Mischief Managed

I sing with a group based in Aiken called the Masterworks Chorale.  J is the conductor.  Our spring concert was last weekend and it went well.  We sang the Mozart Missa Brevis in F and The Rutter Gloria.  A collegue from USCA was singing the tenor solo in the Mozart.  He is only a few years older than J but for some reason he seems much older.  Maybe it is because he has older children and had an accomplished opera career in Germany before moving back here.  He offered to bring in some of his friends to do the other solos at a reduced rate. 

We ended up spending 5 nights in a row travelling to Aiken.  After our second dress rehearsal, we were invited over to the house of the Masterworks president to have dinner with all the soloists and the people who were graciously housing them during their stay.  The next night the four of them gave a recital and then we had our performance.

The tenor and his friends are basically amazing. The alto was the least amazing, I guess.  Or just the least glamorous.  She has a lovely voice but is no supermodel and lives in the mountains of North Carolina.  If you didn’t know that she has traveled the world singing opera to rave reviews, you would think she was the local cat lady/librarian or something.  I didn’t get to spend much time talking with her or her husband but they both seemed very down to earth and nice.

It turns out the bass lives a few minutes away from my parents’ house in Pittsburgh.  I was so excited to talk to him about the ‘Burgh, but he was kind of a debbie downer and said Pittsburgh is his least favorite of all the places he’s lived.  And he’s lived in Youngstown, Ohio, just to tell you how little he thinks of Pittsburgh.  He said the people weren’t friendly but after talking with him a while, I believe he may be part of the problem.  He is kind of a know-it-all grump.  But he was in a terrible accident which almost ended his career (not to mehtion his life) and has left him in pain so I probably would be grumpy and bitter in that situation, too.  He was supposed to be the next big thing but had it all taken away from him.  His voice is still superb and he is trying to make a comeback.  He sang ”Old Man River” at the recital and people’s jaws were hanging open.  He also went to the same college as I did.  He seemed to have had a better time there.  One of his good friends his first year of college was Ed O’Neill, of Married with Children and Modern Family fame.  Apparently Ed partied too much that year and dropped out so he doesn’t get listed as one of our famous alumni.   The grumpy bass also played special teams for a year with the Cleveland Browns and somehow seems to personally know a lot of the 80’s era Steelers (Bubby Brister, anyone?).  He is also a photographer and boxer.  The good part about talking with him is that you never have to come up with conversation - he will talk about himself the entire time. 

And the piece de resistance - the soprano.  She is apparently only 2 years younger than I am.  She will be making her debut at the Met this year, which as I’m sure you know, Tumblr, is a huge accomplishment.  At the dinner she ended up sitting with me for a good while on the porch swing and she asked a lot of questions about the baby.  Her birthday is two days before mine so we bonded as Cancers and over my little in-utero Cancer-to-be.  She was quite different from the bass in that she asked a lot of questions about my family and told me a lot about herself as well.  She seems like someone who could genuinely be my friend if we lived closer and we had similar senses of humor.  I also realize that she is at least part actress and probably has met so many people while travelling that she may have been playing the roll of “friend to unfortunate pregnant girl” and will forget me tomorrow.  And I didn’t go writing her phone number down when she said she hoped we would keep in touch after the final concert.  Sometimes “keep in touch” is just something you say to be polite.  But for me, a person who can be shy and not the best at making friends, her warmth and non-inflated ego were such a nice surprise.  And I will be more interested in the Metropolitan Opera Company this season than I have ever been before.    

I would just like to point out that the Lutheran Church near our house currently has a sign saying “Marriage Equals One Man and One Woman, End of Story.”  Then on the other side it says “All Are Welcome.”  I very much want to call the church office and point out the fact that by saying the one thing, the other cannot be true.  And to tell them I’m disappointed in them.  There has been so much going on right now with gay marriage and politics and with my beloved United Methodist Church and I don’t really want to get into it, but really, people.  Can’t we all get along and let everyone love who they want to love and give everyone equal rights?  Why is it so hard?

I have been doing pretty well with my pregnant emotions lately as far as not crying at silly things like commercials or running out of breakfast cereal.  But one morning I turned on the TV and ESPN came on since that was what J had been watching right before bed and there was a special about Joe Namath.  I think I vaguely remember that Broadway Joe is from Beaver Falls, PA, which is a suburb of Pittsburgh (but let’s be clear - I was born after he retired from football so I missed his heyday, for sure).  This was the very beginning of the show so they were showing footage of his high school days as a Beaver Falls Fighting Tiger.  I had to go to work but I recorded the show.

Last night, I finally got around to watching the rest of it.  What a fascinating career and life.  What a personality.  The Joe Namath they were interviewing is of course almost 70 years old now, but there is still so much joy and sparkle in his eyes when he tells his stories.  And his stories are not all pretty.  He was injured and in pain for most of his pro career, was wild with the ladies, and liked to party.  Yet he would play outstanding football after being out all night before the game and led his team to win a superbowl.  Some of his teammates talked about how they would have to back up in the huddle to get away from the fumes coming off Joe beacuse of his hangover.  They showed film of him putting a ridiculously large wad of snuff in his lower lip.  He owned a bar and quit football for a tiny bit when commissioner Rosell told him he had to give up his share in the bar after it was alleged that mafia people frequented the place and drugs were used there.    

I guess my point is that here is this man who, while doing really amazing things also lived his life in a way that is dangerous and can lead to tragedy.  He never apologized for his past nor did he make excuses for his behavior.  He just had all these experiences and for better or for worse they made him who he is.  I worry that sometimes I have unreal expectations of how people should behave (I’m thinking of you, Rutabaga).  There is obviously more than one path to success and and being a productive member of society and generally being a good person.  Sometimes those paths include drinking too much and making mistakes but ending up happy and smiling in the end.  A mistake I don’t want to make as a parent is not allowing Rutabaga to make his own mistakes.  This silly documentary really brought that home.  He will have his life and he has to live it.  I have to let my kids make their own decisions and mistakes so that they can learn from them and grow, even if I took a different path myself.  Easier said than done, I’m guessing.  Hopefully awareness is the first step to making it happen.

But what about the tears, you might ask.  Well.  At the end of the program, after all the debauchery and winning and losing and joy and pain, Joe comes back to Beaver Falls for some kind of tribute.  I have actually never been to Beaver Falls, but just seeing the western Pennsylvania hills and rivers and bridges started the tears flowing.  There is something about the place you grew up and I was reminded of how much I miss that place, and how Rutabaga will not have that shared sense of home.  And I think J would agree that he wishes his son could know what it is like to grow up in Kansas.  Maybe it is for the best that we won’t have to choose one or the other for him - he will have his own experience entirely.  But I do hope that we can each teach him about the places we grew up and why they are so special to us and how, even if he won’t know them like we do, they are still a part of him.

This morning as I was getting ready for work I noticed that I have stretch marks on my belly.  These were not there yesterday and now suddenly I am like a bright pink tiger on my underbelly.  This is not even the part of my expanding stomach that feels tight.  Hmm.  The price of motherhood, I suppose.  Also, it’s not like I have ever or would ever wear a bikini so this should not really be much of a problem.  But still…

I can’t believe they make a toddler shoe with squeakers in them.  Who could have possibly thought that was a good idea.  Are toddlers not noisy enough? 

As I was crossing the street to come into work this morning, we were stopped in the crosswalk by a racing fire engine blaring its horn and lights.  They turned into the hospital and I ended up walking in next to two fully geared up firemen carrying hoses.  They weren’t running or anything.  I guess I was confused or not fully awake or something but they got on the elevator so I asked if I could ride with them and they didn’t say anything so I did.  They were going to 5, and I hesitantly pushed 3.  They looked at me like “really? you are going to slow us down getting to our fire.”  The thought that they were maybe actually going to a fire crossed my mind in the split-second as I was pushing the button but it was too late.  What if I had delayed them and then the whole hospital burned down?  But then I thought about how they weren’t really hurrying and how doesn’t it say “IN CASE OF FIRE USE STAIRS” and so on and so forth?  As I got off on the third floor, I could hear the fire alarm sounding up above.  Whoopsie. 

A few minutes later the lady came on the overhead and said “we have an all-clear on the code red (fire) activation on 5 West.” 

So I guess basically, someone had pulled the fire alarm but there was no actual fire.  I’m not sure if I should be upset at how lazily the firemen were going to check on this or if I should blame the fact that we have tests of the fire system so often that nobody, not even professional firemen take a real alarm seriously. 

If there ever is a real fire, we are all in trouble.   

Yesterday I caved in and went to the cafeteria to get some coffee.  I have been trying to avoid any beverages except water and orange juice during pregnancy.  This is the third cup of coffee I’ve had in 7 months.  It was still breakfast time so the man in line in front of me had a container with sausage gravy and biscuits and another that was clearly grits with scrambled eggs on top.  The cashier, who I will call “Connie” because that is in fact her name, was very suspicious of this second container.  She said “are you sure you don’t have gravy in there?”  which the man denied.  I said it looked like grits to me and the man said, “yes, grits and eggs.  My wife doesn’t like gravy.”  Connie shot me a look and scrutinzed some more but then gave up and just charged him for the grits and eggs. 

After the man left and I was paying, she continued to mutter about him stealing the gravy, how he comes in here all the time and just doesn’t want to pay for things.   I am certain there was no gravy in that container.

I would have thought this strange except that a few years ago, my friend Valerie and I were checking out and Valerie had added a grilled chicken breast to her salad.  When the charge for the small chicken breast ended up being a ridicuous $4, Valerie told Connie that she didn’t want the chicken.  This upset Connie so much that she snatched the chicken breast off the salad and threw it in the trash can.  Valerie replied in a loud mock-sincere tone: “Are you having a blessed day?  I am having a blessed day and I hope you have a blessed day, too.”  Then she took her tray and walked off and left us there at the register with our mouths hanging open in disbelief.  Me at the chicken snatching, Connie at the prompt comeback. 

(for those of you not familliar with the South, it is common for people to say something not nice and then end it with “have a blessed day” thereby absolving themselves of any wrong doing.  Valerie kind of turned the tables on Connie on this one.  You can also do something similar by calling someone a name but following it with “bless her heart.” Example: That Kim sure is a skank, bless her heart.).

1.  I have never been one to comment on how wonderful a pregnant lady (or really any lady or man) looks, but I must say that it makes me feel good when others tell me I look great for however many weeks pregnant I am or that I am a “compact pregnant person” despite the feeling that I am spreading out all over the place like Jabba the Hut.  I may need to work harder to compliment people, gravid or not.  It can really make someone’s day!

2.  I am not ashamed to park in the “expectant mother” parking spot at Publix.  I thought I would be way too cool for that but nope!  I’m embracing it and taking advantage of it for all it’s worth.  I think it basically sits there empty most of the time anyway, so what the heck?

3.  I am sorry to all my friends who got pregnant before me and for whose baby showers I bought cute clothes.  I promise to only buy practical things for baby showers from now on.  Breast milk bags?  Yep.  I will buy them for you because I now appreciate that these are what you really need. 

4.  I will shake off any comments which were meant to be harmless but came out wrong.  I had my first comment about me being “advanced maternal age” the other day when, unsolicited, the furniture lady reassured me everything would be fine and that she was 42 when she had her first baby.  Actually, for the most part, everyone has asked if this is my first baby.  Maybe that’s another trick people who have kids have learned to make a bloated preggo lady feel good, but it works.  I’m going to start using it. 

Practice sentences:  You’re pregnant?  Wow!  You look great!  Is this your first baby? 

Well, Tumblr.  We are 75% there.  10 more weeks until we meet Mr. Rutabaga B. Scraper.  I hope.  This little bugger needs to stay put until it is time.  I read somewhere that the actual average gestation for first babies is 41 weeks, so while I probably won’t love an extra week of being huge in July in Augusta, I definitely want him to stay put until it is the right time.  With each passing day I feel better that, if he were to suddenly decide to come, he could survive.  But all my OB visits have been blessedly perfectly normal and there is no reason to think he would try to pull a fast one (other than my neuroses).

I’ve been feeling pretty good, thanks for asking!  The biggest problem has been the swelling of my feet and hands.  I can’t usually wear my wedding rings and all the cute sandals I planned on wearing for the next few weeks don’t fit around my cankles.  Flip Flops, Crocs and Sadness.  I’m writing a Country and Western ballad with that title right now. 

My energy is starting to sag a bit but that might be because I am waking up so often at night.  Sometimes it’s my bladder’s fault, sometimes it’s because my arms are numb.  Sometimes I’m not sure what the problem is or it may be related to a third party such as Brian Dog.

The carpal tunnel has set up in my right hand and my thumb is constantly numb.  I have a positive Tinnel’s sign, which is something I used to only test on my patients but now I can have fun with my own physical exam.  Medical nerdery at its finest. 

I also seem to be really good at growing seborrheic keratoses.  They are not dangerous skin lesions but they look bad and I hope they shrink after delivery.  I’m guessing they are permanent though.  Great.

But really!  No complaining!  I do feel good overall and am so thankful everything has gone as smoothly as it has.  I hope to continue working right up to the almost day and then get three delicious months of maternity leave.  Tick, tick, tick, we’re getting closer!