Tyler was interviewed today on Louie Free's radio show on WGFT AM and streamed on vindy.com. Through the magic of the Internet, I was able to listen. (I will post the interview when it is made available on Louie's archives.)
The topic was an aspect of the development and redevelopment of Youngstown, most specifically the plan to destroy tree-studded medians on Federal Street to put in diagonal parking on the street. (How 1950s is that?!) He handled himself beautifully, speaking on his feet, answering questions quickly and easily. The petition to which he refers is here, if you wish to read it and add your signature.
Louie not only asked him about the primary issue, but also asked him about himself. One of the things Tyler mentioned was that his parents had divorced when he was five. Louie said how tough that must have been, going back and forth between mother and father. Tyler said yes, but that he was able to see different ways to live.
My heart swelled. I left that marriage both to save my own life, but because I felt — in my circumstances at that time — that I was acting in the best interest of TJ and Tyler. What I always tried to show them was that there were other ways to live, other than their father's hyper-religious lifestyle.
Tyler's statement today affirmed that, at age 32, he has been able to see what I was trying to show him. TJ has previously made similar statements to me.
Today I'm feeling that one of my primary goals in life has been achieved.
Friday, August 03, 2007
My Bad Attitude
Ever since I returned to work on Tuesday from my last trip to Youngstown, I have had a horrible attitude toward work.
The fact that started this downward spiral is my inability to telecommute, thanks to a manager in Raleigh who values control more than he values the good of the enterprise. Because of that, I had to take Monday as leave without pay and am behind in my work, dancing as fast as I can every day this week to catch up on the tasks that lead to the next set of product announcements.
Then I walk to the ladies' room and sit down in a stall for a moment's peace and quiet, and I'm faced with a sign (8½ by 11 in a sheet protector) on the back of the stall door:
What the fuck?! (Excuse me if my language offends you.) How old are we? I've been potty-trained since I was less than a year old (my mother brags), and my mama taught me how to flush! And really, if you're the type to skip flushing, the fanciest sign and most clever prose in the world is not going to cause you to flush.
(This reminds me of husband #3, out in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, who used to complain that family members didn't turn out the light when they left the basement. So he printed a small sign that he affixed to the light switch reminding people to turn out the light. Excuse me. If I don't remember to turn out the light, a sign on the light switch is not going to change that!)
I got ticked off a couple of weeks ago and stole the sign off my favorite stall. I tucked it inside my sweater to get it back to the office, then put it in my purse and threw it away when I got home. A few days later it had been replaced. Then I wrote on a sticky note "I find this sign demeaning and insulting" and stuck it on the sign. The next time I went into the bathroom, my sticky note was missing. But when I exited the bathroom, I noticed someone had stuck it on another sign — the one on the door that says "Please wash before exiting rest room".
Geez! Do I work with imbeciles?
I took my virtual headache home three hours early yesterday and immediately went into my sewing studio to work on a nightgown for Riah. Frank called at 4:30 and came to get me with the top down, taking me to dinner at Vivace and then for an hour of sitting in his garden watching the Tucson sunset. A truer friend has never been born. He helped my attitude enormously, at least for yesterday.
I'm moving quickly to the point of wanting to figure out my finances so I can quit work and move to Youngstown and sew and learn and teach others about arty things.
Oh, and I gave notice on my gig at Raz. The final straw was when the "agent" (I use the term very loosely) told me "the doctor" (this is what she calls the owner, a podiatrist whose middle-eastern last name she's too lazy or too stupid to learn to pronounce) said I wasn't bringing enough people with me to Raz each week. This is not cocktail-piano-as-Tupperware-party! Enough! Basta! Treat me with the respect to which I'm due!
The fact that started this downward spiral is my inability to telecommute, thanks to a manager in Raleigh who values control more than he values the good of the enterprise. Because of that, I had to take Monday as leave without pay and am behind in my work, dancing as fast as I can every day this week to catch up on the tasks that lead to the next set of product announcements.
Then I walk to the ladies' room and sit down in a stall for a moment's peace and quiet, and I'm faced with a sign (8½ by 11 in a sheet protector) on the back of the stall door:
Just a brief line to
gently remind you.
Be nice, flush twice.
(Maybe thrice)
And always look behind you.
What the fuck?! (Excuse me if my language offends you.) How old are we? I've been potty-trained since I was less than a year old (my mother brags), and my mama taught me how to flush! And really, if you're the type to skip flushing, the fanciest sign and most clever prose in the world is not going to cause you to flush.
(This reminds me of husband #3, out in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, who used to complain that family members didn't turn out the light when they left the basement. So he printed a small sign that he affixed to the light switch reminding people to turn out the light. Excuse me. If I don't remember to turn out the light, a sign on the light switch is not going to change that!)
I got ticked off a couple of weeks ago and stole the sign off my favorite stall. I tucked it inside my sweater to get it back to the office, then put it in my purse and threw it away when I got home. A few days later it had been replaced. Then I wrote on a sticky note "I find this sign demeaning and insulting" and stuck it on the sign. The next time I went into the bathroom, my sticky note was missing. But when I exited the bathroom, I noticed someone had stuck it on another sign — the one on the door that says "Please wash before exiting rest room".
Geez! Do I work with imbeciles?
I took my virtual headache home three hours early yesterday and immediately went into my sewing studio to work on a nightgown for Riah. Frank called at 4:30 and came to get me with the top down, taking me to dinner at Vivace and then for an hour of sitting in his garden watching the Tucson sunset. A truer friend has never been born. He helped my attitude enormously, at least for yesterday.
I'm moving quickly to the point of wanting to figure out my finances so I can quit work and move to Youngstown and sew and learn and teach others about arty things.
Oh, and I gave notice on my gig at Raz. The final straw was when the "agent" (I use the term very loosely) told me "the doctor" (this is what she calls the owner, a podiatrist whose middle-eastern last name she's too lazy or too stupid to learn to pronounce) said I wasn't bringing enough people with me to Raz each week. This is not cocktail-piano-as-Tupperware-party! Enough! Basta! Treat me with the respect to which I'm due!
Dreams of Dinosaur-Addicted Babes
Last Friday I took Riah and Boston to the Pittsburgh Zoo. As we left the outdoor elephant yard, Boston said, "I love that elephant. When he grows up he's going to be a woolly mammoth. I've always wanted to see a woolly mammoth."
Oh, for a button on my brain's hard drive to be able to record every cute thing these babies say.
This is Boston's elephant that will grow up to be a woolly mammoth. I don't know how he got that big tree limb lodged under his arm, but that's a topic for a whole 'nother blog.
Boston, Ridley and Grandma at the Pittsburgh Zoo
Boston insisted on photographing this bug who was "struggling in the water", to quote the photographer.
Oh, for a button on my brain's hard drive to be able to record every cute thing these babies say.
This is Boston's elephant that will grow up to be a woolly mammoth. I don't know how he got that big tree limb lodged under his arm, but that's a topic for a whole 'nother blog.
Boston, Ridley and Grandma at the Pittsburgh Zoo
Boston insisted on photographing this bug who was "struggling in the water", to quote the photographer.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
My Musical Family
Last Wednesday, Tyler and I were IMing in preparation for my trip to Youngstown on Thursday. He told me he had an audition on Saturday afternoon and asked if I would mind rehearsing with him to prepare for it. Mind?! I felt honored that he would ask! I told him if he had the option of bringing his own accompanist, I would be happy to accompany his audition.
Saturday morning he and I, accompanied by Boston who wanted to observe the action, climbed the stairs to his attic office, where he keeps a Kurzweil keyboard. Tyler pulled out the score to "Beauty and the Beast" and opened it to Gaston's solo, "Me!".
We started rehearsing and Boston wanted to get into the act. So I taught him how to turn pages, how to listen for me to say "Now" or "Okay" or "Turn". The last two beats of the piece are triplet eighth notes followed by a quarter note — all on F, in triple octaves. Boston heard that a couple times, then went down to the bottom of the keyboard and played the lowest F right along with me - rhythmically perfect. I taught him how to look for the fermatas and the three lines of text that indicated we were on the last page. When he saw that, he would know he didn't have any more pages to turn and he could move to the bottom of the keyboard to play the last two beats with me.
Each time he played the notes, usually with accurate rhythm and note, he ended with a flourish and a shout of "I did it just like you." As he got more and more comfortable with the music, he would sing along with his daddy. Tyler and I were starting to think he could go to the audition with us.
Boston had been begging me for money all weekend to buy a transformer. I told him if he did this job well, including not singing along, not talking, and not shouting in triumph at the end, I would pay him $5. He agreed, willingly.
The audition was challenging because of the space and setup of the keyboard, chair and music stand. Nevertheless, we mastered the awkward situation. (Thank God I automatically memorize things after three repetitions — the music was too far away for me to read!) Boston turned all the pages perfectly, then at the appropriate time moved to the end of the keyboard, watched me, and played his four notes exactly right. He looked at me and grinned and said nothing. And Maureen and Todd, running the audition, applauded him.
Maureen turned to Tyler and said, "Tyler, I knew you were a musician, but I didn't know you were a singer." He and I laughed about that all night long.
And in a private conversation with Maureen afterwards, Boston confided that he was being paid for his work. Maureen told him he should ask Grandma for an extra dollar on account of the applause.
Of course Grandma agreed. It was a memorable experience.
Before I left on Sunday, Tyler set up the video camera and we taped a repeat performance. I can't wait to see that video!
Saturday morning he and I, accompanied by Boston who wanted to observe the action, climbed the stairs to his attic office, where he keeps a Kurzweil keyboard. Tyler pulled out the score to "Beauty and the Beast" and opened it to Gaston's solo, "Me!".
We started rehearsing and Boston wanted to get into the act. So I taught him how to turn pages, how to listen for me to say "Now" or "Okay" or "Turn". The last two beats of the piece are triplet eighth notes followed by a quarter note — all on F, in triple octaves. Boston heard that a couple times, then went down to the bottom of the keyboard and played the lowest F right along with me - rhythmically perfect. I taught him how to look for the fermatas and the three lines of text that indicated we were on the last page. When he saw that, he would know he didn't have any more pages to turn and he could move to the bottom of the keyboard to play the last two beats with me.
Each time he played the notes, usually with accurate rhythm and note, he ended with a flourish and a shout of "I did it just like you." As he got more and more comfortable with the music, he would sing along with his daddy. Tyler and I were starting to think he could go to the audition with us.
Boston had been begging me for money all weekend to buy a transformer. I told him if he did this job well, including not singing along, not talking, and not shouting in triumph at the end, I would pay him $5. He agreed, willingly.
The audition was challenging because of the space and setup of the keyboard, chair and music stand. Nevertheless, we mastered the awkward situation. (Thank God I automatically memorize things after three repetitions — the music was too far away for me to read!) Boston turned all the pages perfectly, then at the appropriate time moved to the end of the keyboard, watched me, and played his four notes exactly right. He looked at me and grinned and said nothing. And Maureen and Todd, running the audition, applauded him.
Maureen turned to Tyler and said, "Tyler, I knew you were a musician, but I didn't know you were a singer." He and I laughed about that all night long.
And in a private conversation with Maureen afterwards, Boston confided that he was being paid for his work. Maureen told him he should ask Grandma for an extra dollar on account of the applause.
Of course Grandma agreed. It was a memorable experience.
Before I left on Sunday, Tyler set up the video camera and we taped a repeat performance. I can't wait to see that video!
Company Loves Misery
I was talking to the Traveler this morning about the state of all we over-50 singles in Tucson who look and look and just can't find that Certain Someone with whom to live out the rest of our lives.
I told him Frank and I had been talking about all of us moving into Frank's darling old condominium complex in the Foothills. Surrounded by un-emotionally-involved male and female friends, one could always find a companion for dinner or a movie or whatever.
The Traveler responded, "Company loves misery -- err, misery loves company."
I think he got it right the first time!
I told him Frank and I had been talking about all of us moving into Frank's darling old condominium complex in the Foothills. Surrounded by un-emotionally-involved male and female friends, one could always find a companion for dinner or a movie or whatever.
The Traveler responded, "Company loves misery -- err, misery loves company."
I think he got it right the first time!
Backing Up Lombard Street
Why can't I just get in my lifecar and drive? Why are there so many twists and turns, seemingly never a straight, flat stretch of road? And where is the off-ramp? As I was looking for analogies last night after another dissatisfying day, all I could think of was Lombard Street in San Francisco. But Lombard Street is relatively short and the nerve-wracking nature of driving there is over quickly. My personal Lombard Street seems to be never-ending.
I'm having a hard time getting over the fact that I had to take leave without pay on Monday for my forced day of relaxation in Dallas. If Ken weren't such a control freak manager, I could have worked remotely from my hotel and then TJ's living room. Instead, my paycheck next week will be thinner and I'm really scrambling this week to catch up three days of missed work rather than two.
That's the work-side of my trauma.
Then the Professor made a statement on Tuesday that threw me into a tailspin. It all began innocently enough, with my probing for his attitude about Frank coming into my house and taking care of Rudi while I'm gone. The Professor stated, "You're entitled to have all the friends and lovers you want." Darn it, I don't want a ton o' lovers. I want one. And I want one who doesn't want me to have any others but him. I want to matter. I want some man to want me all for himself, to recognize the wonder of the amount of love I have to give and what an exquisite relationship we could have together.
I mentioned something about the Professor to Tyler and Jaci. Jaci — so good at cutting right to the core issue of a matter — asked, "Are you and the Professor dating?" I paused for a very long time before replying, "I don't know."
So that's the dating side of my trauma.
And then for a final blow, a sharp knife-blade inserted into the heart of yesterday's depression, I noticed yet another Tucson driver on the interstate had thrown yet another stone at my windshield and now I must have my windshield replaced. Yes, I know insurance will pay for it. Yes, I know they'll come right to your office to replace it. But I have to spend time on the phone making the arrangements with USAA. And when it's all over, I have to find the time to go stand in line at Davis-Monthan to get a new base pass for my windshield.
It's always something. I would like for it to be nothing for a while. I'd like this blog to be a Seinfeld episode for a while — "it's all about nothing."
Or for Glinda to hover over me with her wand and just wave it to pull everything back into order. Whatever "order" is.
I'm having a hard time getting over the fact that I had to take leave without pay on Monday for my forced day of relaxation in Dallas. If Ken weren't such a control freak manager, I could have worked remotely from my hotel and then TJ's living room. Instead, my paycheck next week will be thinner and I'm really scrambling this week to catch up three days of missed work rather than two.
That's the work-side of my trauma.
Then the Professor made a statement on Tuesday that threw me into a tailspin. It all began innocently enough, with my probing for his attitude about Frank coming into my house and taking care of Rudi while I'm gone. The Professor stated, "You're entitled to have all the friends and lovers you want." Darn it, I don't want a ton o' lovers. I want one. And I want one who doesn't want me to have any others but him. I want to matter. I want some man to want me all for himself, to recognize the wonder of the amount of love I have to give and what an exquisite relationship we could have together.
I mentioned something about the Professor to Tyler and Jaci. Jaci — so good at cutting right to the core issue of a matter — asked, "Are you and the Professor dating?" I paused for a very long time before replying, "I don't know."
So that's the dating side of my trauma.
And then for a final blow, a sharp knife-blade inserted into the heart of yesterday's depression, I noticed yet another Tucson driver on the interstate had thrown yet another stone at my windshield and now I must have my windshield replaced. Yes, I know insurance will pay for it. Yes, I know they'll come right to your office to replace it. But I have to spend time on the phone making the arrangements with USAA. And when it's all over, I have to find the time to go stand in line at Davis-Monthan to get a new base pass for my windshield.
It's always something. I would like for it to be nothing for a while. I'd like this blog to be a Seinfeld episode for a while — "it's all about nothing."
Or for Glinda to hover over me with her wand and just wave it to pull everything back into order. Whatever "order" is.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
New tools I'll need
This is the Youngstown house I'm currently interested in, located at 1818 Fifth Avenue. One look at the birds-eye view of that yard and sidewalk tells me I'll need both a riding mower and a snow blower!
It's currently being offered at $60,900. Reasonably priced, yes? Well, there's the small issue of a couple of floor-to-ceiling windows having been broken out and all the copper pipes and appliances in the house having been stolen.
Did I mention that a homeowner trying to sell a lovely old home in Youngstown will not place a For Sale sign in front of the house to prevent such vandalism?
It's currently being offered at $60,900. Reasonably priced, yes? Well, there's the small issue of a couple of floor-to-ceiling windows having been broken out and all the copper pipes and appliances in the house having been stolen.
Did I mention that a homeowner trying to sell a lovely old home in Youngstown will not place a For Sale sign in front of the house to prevent such vandalism?
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