book title. So sue me. But I don't want any of you getting the wrong idea or impression of me. Normal and healthy, that's what I was. Anyway, my band director was wonderful, everything that a kid could want in a band director. He was funny; he could play just about all of the instruments well. He knew his stuff, was young and besides that, he had blond hair and blue eyes. Above all, he was the most caring teacher that I would ever have. Ever. I recall that when I was there in his band room, I was happy. I felt a part of something special, and we all worked so very hard for him. I knew in fifth grade when I picked up the trumpet that I liked it; but it was in middle school that I learned what love was really all about. For me, it was all about the music. One day, I got out my horn and my teacher and I played through From The Shores of the Mighty Pacific. I didn't know that this would be our one and only time playing this piece of music together. All I knew was that he had agreed to be my piano accompanist for the upcoming NYSSMA festival. He told me how wonderful it sounded, and I believed him. That's how good of a teacher he was.

The next day, I heard while sitting in my eighth grade homeroom that at age 32, my wonderful music teacher had died of a massive heart attack during the previous night. I totally broke down and had to leave school. My mother went to the calling hours with me, which was a first for me. I had never been allowed to attend this type of an occasion before this. As I looked at the casket, it was then and there that I vowed that I would be a music teacher.

So here I am, back to the question, "Who am I?". I think I need to spend more time trying new things on for size- going to the community of the gym, attending drawing classes, playing bridge with the girls. After all, that's how I discovered music, quite by accident. The new me is out there somewhere, maybe in the Bahamas. Would you believe last night I wove a muffin basket????? Unbelieveable. Me, a basket weaver. What's happening to me? It's all so confusing. Am I the eggman or the walrus? Goo goo goo joob.

2009: A Clean Slate For Paul.

Well, it's finally here. 2009. According to Obama, a year of change is promised to all. Last night, at the stroke of midnight, Tinkerbell came and anointed me with her magic wand. Forgotten are the mistakes and failures of the past. Gone. History. That clean slate glistens just as white and clean as the foot of snow that fell here yesterday on the prairie.

When I taught school, I used to give an annual fireside chat about fresh starts to my band on the first day of school. This was my time to find those special words that would motivate and inspire my students to musical heights never yet achieved.

Wearing my best teacher smile, I searched the back row until I found him. I said, "Hey, Paul, I found this....Is this YOUR drumstick?" How's THAT for eloquence? I passed back to him remnants of a crooked, splintered drumstick, vicariously held together by a silver band of duct tape.

"Boy, aren't you glad it's September? Look, I have a NEW pair of sticks!!" Paul waved them high in the air. "It's a brand new year," he replied.

And there you have it. The members of the band were laughing hysterically, except for my reserved little flute players in the front row, who managed to do their best Mona Lisa impressions. The band was remembering how during the prior school year, Paul had taken it upon himself to conduct a science experiment: If great centrifugal force is applied, how far, exactly, can a drumstick travel if rammed inside the bell of a trumpet? The answer is "pretty darn far." The bonus question: "Can a drumstick indeed get seriously stuck inside of a trumpet?" Please call on me, teacher, 'cause I know the correct answer to this one.

Yes, this actually happened. And of course, according to Murphy's Law, it happened two minutes before we were to take the stage to perform at the annual Senior Citizens Holiday Assembly. I had lined the kids all up backstage; I had removed the headband of fake reindeer antlers that Sean wore on his head. We were focused and ready. We were all set to razzle dazzle the community with our renditions of holiday favorites.

"Psssst, Paul REALLY needs you to look at something 'n fix it."

And there in the back stood Paul, with a giant smirk on his face.

Have you ever noticed that drummers ALWAYS have smirks on their faces? This is actually a test that all band directors perform when determining the proper instrument for each student to play. Science has proven that it's very difficult to blow air through any kind of mouthpiece or reed if there is a constant smirk frozen onto the lips of the performer. These kids immediately get selected to go to the outer stratosphere of the band. Call them Plutoniums. I call them Drummers. It is back there that they happily smirk their musical careers away by banging, crashing and booming their way into percussion stardom .

Paul stood there, clutching only one available stick in his hands. Do you have any idea how hard it is to drumroll or paradiddle with just one stick??? Just how the hell does one go "Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum" with just one drumstick? Paul pointed to Steve, my solo chair trumpeter, who also happened to be my official horse whinnier on the song "Sleigh Ride". And rammed down the bell of Steve's trumpet, I could see the protruding butt of Paul's drumstick. Steve was sweating bullets and looked like he was going to cry. Poor Steve. Definitely not drummer material.

To make a long story not quite so long, I decided to let Paul live, even though his drumstick wasn't quite as fortunate. Steve's trumpet had to go to the repairshop for a major transfusion.

We all need fresh starts. A time when bygones can indeed be bygones. A time to see things with a freshness and a spirit of hope. If you think about it, every day can offer those same promises. We always have the opportunity to right a wrong, to forgive and forget, to change something in ourselves that we don't like. It can occur on the first of January as well as on the first Tuesday after Labor Day. Happy New Year, Paul, wherever you are.