How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Spaz

A couple of days ago, I special ordered these pencils from Office Depot that were only available online. At this point, I hear you in your sing-song voice of judgment: ‘Why didn’t she go to a special art supply store for her special “fancy” pencils?’ Don’t judge me. And they aren’t fancy, but SPECIAL…have you ever WRITTEN with a Mirado Black Warrior pencil? And, more importantly, have you ever ERASED with one? Sigh. I digress. So, a couple of days ago I special ordered these pencils from Office Depot to be delivered to my home and, after at least one opportunity to sleep, promptly forgot about the whole affair.

Flash forward: I came home last night to find someone had accidentally dropped their less than clean looking doormat. Accidentally dropped it, in fact, exactly in front of my door. Accidentally dropped it, in fact, exactly in front of my door in such a way as to neatly and mysteriously conceal some other as yet unseen object that BULGED from beneath it.

My first thought was that a neighbor was playing a trick on me. Actually, my FIRST thought was that some awful evil miscreant had left a bomb or anthrax under that doormat for little ol’ me. But I held that thought at bay until I called Non-Creepy-Neighbor* and ruled him out as a merry prankster.

Great, now I was left to face my first thought. I made N.C.N. stay on the phone while I did the ONLY logical thing at this point – poke the bulgey part of the mat with a big stick. After all, if fire or poison did happen to explode in my general direction, I would need at least a phone witness to describe to the authorities why I was horribly disfigured or brain damaged (but NOT dead – remember, I used a STICK).

I closed my eyes, held my breath, gave the mat a hearty whack, and was almost disappointed there was nothing more than a light crunch in response. But it was a MYSTERIOUS crunch! I whacked it again. Oh well. Thoroughly satisfied that whatever it was wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I ventured to peek under the mat. That proved rather tricky as I determined to touch the less than clean looking doormat with my actual hands as little as possible. Which only left the big stick and my shoe-covered feet.

After doing what must have looked like much dancing with this doormat, I had nerve enough to be shocked to find no more than a package underneath. I mean, it wasn’t a dead amphibian or anything. Who on earth would send me a package and then HIDE it so no one could even tell – oh.

Ok. Well, then. I released N.C.N. from his phone witness duty, which he gladly took leave of as he was at work.

Sigh. Live to spaz another day.

*BTW, ALL of my neighbors thus far are creepy as SIN except one: Non-Creepy-Neighbor (N.C.N.). Perhaps later I’ll devote another entry to my encounters with Creepy Jesus Neighbor (C.J.N.), Creepy Sling-Blade Neighbor (C.S.B.N.), Obtuse Neighbor-Lady (O.N.L.), and the most recent blip on the Sense-a-Creep MeterMagic™: Creepy Older African Dude (C.O.A.D.).

 

Vi-o-LET Summer

I teach all-ages private music instruction, and there is at least one session a day that  reminds me of a moment in Bill Cosby’s “Himself” stand-up performance when he recounts asking his son (after his son has claimed to not know why he has done something ridiculous) “Well, son, was your head with you at the time?!” Ladies and gentlemen, the future of America:

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Me: Can you play it softly this time?

Student: Okay. Can you turn the volume down?

Me: …No.

Student: Okay. Guess I’ll have to do that manually, then.

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Student: That one? That’s just a D.

Me: Yes, yes I know it’s a D, and YOU know it’s a D, but your hand doesn’t seem to know it’s a D.

Student: My hand? My hand needs to get it together!

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After utilizing an entire lesson to establish the fact that in 4/4 time an eighth note is played for half a beat, my student exclaims in exasperation, “Half a beat?! That’s not even a number!”

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Me: Where are you in the music?

Student: I wasn’t looking at the music.

Me: ?

Student: You said to just play…

Me: I said to not watch your hands!

Student: Oh.

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Me: That was great! This time try it with your left hand as well.

Student (in horror): I wasn’t playing with my left hand?!

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Me: How did your audition go?

Student: It went great! I got accepted, and I’m going to Hollywood.

Me: What?!

Student: I mean, I didn’t get accepted, and I’m going to El Paso.

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Student: One question – where do my hands go for this song?

Me:…where the notes indicate.

Student: Oh, ok, that’s simple.

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Student: I don’t know how to count this. Like, does it go, “One, two, three, four”?

Me: How many beats are  there?

Student: Three.

Me: So, then…should we count up to four?

Student: No.

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5 yr-old student: Did you know my cousins can play, too? They play the cello and the vi-o-LET.

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