SassyBlonde

Following in the fine tradtion of my former posts about musicians, particularly flutists, today's RoundUp features flutists who can, and do, perform amazing feats on flutes of all sorts. Of course you've already seen flutist Greg Pattillo beatboxing, but seriously, check this guy out:



Now, Marco Granados kicks nine kinds of ass, but there are definitely some weird ones out there too. Some of the following are good, some are scary, and some are just funny:

• Trevor Wye rocks, even on a bicycle pump.
• Nose Flute National Anthem (turn this down if you don't want your dog singing along)
• Jose Valentino: Spanish Grease
• And last but not least, baby making music by Ron Burgundy

I so wish I could sleep right now. Two sleeping pills and still no dice. A little generally foggy, but still wide awake.

So here I sit, watching Heroes reruns on Sci-Fi, and hoping my husband didn't notice me get out of bed a few minutes ago. See, he had this horrible dream about me last night that was in part due to his worry about why my sleep schedule is so screwed up, and I wanted to try and go to bed around the same time he did to help ease his mind a little.

Dammit.

One sheep... two sheep... three sheep... fehhh.

UPDATE: How funny is it that I totally just remembered that the bed we have is, in fact a Serta mattress. Maybe we should sue those sheep for misrepresentation. Oy.

Well, I now have one more item to add to my list of things not to wear to the laundromat under any circumstances. This list now includes:

1. Yoga pants
2. Jogging shorts (the baggy nylon kind)
3. Tank tops
4. Cute tops
5. Cute pants
6. Cute skirts
7. Skirts that come up higher than my ankles
8. Shirts that have any sort of neckline below the collarbone

Why, you ask? Because every time I go to the laundromat I spend two hours fending off the most offensive sort of flirting from the opposite sex. Not just the "Hey baby, what's your number?" sort of flirting, but prolonged, all-during-the-wash-cycle one-sided conversations and deferrals and protests. Seriously. It's not so much what a girl wears there as whether or not she's alone, which draws the guys over from the pool tables in the waiting room like flies. The clothes are a huge red flag though. Look cute in any way and you'll get accosted, and no it makes no difference if you're wearing a ring. Last week when I told the blob-of-the-week I was married and to go away, his response was (honest to God, I swear) "Well you know, girl, it could be just between us..." to which I responded with a frown and a cold remark about exactly where he could go with that one.

And THIS. HAPPENS. EVERY. WEEK. So now I'm basically sick at the thought of having to go there every week, even though it's the only good laundromat around.

Well, today I had just had it with the whole process. In the interest of honesty I should tell you that I violated two of the above rules due to the fact that it was laundry day and I only had a pair of yoga pants and my low-cut yoga tank top to wear as I washed everything else, but when the first guy approached me and started making unbelievably rude comments in Spanish to his greasy buddies about what he'd like to do to my ass, I simply whirled around (who approaches an unfamiliar woman from behind making crude remarks, I ask you?), looked at him coldly, and asked with my arms crossed, "Does that ever work for you? Because from over here, you're rude now as well as being smelly and greasy in the first place, cabron. Shove off, because nobody here is interested in what you got." Speechless to me at least, he turned around and headed back over to his buddies at the pool table muttering about what a bitch I was, and at least he left me alone after that. (I think I managed to cover that my hands were shaking with nerves and rage after the fact, I hope so, at least.)

Marginally satisfying and unnerving all at once. I hate laundry day.

So I've been out of pocket this week, but for a very good reason. Last night I got to perform in the Kennedy Center's Terrace Theater and I've been in rehearsals all week. Fabulous!! The best part of this gig was that this concert was almost entirely flute... and that conductor that drove me nuts in the fall can bite me, because I was fabulous.

To celebrate I'm going shoe shopping tomorrow... maybe those fabulous Bibas will be on sale.

Dear Lord, save me from the sins of greed and avarice and shoe obsession. Lo, I have coveted these lovely Biba shoes for many moons. We rejoice for the blessing of the sale rack at Neiman Marcus Last Call, because the 75% discount sticker allows my house downpayment to be that much less traumatized. People, I love shoes, but I really REALLY want to buy a house. Soon.

Let's get one thing straight-- I may be a music teacher, but deep down I have a wild creeping aversion to having people in my house. Yeah, I know. It's kind of counter-productive, considering that they have to come to my house for lessons, but still. Most times I even have random people in my house on my day off, since Mr. Sassy usually teaches on days I don't. In fact, at this very moment a very fuzzy and smelly parent is gracing my couch watching Star Trek: Voyager and sort of drooling down his shirt.

Honestly, I realize that these people pay my bills, but for the last couple of years my single major goal in life has been to scrimp up enough money so that D and I can buy someplace where the kids and their parents have to come in the side (or back, or basement, or studio in the back, whatever) and never see our actual living space, or bother the cats, and to be blunt, so I can walk around in my underwear and sleep late on Saturday without worrying that when I come out of my room I'll run into some kid's dad in my skivvies because D forgot to tell me he had a make-up lesson. And also so I don't have to carry on inane conversations with the weird parents of these kids while I'm trying to write press copy or scrub the toilet. The Muse knows exactly who I'm talking about.

Oh Lord, save me from my own need for shoes. I really need a house.

So, I hope you all have been having a good week this past week... sorry I haven't been around to comment. My computer network had a full-scale Exorcist-style possession going on. There was pea soup everywhere.

Now that I've reconnected and replaced the offending parts, I'll be back and posting in a jiffy. And commenting. More soon, and shout-outs to Red, my newest reader!

It's amazing how volunteer jobs can snowball into full-time work if you're not careful. When I started working with this group, it was dribs and drabs here and there to help with print media and website maintenance, but it's grown into a full-time job managing their press and media relations. Not that I mind on most levels, but it's starting to feel a little constricting. Now I've actually had to postpone some vacation time to deal with some seriously flapping loose ends, and I'm wondering when this is going to pay off in terms of a little compensation, not to mention I feel like I'm one of the world's most boring people-- I spent half the night last night bitching to Red about this stuff.

Being a musician, as I've said before, is a study in compromises. When most of us get into this business, you hear things like "I could never stand to sit behind a desk." The reality to this statement is that as a musician, you are your own manager, accountant, secretary, and press agent, never mind daily things like keeping the house clean. You spend as much time at a desk as everyone else does in some fashion-- it's just that after that morning meeting you return to your office to practice instead of reworking last year's sales figures. I'll admit, I love the perks of being able to sleep until 10:30 like I did today and go shoe shopping when I want, but lately I've been spending more and more time staying up until 2 am plugging holes in the dam as well. I guess that's to be expected, since as any group grows its unseen workings become more complicated, but I just wish that maybe it could operate with a little more efficiency. Yeah, I know-- that's like asking a canary to deep-dive for fish.

At any rate, my vacation is coming to me today... there's homemade lemon ice cream in the freezer and I'll be making rum punch this afternoon per Jen's recommendation. And there's always wifi access from the hammock...

"I think that the labyrinth is an interesting metaphor for our lives as musicians-- you know, we're always being of drawn towards the center of it, because that's where the mystery is. You know, what is it, what is music? It's a journey." --Sting, from Great Performances: Sting: Songs of the Labyrinth

Is it any wonder I like this guy a little too much for my own good?

And the ratings are in...drumroll please...

Apparently there is some concern about my usage of the words "ass" and "sexy". Obviously, they didn't see these entries or it would have been an R rating all the way. Which is what I expected, since my husband can't read this at work because this entry got me banned for pornography by their content filters. Oy. Teehee.

Thanks to Solonor for the heads-up.


UPDATE: 07/01/2007
So apparently my rating has increased with the usages of the past couple of days:

That just cracks me the fuck up. Take that, censors. I'm all up in this R-Rated shit.

I just spent the better part of a day recovering from one of the more fabulous meals I've ever experienced. It was so worth it.

Last night D and I hung out out over at Chez Frankenberry, where we were treated to yummy artichokes (see... right over there ---> that gorgeous thing that my sorry-ass camera phone couldn't capture worth a damn) as well as great steaks, yummy rice pilaf, super bread (which was my total undoing) and I swear to God, the best strawberry pie I've ever put in my face (for the love, the crust alone was worth raptures... crispy, flaky... *drools*) Not to mention happy drinks to start with... mojitos for me and Mrs. F's happy drink, Malibu and pineapple juice for D.

Now, that being said, I completely and totally overdid it. Somewhere in the course of great conversation, copious dog petting (as I'm sure they're sick of hearing, Frankenberry's dog could give the Marchesa Casati's cheetahs a run for their money in the style category), and general merriment, I went completely off the chart, and unfortunately for my A1c and kidneys, I also had a clogged canula. My poor little pump just couldn't keep up. I woke up puffy and feeling like I had had my tongue dehydrated and my eyeballs squeezed, not to mention that my dreams last night made all the Sci-Fi Channel I watched today seem tame and comforting by comparison.*

I need to pause here for a moment to make the stringent point that in no way was any of that nastiness the fault of Sir Frankenberry and his lovely wife, which I'm sure they're smart enough to know. My numbers were normal when I left and before I went to bed, and there's no way to predict a clogged pump set. Just wanted to make that clear before I moved on, since I know he'll read this at some point.

So after a lot of soul searching and rumination this past week, this morning's water and insulin and lo-carb therapy was just the tipping point, and I'm going back on the diet wagon. Those size 8 Paper Denim and Cloth jeans are calling, and I can't say I'd be unhappy about having to buy a new dress for my concerto concert in September...

This was my breakfast today (at least that almond croissant in the front was). I loves me some summertime farmer's market, man. All righty-- back to cleaning and press-kitting.

I'd just like to share, and this is mostly for the benefit of The Muse, that I just heard on an old episode of Sanford & Son, the following:

"... and $19.95 for a pair of pointy-toed boots"
"Pop, what do you need with a pair of pointy-toed boots?"
"To kill all them roaches in the corner."

And there you have an example of the origin of the name, "roach-killers", a term which The Muse introduced me to in the aisles of DSW last year. Nice!

As The Muse said upon moving back to Birmingham, I'm now experiencing Deja Vulcan. Today I flew back home to visit everybody and do all the things I love to do and see when I'm in the South for a week, and had the pleasure of getting picked up at the airport by The Muse herself and being whisked off to Tuscaloosa for a little stroll down memory lane.

We drove directly to one of the favorite lunchtime haunts of my college days, the City Cafe, and it struck me as to exactly how much parts of the South function like time capsules. When you walk in the door at the City Cafe, you turn immediately to the left and look for a table in one of the two rooms. If there's no table immediately available, then you wait there in the doorway until some group gets up from one and sit down at the dirty table, whereupon one of the waitresses immediately shows up and cleans it and takes your drink and/or food order. Now, most places this would be odd, but if you take a look at the menu you'll start to understand why this is: you can get an enormous plate of food for under five dollars, including your sweet tea. Almost every time I've been there, there's been a line out the door and down the sidewalk, because this is Southern food at it's finest-- inexpensive, homemade, and served with a sweet, willing, and efficient attitude that a lot of people who aren't from here tend to miss in their "need for speed".

City Cafe is a great illustration of Southern culture in a nutshell. Sitting down at a dirty table is no big deal because it doesn't inconvenience you and you know your waitress will be around in under a minute to take care of you-- this is the sort of general faith in your fellow man that I took for granted growing up. It's part of the Southern attitude to assume the best of someone in front of you until you're presented with another option. This is not so much taught as simply absorbed from watching everyone around you as a kid, and this is not to say that it's a bone-deep assumption-- much of behavior in the South is about appearances, and this is no exception. You'd never want that other person to think of you as rude, because that's the kiss of death, so you're courteous and respectful, and try to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Not only that, but it's a generally accepted fact that you're not too good to sit down and wait for your table to be cleaned. You're just folks like everybody else there, whether you're a first-string football player or a a janitor. That's something I definitely don't miss about living in D.C. when I'm down here-- everybody in D.C. is the emotional equivalent of a fifteen-year-old boy trying to prove his importance and the size of his Johnson by sheer rudeness and inflated ego.Here? Sure, it's everywhere I guess, but at least the manners are a little better and the egos are a lot more manageable.


Once your table's clean and you're ready to order, your food is brought to you in good time-- as soon as it can be put together. One thing The Muse and I marveled at is the waitresses' ability to differentiate between sweet and unsweet tea on the tables: there's no markers, and they look the same, yet I've almost never had a waitress there get it wrong, no matter how many tables she's juggling and how many quick-changes those tables are making. I think a lot of people who aren't from the Deep South mistake our casual manner for slowness, which is a mistake in a lot of cases. Most of the time it has a more zen-like reason: people down here know that it takes time to get things done and there's no use freaking out about the time it takes when you can't do anything about it. I think that attitude has a lot to do with what people see as Southern hospitality-- the general level of stress is just a lot lower because people don't sweat the small stuff.

When you're done with your meal, you don't sit around socializing, you get up and out and let somebody else sit down. It's the Golden Rule at play-- the people there did the same for you, and you want to do the same for everybody else. One crazy thing I noticed yesterday is that no matter how many people are waiting to sit, you never get that feeling of "restaurant rage" you get other places. There are no glares or frowns from waiting parties, they just socialize with their friends or people waiting around until it's their turn and wait good-naturedly for their table. Quite a different feel from DC restaurants where you have to wade through the miasma of stress to get to the hostess and claim your table while removing imaginary knives from your back brought on by glares from the other people waiting.

Anyway, fun was had by all and we left feeling completely stuffed and happy and promptly scurried over to the Krispy Kreme on MacFarland hoping for a Hot Now doughnut, which we were denied, so we got our otherwise fresh but cool confections and drove on to other venues for pictures and fun, which I'll share shortly. Wishing you all in DC tolerable temperatures, and I'll send some of this Southern hospitality your way until I can bring it home myself in a week.

Have you ever met a person who, you're certain from the moment you meet them, shapes the world as you know it? I don't mean like Bill Gates or Bono, "changing the world for the better". I mean someone who radiates such energy that you can almost see the world shifting around them in real time. Well, today I met one.

We went down to Morgan Creek Vineyards to pick some blueberries and taste their lovely (unfortunately only available in Alabama at the moment) muscadine and blueberry wines. We hopped out, bought our blueberry buckets, and picked until they were full. When we were done, we went in for the wine tasting and tour, and by the time we had tasted everything, my mom was deep in conversation with Ms. Margaret Roundtree, who had come down from South Carolina to prune the muscadines. She had the most beautiful Southern accent I've heard in a long time-- the clean and soft and unpretentious lilt of Old Carolina, and she had the most lively and engaging blue eyes I think I've ever seen. She was easily my grandparents; age, but while we were there I'm pretty sure she mowed the entire vineyard in her work shorts and boots. Spry doesn't even begin to describe her.

Ms. Roundtree is the aunt of the winery owners, who have had a really tough year this year: a death in the family and other health problems, and she's hung around to help out until things settle down a little. She told us the story of the death of her niece this spring from cancer, through which radiated her unshakable faith and wonder at life. Her obvious love for her family was a tangible thing, as was her powerful life force, and I left feeling a sense of awe at the magnitude of the soul I'd just encountered.

In the few minutes of conversation with this wonderful lady, I experienced a hopefulness and enthusiasm I haven't felt for a long time. The Christian tradition calls them angels in disguise, Diane Duane calls them the Powers That Be in human form, and whatever she was she was a person that I can honestly say I hope to meet again and will never forget.

It's amazing what the human body and mind can and will endure as we age. This afternoon, I finally made it up to see my grandparents, who have both had a rough time with their health lately. My grandparents are some of my favorite people in the world, and I don't get to see them as much as I'd like to, even when I come down for a visit here. This one was well-timed, since they both just got out of the hospital and are getting back up to speed, so mom and I picked the vegetables, made dinner, and cleaned the kitchen and put away groceries. And picked the garden again.

One of the things that amazes me most about my grandfather is his vast knowledge about all things garden. His large garden plot and the yard around his house still competes in spectacular sights with the most amazing of the botanical gardens I've visited, even though he's now 81 years old. The plants in his yard grow twice as big as everyone else's through time, patience, and intelligent work. I cherish the plants he gives me more than the items in my jewelry box, and guard them even more jealously.

He just had a scary brush with pneumonia and came home from the hospital yesterday after a week of ICU and hospital stay, so today we sat on the porch as he thinned the pots of petunias, and it hit me once again that his vast store of botanical knowledge will soon disappear with him. There is nothing to be done but pay attention and listen as he tells me about nematodes and peach trees and corn plants and crop rotation and rudbeckia. I want to be like a sponge, I want to be like a funnel: give me the knowledge, Granddaddy, I'll keep it for you. But time marches on and the approach of that day keeps ringing for me like a bell, so I'll have to use what little time I have here to learn. More, and more cheerful words, later.

I picked about 10 pounds of okra this morning, I swear to you.

We got up this morning and picked the rest of the veggies in my grandparents' garden that were ready to go: corn, tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, zucchini, squash, beans. I swear, there's nothing like going out to pick vegetables in the sunshine, even okra. Let me give you guys an education in okra-picking: okra is the seed pod of a tall plant with hairy, fuzz all over it. This fuzz will give you a rash on any skin it touches, so to pick okra you have to wear long sleeves and gloves, and the stems are so hard that you have to cut them with a really sharp knife. So I was out in the 95-degree sun in long sleeves and gloves searching under those big hairy leaves for the pods and clipping them into my picking smock for a good 45 minutes. Whew. Sweaty work.

After we'd picked and sorted and eaten lunch, we headed home to Birmingham and I picked up my rental car: a bona fide road trip chariot. They goofed up my rental and I ended up with a white 2007 Crown Vic, tricked out to the nines. Everything on thing this is automatic-- seats, mirrors, headlights, you name it. I'll be honest-- I really like this car. Not only is it like riding on a soft leather couch, but everyone gets out of my way when they see me coming because they think I'm a cop. Nice.

Back home tomorrow after 14 hours on the road. Comin' for to carry me home...

Hey y'all, I hope you've been having a great week this past week-- sorry it's been so sparse around here. I've been visiting the 'rents in Alabama since Monday, and since my internet access has been limited, I have a whole huge backlog of entries that will be showing up tonight or most likely tomorrow.

I'm not home yet, but I'm sitting in the world's greatest little out of the way coffee shop- Mill Mountain Coffee- off exit 150 on US 81 in Virginia. I stop here every time I drive to and from the 'Ham, and get their famous Redeye to ease the drive.

I'll be home tonight and hopefully will have some of those fabulous entries from this past week posted tomorrow, so tune in again post haste!

P.S. A Redeye is basically a tall cup of joe with a couple of expresso shots added. I'm vibrating like a violin string right now!!