let's be honest with ourselves

I always say, somewhat snobbishly, that I have no room in my head for modern celebrities. I think and care about history and theology, about how languages fit together, how music fits together, how siblings fit together, and how my clothing and accessories fit together, not about what some narcissistic idiot I don't even know wears to Starbucks! I subscribe to a couple of fashion magazines, but I don't know how people can stand to read those Hollywood gossip magazines they have by the checkout in grocery stores! Such trash. Is there really anyone who reads those?

Well, the other day I bought one such publication, whose title I had never heard of and cannot remember. Like probably everyone else who reads these things (if those people really exist), I bought it because of what was on the cover. It was Prince William. Somebody heard somebody heard somebody say that someone told someone told someone told someone that he might get married. I paid $3.99 for that information, plus a couple of pictures.

Anyway, the shocking fact that I bought the magazine prompted my realization that I do want to know more about some celebrities. Agyness Deyn, for instance. I've paid lots more for magazines with her in them and on them. Of course that was British Vogue --a good $10 to $12 if you're buying it in the US-- but I didn't have to have it for the fashion inside that time. Agyness is a british supermodel who I think is so cool. Ditto for Kate Moss; I'd buy an article about her. Or the queen. I'd buy something with Queen Elizabeth on the cover a lot sooner than something with Michelle Obama or Laura Bush.

Foreign gossip. British. It's as interesting and alluring and fun as their accents. Maybe the American Hollywood scene is so unattractive because it already rules the entertainment world, and don't even get me started on all the reality show stuff. But give me British supermodels or British royalty any day and I'll eat it up. Which I suppose makes me a hot tea-drinking, accent-mimicking hypocrite. But I'd rather just be that than read American celebrity gossip.

I'll just leave you with these lovely shots of Agy:

watch this

This video articulates something I have often thought about and also been guilty of. (I know, there's a preposition on the end of that sentence. Sometimes things are not as they should be.)

oh please.

A conversation I had recently has stuck in the forefront of my thoughts for the last week or so. I mentioned to someone, a person who knows how to play the piano, albeit not a degreed musician, that I have a lot to practice before I can play well enough to audition for graduate school. Probably at least a part-time job's worth of time at the piano for the next few months. And this person did not believe me at all. This person thought I was being too modest. This person thought I was a perfectionist. This person seemed to think I was just saying that to be nice, and actually said they thought I could walk up to UT and play right now, and UT would let me in. (A lovely vote of confidence. I appreciated how it was meant. I mean, she was just being kind. Maybe I just don't get that kind of politeness.) I don't think this person reads my blog, but I feel compelled to say a few things in response, just to clear my head. Those of you who know me well probably already know this:

I am not an overly modest person nor a perfectionist. I leave things when I know they could be better. My sight reading isn't the best, and I only work on it whenever I want to, which is mostly never. I procrastinate. I'm sort of selfish, and sometimes I think rude things. I leave my kitchen, my bedroom, and my thighs alone when they could be much improved. I'd rather be happy than perfect. As a pianist, I've never had very solid technique, and while that worries me a bit, I don't do much about it. And my modesty goes as follows: I can naturally play by ear. I think most things I cook are delicious. I think I am rather musical. I think I am pretty well-rounded. I think I have a gift for learning languages. I think I'm a pretty nice person. I think I interpret Chopin way better than a lot of other pianists. I think I'm a pretty good catch for my husband. I think I'm tolerably pretty and have a mostly spot-on sense of style. And I think it will be a hell of a lot of work for me to get into graduate school.

Thank you.

exultant complaining

My husband is sleeping. He seems to be catching up on sleep lost months ago, before he even left Dallas. Change can make you so tired and hungry, not to mention give you a terrible cold.

Sometimes, when my dear Love sleeps during the day like this, I can't quite get motivated to do anything but wait for him to wake up. On days that he is away at work, my mind is more settled in the familliar routine, but this lovely afternoon, I cannot do any of the little things on my mind. Nothing sounds interesting except being with him. Practicing does, but probably only because I can't do it, since it would wake him up. So blogging seems the next best thing today. I will blog a little about my new life...

What has changed since I moved here?

Well, I now buy fresh eggs at $2 a dozen from the little ranch where my sister works.

I have time to work out now, but still don't. I think I'm waiting til I can dance again.

I can walk to the library from our apartment, and am getting my own library card soon!! This is the best thing, second only to having HEB, since I've come from a place where they make getting a library card incredibly difficult, and even sort of expensive (well maybe not, but definitely not free), and I could not have my own because Steve already had one! They discourage more than one per household, which I thought was very mean.) But here it's easy, and I am allowed my own! I have already been to our library once and checked out (on Steve's card since I still don't have mine) some books about jazz voicing.

I would love to just break out into an "I'm so glad to be out of Dallas because..." song right now. It's negative, I know. I should want to say "I love Austin because..." but the facts of the matter are, that nearly all the things I love about Austin are quite common in every other part of our state. (Well, except the music scene, which is of course a huge deal. And the myriad taco stands. I've never seen so many and they're all awesome! I'm very soon going to be fat from tacos alone.) Only Dallas is strange and harsh and doesn't let you have a library card if one person in your family already has one. Only Dallas doesn't have HEB. Only Dallas is severely unfriendly to cyclists and pedestrians. And out-door seating at restaurants is entirely too rare there, and bringing your dog to one is unheard of.

I could go on, but I really shouldn't. I just heard Steve coughing. Poor thing. This really is a very lingering cold. Maybe I'll go see if he wants to listen to the audio book we're currently "reading."

I just think it's going to be a great summer! :)

happiness and over-harsh criticism

I am happy to live in downtown Austin and near the hill country, where the night air smells as it should; happy to have sheer white curtains with knots at the bottoms like I saw everywhere in the apartment windows in Chicago, happy to be able to walk to the pharmacy and the post office, (happy to be able to walk, period!) and happy to have a husband so happy with his new job.

I am happy to clean my apartment, happy to correct people's grammar, happy to have time to practice. (But will I?)

I read this article in Smithsonian magazine (we have a gift subscription) last night. Its tone seems quite serious to me, but judging by the content, it is a feeble or perhaps too subtle an attempt at tongue-in-cheek. It cannot mean to be taken seriously. If so, it is an arrogant display of blatant ignorance of the purpose and tradition of stories and storytelling, whose author seems a product of some sad, sanitized, politically correct "utopia" where truth does not exist and morals are relative. If meant as satire, it fails rather miserably at being witty, funny or enlightening, as any good satire ought to be. If this is the best the magazine can do in the humor department, what is one to make of their supposedly serious articles? Just putting it out there...

Today I am going to clean, practice, hopefully manage to squeeze in my long overdue physical therapy exercises, and make a blueberry pie.

I think I have not blogged in so long because living alone is mildly depressing to me. Steve's new job in Austin started just a few days after my last post, almost a month ago. We have seen each other at least every weekend since then, but adjusting has been harder than I ever thought it would be.

The depression is something of a shock, since being alone has never been hard for me. In fact, it used to be inspiring, liberating and all sorts of nice things, even since I was married. But living alone, I respond by being totally uninspired. Maybe it's because of my crutches, which make doing things sort of hard, but that just doesn't sound like it would matter to me if I had the inspiration and energy to make something happen. Anything. Piano, sorting out closets, studying German, shopping for wedding shoes, reading, anything.

I think I just need to adjust and then I'll be fine.

how dare you think I'm not busy?

(Not you personally.)

I've been so sick these days that I have forgotten that what I have been waiting for has finally happened: it is now okay to publicly mention that we are moving to Austin! I am so excited I can't stand it! We have a little apartment down town that we will live in until we have had time to get to know the area and find a house.

Anyway, more later. I have been pondering why I should be so sick so often. I do not have children, a stressful job, or a stressful husband. Why am I all the time tired and worn out? It must be something I do to myself. Just an aimless pondering. Although if I could find out, I could fix things.

I rarely sit down. Well, not as much as I could. I even less often sleep late, even though I could almost every day. Once at a family gathering, I commented to a distant relative, " Oh, I would never have been able to be ready for this trip if we had tried to leave before 5 anyway." Or something to that effect. She seemed genuinely shocked when she relied, "Really? What were you busy with?"

What was I busy with? I was rather annoyed at her presuming that I have time on my hands. What am I ever not busy with?

But slowly it dawned on me that, to a sort of, well, for lack of a better word, outsider, my life looks as if it should not be busy at all.

I teach about 13 hours a week or so. A mere fraction of most peoples' work weeks. Add to that coming and going, and keeping the house spotless for the students who come here. Fine.

Dance classes 7 to 8 hours a week. That's by choice, and it only takes up 3 mornings. It's the
only work-out I have, besides the occasional hour on Saturday at the gym with Steve.

Practice? I practice rather inconsistently, several hours a week right now. So, not much.

All I have to worry about is our itty bitty condo and Steve, who is so low-maintenance. Indeed, what could I possibly be busy with?

Well, hmm... I do cook a lot for us, even though I don't have to. Steve is happy with sandwiches or whatever. I probably cook almost as much as I will when we have kids, because I am always making huge pots of something to put in the freezer or something I can pop in the oven the second I get home from teaching.

I do sit down and facebook, sometimes. Not even every day anymore. Probably more days than not, but not for hours on end. And I obviously don't blog terribly regularly.

I don't have any TV shows that I watch regularly. I never watch TV during the day, and only maybe in the evening with Steve. I do talk on the phone a lot to my mother, father, brothers and sisters. A lot. And a few friends I talk to now and then. And laundry and walking the dog and buying groceries. Thinking up, and then locating and buying, music for my students to play. Going places on the weekend to see family. I don't know. Studying my favorite languages semi-regularly. Going to lunch with a friend. Painting a piece of furniture. Reading the occasional book. It just seems that every day goes by and I hardly sit down during it, except to teach.

Of course, it's annoying that people assume otherwise, but I think they just project their un-busy lives on me.