On April 7 the Gregorian Singers sang a Tenebrae service or what If call the hour and a half one-note-Samba worship service. It was what I needed. I was empty of the basic truths. Truths like we are paving the road for Christ with our palms.
This was Lent. It was not an uplifting, prosperous, celebratory season. But that is part of the experience. Will my body’s imperfections that chose this moment in time to reveal themselves keep Doug out of the foreign service? I don’t know.
WARNING – Medical information skip the following two paragraphs if you want. This information is not as much about me as women in general. It does give parents a good springboard into discussing sex with their daughters.
I went to the Mayo clinic and got a cervical biopsy. No fun but he did use a camera and I got to watch the whole thing on a monitor which was very interesting. I learned something I never knew from the gynecologist who did the biopsy on me. I have since shared it with some of my piano students (with mom’s permission) and with the girls in my Sunday school class. I hope I relate this accurately. One of the reasons young girls are told to wait to have sex is that their cervix is not mature. When a girl is sexually active too early, it can break down the walls of or around the cervix and leave it more open and susceptible to disease. If you ever need a doctor and live near enough to a Mayo clinic go there. They are respectful, thorough, and knowledgeable and they share that with their patients. And they’re expensive. Brace yourself. The biopsy came back negative and a few months later I had a normal pap. Thank God.
As to the lumps in my breasts, I opted for a surgical biopsy. I didn’t want to be in Kazakhstan and wonder if those lumps were bigger or in Rwanda and need surgery or chemotherapy. I was trying to live in the moment and not be too distracted by future possibilities to live my best life in the here and now. I still have not figured out how to live in the moment while not thinking about impending realities like surgery. As time passed, I wasn’t too nervous about the surgery. I scheduled it for a Friday so I would miss fewer students. I fasted from Thursday night eight p.m. for what turned out to be 1 or 2 p.m. surgery on Friday. I laid around the hospital with black exes drawn on my breasts and an i.v. inserted for about four hours. I came out of the anesthesia easily and was wheeled back to the room where Doug was waiting. I was not allowed to leave the hospital until I had urinated and eaten something. The attending nurse asked me what my level of pain was on a scale of one to five. I called it three though I hate all pain and wanted to say four and a half. The Vicodin worked well and I came through addiction free. In fact, I only took one full dose and still have pills left over. I did what I had to do to leave and we drove home. When I got home, I stepped on the scale thinking that not only had I fasted but I had two lumps removed-maybe I’m down a pound! (I’m such a woman.) I had gained five pounds. I shrieked. How can I fast, have something removed from my body and gain five pounds in one day? My more medical, scientific, biology-minded friends informed me that the i.v. pumped me full of fluids. Okay.
All this played out inside of me in chunks of anger; anger at fate (which has become very real to me in the past few years) anger at my young self for any foolish behavior or diet that could have led to this and anger at myself now for acting so deserving of ease in life. I stopped myself short of being angry with God although I always wonder where fate steps out and God steps in and vice-versa. Am I really angry at God but just too scared or timid or well-raised to admit it? At its worst, I rationalized that if Doug couldn’t go into the Foreign Service because of my health I could still try to have that baby. Oh, brother. Oh, I almost forgot. I was angry at the government too. I always am. I figured that if they’d disqualify me on medical reasons such as these I was dealing with that they were being sexist since they’d never disqualify a man for any common male ailments like . . . oh, yeah-there are none.
This, dear reader, is a mere sampling of the unruly nonsense that was occupying my mind as I tried to focus on being a piano teacher. Later, after we knew we were going to D.C. and the world beyond, I came too close to just offering everyone free lessons until we moved I - felt so scattered. I guess that would have been my self imposed penance for acting so above all these common woes.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
You may not want to read this
I’m going to share some intimate medical and marital information now. I realize that not everyone wants to hear this from others so you can skip the rest of this entry if you prefer. I’m normally not too much of an exhibitionist with my private life. I do know that some things I’ve been through have been made much more mentally manageable when I hear of other people’s attitudes they were able to present while going through harsh times. So here we go. My pap test was abnormal and there was a suspicious lump in each breast. Great. I was angry. I was a little scared but at the core I was angry at the world. Why this year? Why not last year or next year? Why now when so much is hanging on it? Why me?
Here’s a little background. Doug wanted to become a father. I had no interest in motherhood. We foolishly married knowing this about each other. It came to a head one fall. We argued. The first and last argument we have ever had. I think I even remember offering through tears to step aside if he wanted someone else. We went round and round for hours and were exhausted. Finally he suggested separating (not a real separation, just for the afternoon). I didn’t like the idea of parting during such a vulnerable time. So I found us a project to do together. We wrapped Christmas presents that we had stockpiled throughout the year. This took us a couple of hours, distracted us and settled our minds. The compromise we reached, by the way, was I would go off birth control for a year to see what happened. If unemployment and the application process to the Foreign Service was Doug’s longest year, this was mine.
I tell you that intimate story to continue telling of my emotions during the medical screening. I prayed that I would be healthy, not for selfish reasons but because I had already had a hand in preventing one of Doug’s dreams from coming true and I did not want to stand in the way of this one.
It turned out that I was diagnosed with what is considered a sexually transmitted disease. I was shocked. I was disgusted. I am faithful to Doug. Doug is faithful to me. I was told that it can lie dormant for years blah blah blah. I was also told that I likely got it from Doug. That I couldn’t believe. I may have contracted it from the #*!!%*& piece of &&*(^$# who raped me on my 40th birthday. I was even told that it can be transferred by a toilet seat. A toilet seat!?!?!? I found that one really hard to believe. But listen to this: I have a theory. For those readers who gross out easily, skip to the next paragraph now. Okay, ye strong-minded readers, hear this. I think that these automatically flushing toilets need to be outlawed and removed from all public bathrooms. Just two days ago I sat down to winky-tink and before I even began, it flushed - spraying me where I did not want to be sprayed (not that there is anywhere I’d accept being sprayed by a toilet). I stood up halfway, waited, sat back down and relieved myself. As I stood up, it flushed again. It flushed a third time while I was washing my hands! (No one else was in the bathroom.) I’m not a doctor, scientist, biologist or whatever one should be to spout such opinions but I’m convinced that germs live in toilet bowl water and that is one way disease can be spread. I did see a medical show that warned women to stand before flushing to avoid risk of gastrointestinal something-or-another. So it stands to reason that HPV, VD – who knows what - gonorrhea or other diseases of that sort could be spread the same way. I don’t know for sure. I’m not a doctor; I only play one on line.
Here’s a little background. Doug wanted to become a father. I had no interest in motherhood. We foolishly married knowing this about each other. It came to a head one fall. We argued. The first and last argument we have ever had. I think I even remember offering through tears to step aside if he wanted someone else. We went round and round for hours and were exhausted. Finally he suggested separating (not a real separation, just for the afternoon). I didn’t like the idea of parting during such a vulnerable time. So I found us a project to do together. We wrapped Christmas presents that we had stockpiled throughout the year. This took us a couple of hours, distracted us and settled our minds. The compromise we reached, by the way, was I would go off birth control for a year to see what happened. If unemployment and the application process to the Foreign Service was Doug’s longest year, this was mine.
I tell you that intimate story to continue telling of my emotions during the medical screening. I prayed that I would be healthy, not for selfish reasons but because I had already had a hand in preventing one of Doug’s dreams from coming true and I did not want to stand in the way of this one.
It turned out that I was diagnosed with what is considered a sexually transmitted disease. I was shocked. I was disgusted. I am faithful to Doug. Doug is faithful to me. I was told that it can lie dormant for years blah blah blah. I was also told that I likely got it from Doug. That I couldn’t believe. I may have contracted it from the #*!!%*& piece of &&*(^$# who raped me on my 40th birthday. I was even told that it can be transferred by a toilet seat. A toilet seat!?!?!? I found that one really hard to believe. But listen to this: I have a theory. For those readers who gross out easily, skip to the next paragraph now. Okay, ye strong-minded readers, hear this. I think that these automatically flushing toilets need to be outlawed and removed from all public bathrooms. Just two days ago I sat down to winky-tink and before I even began, it flushed - spraying me where I did not want to be sprayed (not that there is anywhere I’d accept being sprayed by a toilet). I stood up halfway, waited, sat back down and relieved myself. As I stood up, it flushed again. It flushed a third time while I was washing my hands! (No one else was in the bathroom.) I’m not a doctor, scientist, biologist or whatever one should be to spout such opinions but I’m convinced that germs live in toilet bowl water and that is one way disease can be spread. I did see a medical show that warned women to stand before flushing to avoid risk of gastrointestinal something-or-another. So it stands to reason that HPV, VD – who knows what - gonorrhea or other diseases of that sort could be spread the same way. I don’t know for sure. I’m not a doctor; I only play one on line.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Three
I began writing this blog weeks before I began posting it. Now events are piling up. I'm going to continue to go chronilogical while interspersing (hopefully sensibly) more current events. Today I begin with Sunday October 18 then back up to where I left off at my last posting. If this new format makes you crazy, let me know and I'll try something else like a post-a-day until I catch up.
In my studies of fairy tales I’ve learned a little about the significance of the number three. Think of the fairy tales you know and how many things happen in threes: a man is granted three wishes, there are two failed tries to accomplish a task and there is success on the third try, three little pigs, three ugly stepsisters, and on and on. The number three is considered holy and perfect. Consider the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit or the elements of earth, air and fire. There is lore as to multiples of three also; I’m not as familiar with them - 666 comes to mind.
My five-week boot camp was supposed to end with Doug’s training last Friday (October 16) but I have decided to prolong it indefinitely. I am continuing the exercise and healthful eating and adding a spiritual focus. Sunday, when I did yoga, I held the various poses for a count of six breaths– three doubled. As I held each pose I did not count 1-2-3-4-5-6, rather, I thought Father, Son, Holy Spirit, my body, my mind, my spirit (the last three I borrowed from the YMCA’s motto of a healthy body, mind and spirit). As I worked through the poses with these words repeating in my mind I thought of the connections between them. Not just the connection between the first three and the last three but between all of them. God is one; God is three; God is three in one. I am one; I am three; I am three in one. Are God and I six in one?
During my two hours of walking yesterday (running errands to Target, the grocery store and the library) I prayed. Walking is when I do my best communion with God. If I try to pray before bed, it does not usually last long. I fall asleep. I’ve tried meditating with moderate success but I get very sleepy. Same with kneeling, plus my legs get tired of being knotted up and they miss their blood supply. So when I really want to talk to God, I walk.
I prayed for my faith to get stronger and that I would learn to listen for the ‘voice’ of God and recognize it better so that when I got to this strange, predominately Muslim country I would be ready to listen and learn of their faith in all confidence that I was on the right track. Not, note, that I would be right and all others wrong. No. Just as I said, so I would be comfortable in my own faith as the right direction for me. I prayed that I could learn, discerning without judgment, about the Muslim faith.
I should tell you that when I was in my twenties I prayed for my future husband, whoever he was. So yesterday I prayed for the people who I would be meeting in Tashkent. I prayed that they would be able to learn from me while discerning without judgment. I prayed that I would know how to handle the local police whom, I have read, are corrupt. Should I smile? Greet them? Ignore them? Avoid them? My fear with the police situation is that I will either live there in constant anger of getting illegally shaken down for money at every turn, never leave home for fear of them or get thrown in the pokey for sassing off to them (read - telling them the truth).
Great perspectives are drawn out of prayer. Our minds are so much more intensely powerful than we know. We spend so much time doing mundane, repetitious, unchallenging things that we rarely realize the impact they can have not only in our own lives but the lives of those around us. The reason I entitled this blog “If I Can . . .” is to show one woman’s progress in hopes that it will encourage others to go for something important no matter how challenging. Sometimes I feel boastful. I do not like that and do not mean to relate these stories as a boast. You who have known me know my weaknesses (chocolate, candy, chocolate, Pepsi, chocolate . . .) so if I can sit and eat broccoli everyday (hate it) there is something you know of that you can do. Most of you have seen me in a more formal, professional setting (piano lessons, choir practice, class) so you may have never seen me shoot off my mouth. I lost a dear, dear student to that once. When I relate that I handled a situation well, I am proud because I know how crass I was for so many years. When I say for the twentieth time how glad I am to keep up exercise every day it’s because I am truly amazed that I can teach myself new habits and learn a discipline at age 47. This has all come about from this amazing combination of God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, my body, my mind and my spirit. It takes a village. . .
At last post, I left you with Doug and I going through the medical clearance process. I hope to someday learn to communicate effectively with those around me. I want to speak their language. I want them to understand me and respond intelligibly to me. Evidently I’m asking too much. I make the hour and a half drive to the Mayo Clinic rather than going to a local physician for good reasons including the inability of local physicians to recognize a broken finger in the x-ray of a piano teacher, their administration’s lack of understanding the definition of the word “prevention” in billing and their staff’s incompetence in making appointments. Details by request only, I’m sick of the entire matter. Suffice to say, if I have an infected hangnail I will drive to the Mayo clinic before I’ll seek any more local help.
I have sung Mayo’s praises. Gods work at the Mayo center. As all bubbles are destined, mine popped today. I’m sure it’s my fault. The doctor I saw last year wasn’t available so I made an appointment with another. Mistake number one on my part. This new doctor didn’t receive the information we sent the week previous to the appointment nor did she bother to read my file (her admission, not my assumption – she’d been on vacation). The single day of appointments turned into a day and a half. No big deal. Everyone errs – even the Mayo gods. This doctor did not order one of the tests we specifically requested because, “It’s really expensive.” No kidding. I stared at her and said I need that test as part of the medical clearance requirement. “But it costs something like hundreds of dollars.” “I . . . NEED . . . it.” Anyone else not getting this? It took this doctor a while. That’s what kept us there the extra day and sent needle-phobe me twice to have blood drawn. Fie.
In my studies of fairy tales I’ve learned a little about the significance of the number three. Think of the fairy tales you know and how many things happen in threes: a man is granted three wishes, there are two failed tries to accomplish a task and there is success on the third try, three little pigs, three ugly stepsisters, and on and on. The number three is considered holy and perfect. Consider the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit or the elements of earth, air and fire. There is lore as to multiples of three also; I’m not as familiar with them - 666 comes to mind.
My five-week boot camp was supposed to end with Doug’s training last Friday (October 16) but I have decided to prolong it indefinitely. I am continuing the exercise and healthful eating and adding a spiritual focus. Sunday, when I did yoga, I held the various poses for a count of six breaths– three doubled. As I held each pose I did not count 1-2-3-4-5-6, rather, I thought Father, Son, Holy Spirit, my body, my mind, my spirit (the last three I borrowed from the YMCA’s motto of a healthy body, mind and spirit). As I worked through the poses with these words repeating in my mind I thought of the connections between them. Not just the connection between the first three and the last three but between all of them. God is one; God is three; God is three in one. I am one; I am three; I am three in one. Are God and I six in one?
During my two hours of walking yesterday (running errands to Target, the grocery store and the library) I prayed. Walking is when I do my best communion with God. If I try to pray before bed, it does not usually last long. I fall asleep. I’ve tried meditating with moderate success but I get very sleepy. Same with kneeling, plus my legs get tired of being knotted up and they miss their blood supply. So when I really want to talk to God, I walk.
I prayed for my faith to get stronger and that I would learn to listen for the ‘voice’ of God and recognize it better so that when I got to this strange, predominately Muslim country I would be ready to listen and learn of their faith in all confidence that I was on the right track. Not, note, that I would be right and all others wrong. No. Just as I said, so I would be comfortable in my own faith as the right direction for me. I prayed that I could learn, discerning without judgment, about the Muslim faith.
I should tell you that when I was in my twenties I prayed for my future husband, whoever he was. So yesterday I prayed for the people who I would be meeting in Tashkent. I prayed that they would be able to learn from me while discerning without judgment. I prayed that I would know how to handle the local police whom, I have read, are corrupt. Should I smile? Greet them? Ignore them? Avoid them? My fear with the police situation is that I will either live there in constant anger of getting illegally shaken down for money at every turn, never leave home for fear of them or get thrown in the pokey for sassing off to them (read - telling them the truth).
Great perspectives are drawn out of prayer. Our minds are so much more intensely powerful than we know. We spend so much time doing mundane, repetitious, unchallenging things that we rarely realize the impact they can have not only in our own lives but the lives of those around us. The reason I entitled this blog “If I Can . . .” is to show one woman’s progress in hopes that it will encourage others to go for something important no matter how challenging. Sometimes I feel boastful. I do not like that and do not mean to relate these stories as a boast. You who have known me know my weaknesses (chocolate, candy, chocolate, Pepsi, chocolate . . .) so if I can sit and eat broccoli everyday (hate it) there is something you know of that you can do. Most of you have seen me in a more formal, professional setting (piano lessons, choir practice, class) so you may have never seen me shoot off my mouth. I lost a dear, dear student to that once. When I relate that I handled a situation well, I am proud because I know how crass I was for so many years. When I say for the twentieth time how glad I am to keep up exercise every day it’s because I am truly amazed that I can teach myself new habits and learn a discipline at age 47. This has all come about from this amazing combination of God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, my body, my mind and my spirit. It takes a village. . .
At last post, I left you with Doug and I going through the medical clearance process. I hope to someday learn to communicate effectively with those around me. I want to speak their language. I want them to understand me and respond intelligibly to me. Evidently I’m asking too much. I make the hour and a half drive to the Mayo Clinic rather than going to a local physician for good reasons including the inability of local physicians to recognize a broken finger in the x-ray of a piano teacher, their administration’s lack of understanding the definition of the word “prevention” in billing and their staff’s incompetence in making appointments. Details by request only, I’m sick of the entire matter. Suffice to say, if I have an infected hangnail I will drive to the Mayo clinic before I’ll seek any more local help.
I have sung Mayo’s praises. Gods work at the Mayo center. As all bubbles are destined, mine popped today. I’m sure it’s my fault. The doctor I saw last year wasn’t available so I made an appointment with another. Mistake number one on my part. This new doctor didn’t receive the information we sent the week previous to the appointment nor did she bother to read my file (her admission, not my assumption – she’d been on vacation). The single day of appointments turned into a day and a half. No big deal. Everyone errs – even the Mayo gods. This doctor did not order one of the tests we specifically requested because, “It’s really expensive.” No kidding. I stared at her and said I need that test as part of the medical clearance requirement. “But it costs something like hundreds of dollars.” “I . . . NEED . . . it.” Anyone else not getting this? It took this doctor a while. That’s what kept us there the extra day and sent needle-phobe me twice to have blood drawn. Fie.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
He passed, but I'm about to pass out
Late August, Doug was informed that he had passed the written examination, he felt more comfortable telling people. It was all so futuristic and based on “if” (if he passes the orals, if he clears security, if we pass our physicals) that the conversations carried a dreamlike quality with them.
If the applicant passes the written exam then someone at the State Department looks at their application (the one he had turned in months previous). If they find you acceptable on paper they ask you to sign up for an oral assessment which takes place in either D.C. or Atlanta. Doug signed up for his oral assessment in March to coincide with my mission trip to Belize. The oral assessment is an all day experience. Each applicant is teamed up with 4 or 5 others and given sample projects to present to the group. The group is given a budget which will only allow so many of the projects to be funded. You must sell your project while recognizing that one of the others may be more important and, therefore, ready to concede your own. Translate: do you work and play well with others? You are interviewed one on one. The nice thing about the orals is they give you the result that day. You’re either in or you are out. Those who fail the orals must begin the entire process again with the initial application. Those who are in begin security screening.
In addition to my 38 piano students (I lost two due to a job loss in their family), I started back to teaching the junior high students each Sunday morning at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church with one change: this year, the senior high teacher quit and they asked me if I’d take on junior and senior high. Together. In one room. In the early morning. For some reason I agreed.
First I had to find a topic that appealed to a sixth grader as much as a senior in high school. I chose money. There’s a wonderful book called “The Richest Man in Babylon” by It is written in a series of short stories following a few characters around ancient Babylon learning the secrets to great wealth from a friend and from other chance acquaintances. I wanted to keep up the storytelling format I had used last year so each week I told the story of each chapter then we discussed it. Then we held debates. The juniors chose the topic of student selected curriculum in school and the seniors chose lowering the drinking age. Last year I wrote my students during the week to keep their minds on what we were discussing in class. That, unfortunately, happened very little this year.
With Doug having been back to work for a while, I decided to return to St. Thomas for a piano class - this time private piano, one of the pedagogy requirements. The teacher, Kathy Faricy is smart and tough.
We did not even touch the piano during the first lesson. We talked of posture, of sitting at the instrument and of my basic make up as a person. The second lesson I played one key at a time with one finger at a time using a new technique – a technique, for the duration of our time together that only Kathy could spot as being correct or incorrect.
She assigned me a Bach Invention, a Clementi Sonata and a Chopin Prelude. I was to record my practice each day – exactly what I practiced and for how long. I was to practice one measure at a time, one hand at a time until I could play each three times in a row correctly. Then I was to practice it hands together until I could play it three times in a row correctly. And thus I was to proceed through each piece. If I got through four measures one day, I was to begin at measure #5 the next day and not back up until I met a goal of x number of new measures. I took to that method of practice much better than I expected.
The Bach Inventions are just plain hard. They are sort of like playing a round with yourself; one hand begins then the next hand begins a few beats later. And I don’t like them. They are impressive. I wish I could play them. But I don’t like them even when I hear them well played. The Clementi was not too difficult but it was boring. And it would get stuck in my head for the day the way a bad commercial jingle will. But the Chopin I loved. It did, however, take a lot of focused time and, as things were beginning to move quickly toward us relocating, that became extremely difficult. What with the wedding and all . . . I didn’t mention the wedding, did I?
I was hired to play piano for the wedding of the daughter of one of the women in our church. I played one wedding a long time ago. I’m not a wedding pianist. The bride-to-be called me and told me that I came recommended. I tried not to laugh when I asked her who had recommended me. It was a woman from our church. There is only one thing I can figure. When Doug was Senior Warden for a year at St. Anne’s I would occasionally go to the church with him on Saturday and play on the grand while he worked in the office. Once or twice the altar guild ladies were there setting up for the next day’s service. I must have been playing one of my better pieces when this woman overheard me. Anyway, it was a good challenge for me; one I took on before we knew Doug had passed his exam. It was just too much work to perfect the wedding pieces (about ten or twelve) while learning these three new pieces with the new technique Kathy was teaching me. I approached Kathy about dropping the Bach, Clementi and the Chopin in consideration of all this and working on the wedding pieces. She said okay. A world of pressure was lifted from me.
Doug passed the oral assessment yet still the Foreign Service was not a certainty. We still had to pass security and medical screenings. The process of the security clearance began. This involves filling out somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 papers requesting current phone numbers for everyone from your pre-K class to the guy you asked directions of when you were in Moscow 19 years ago to someone in a suit knocking on the doors of those individuals, your neighbors and your employer and asking lots of questions about you face to face. Meanwhile we each went to Mayo for physicals for the medical clearance.
The period during the security and medical clearance was the most difficult for me. It was highly emotional. I have always had clean examinations with one exception decades ago. Just two years ago, Mayo was singing my praises; I was so healthy! Then came the one exam that made a difference and I had trouble. In just about every part of me that makes me a woman, I had trouble. Fie! (That’s old world speak for “fuck”, which would upset my mother and piano students if they read this, and I’ve decided to rid myself of such speech. As a side bar, since I’m posting this months after the facts, I have succeeded in ridding myself of such base speech as part of my personal boot camp. More on that later. )
If the applicant passes the written exam then someone at the State Department looks at their application (the one he had turned in months previous). If they find you acceptable on paper they ask you to sign up for an oral assessment which takes place in either D.C. or Atlanta. Doug signed up for his oral assessment in March to coincide with my mission trip to Belize. The oral assessment is an all day experience. Each applicant is teamed up with 4 or 5 others and given sample projects to present to the group. The group is given a budget which will only allow so many of the projects to be funded. You must sell your project while recognizing that one of the others may be more important and, therefore, ready to concede your own. Translate: do you work and play well with others? You are interviewed one on one. The nice thing about the orals is they give you the result that day. You’re either in or you are out. Those who fail the orals must begin the entire process again with the initial application. Those who are in begin security screening.
In addition to my 38 piano students (I lost two due to a job loss in their family), I started back to teaching the junior high students each Sunday morning at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church with one change: this year, the senior high teacher quit and they asked me if I’d take on junior and senior high. Together. In one room. In the early morning. For some reason I agreed.
First I had to find a topic that appealed to a sixth grader as much as a senior in high school. I chose money. There’s a wonderful book called “The Richest Man in Babylon” by It is written in a series of short stories following a few characters around ancient Babylon learning the secrets to great wealth from a friend and from other chance acquaintances. I wanted to keep up the storytelling format I had used last year so each week I told the story of each chapter then we discussed it. Then we held debates. The juniors chose the topic of student selected curriculum in school and the seniors chose lowering the drinking age. Last year I wrote my students during the week to keep their minds on what we were discussing in class. That, unfortunately, happened very little this year.
With Doug having been back to work for a while, I decided to return to St. Thomas for a piano class - this time private piano, one of the pedagogy requirements. The teacher, Kathy Faricy is smart and tough.
We did not even touch the piano during the first lesson. We talked of posture, of sitting at the instrument and of my basic make up as a person. The second lesson I played one key at a time with one finger at a time using a new technique – a technique, for the duration of our time together that only Kathy could spot as being correct or incorrect.
She assigned me a Bach Invention, a Clementi Sonata and a Chopin Prelude. I was to record my practice each day – exactly what I practiced and for how long. I was to practice one measure at a time, one hand at a time until I could play each three times in a row correctly. Then I was to practice it hands together until I could play it three times in a row correctly. And thus I was to proceed through each piece. If I got through four measures one day, I was to begin at measure #5 the next day and not back up until I met a goal of x number of new measures. I took to that method of practice much better than I expected.
The Bach Inventions are just plain hard. They are sort of like playing a round with yourself; one hand begins then the next hand begins a few beats later. And I don’t like them. They are impressive. I wish I could play them. But I don’t like them even when I hear them well played. The Clementi was not too difficult but it was boring. And it would get stuck in my head for the day the way a bad commercial jingle will. But the Chopin I loved. It did, however, take a lot of focused time and, as things were beginning to move quickly toward us relocating, that became extremely difficult. What with the wedding and all . . . I didn’t mention the wedding, did I?
I was hired to play piano for the wedding of the daughter of one of the women in our church. I played one wedding a long time ago. I’m not a wedding pianist. The bride-to-be called me and told me that I came recommended. I tried not to laugh when I asked her who had recommended me. It was a woman from our church. There is only one thing I can figure. When Doug was Senior Warden for a year at St. Anne’s I would occasionally go to the church with him on Saturday and play on the grand while he worked in the office. Once or twice the altar guild ladies were there setting up for the next day’s service. I must have been playing one of my better pieces when this woman overheard me. Anyway, it was a good challenge for me; one I took on before we knew Doug had passed his exam. It was just too much work to perfect the wedding pieces (about ten or twelve) while learning these three new pieces with the new technique Kathy was teaching me. I approached Kathy about dropping the Bach, Clementi and the Chopin in consideration of all this and working on the wedding pieces. She said okay. A world of pressure was lifted from me.
Doug passed the oral assessment yet still the Foreign Service was not a certainty. We still had to pass security and medical screenings. The process of the security clearance began. This involves filling out somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 papers requesting current phone numbers for everyone from your pre-K class to the guy you asked directions of when you were in Moscow 19 years ago to someone in a suit knocking on the doors of those individuals, your neighbors and your employer and asking lots of questions about you face to face. Meanwhile we each went to Mayo for physicals for the medical clearance.
The period during the security and medical clearance was the most difficult for me. It was highly emotional. I have always had clean examinations with one exception decades ago. Just two years ago, Mayo was singing my praises; I was so healthy! Then came the one exam that made a difference and I had trouble. In just about every part of me that makes me a woman, I had trouble. Fie! (That’s old world speak for “fuck”, which would upset my mother and piano students if they read this, and I’ve decided to rid myself of such speech. As a side bar, since I’m posting this months after the facts, I have succeeded in ridding myself of such base speech as part of my personal boot camp. More on that later. )
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
One day Doug and I were walking and playing the “What would you do if you won the Lottery?” game. Doug said that he would travel the world and learn languages. He then said, offhandedly, “I should join the Foreign Service.” As the days passed he decided that he should join the Foreign Service and the long arduous process began.
Briefly, the first step towards being hired by the State Department to work in the Foreign Service is to fill out a lengthy application which, if I remember correctly, has lots of blanks to fill in, bubbles to color in and even an essay question or two. Doug turned in his application in May of 2008 and waited. No one at the State Department looks at these applications, but it is the first required step.
We were both excited about the possibility of Doug working for the State Department but also realized that this would not happen in a week or two. He had now been unemployed for about five months. Ever vigilant, Doug researched unemployment at his stage in life and career and it found out that the average time period looking for a job was a year and a half.
He turned in many applications, most of which were completely ignored (a sad state of corporate America and general cordiality). Those who did respond found themselves unable to categorize him. In his past jobs he oversaw accounting, human resources, facilities and anything else he saw that needed attended to that no one else was doing. However, he was not an accountant or a human resources specialist. His double major was Political Science (focusing on the then Soviet Union) and International Relations. He also has an MIM (Masters of International Management). For the many positions he applied, they deemed him overqualified. He couldn’t do anything (short of lying) to prevent them from seeing him as overqualified but he could bring some focus into his resume. He decided to get certified in Human Resources.
In the meantime, in keeping with our new dedication to free offerings, we stood in line outside a Chris and Rob’s the day of their grand opening in hopes to be one of the first 100 customers who would receive a free hotdog once a week for a year (no purchase necessary!). We got it! It was so fun walking the few blocks each week to get our free hotdog. I missed eating lunch out and this filled the spot.
The next step towards the Foreign Service was to take a scheduled written examination which is offered in a variety of locations. Doug took his at the University of Minnesota on July 12, 2008. This test covers local and international knowledge of politics, geography, culture and arts. It includes things we should remember from school, things we would know if we were really paying attention and some more obscure facts. I looked for about a half hour trying to find sample questions and had no luck. I know that somewhere online there is a place but it eludes me. After this examination the applicant waits. After about three months the test results are revealed.
Doug was hired by Olup and Associates in June of 2008 (happy birthday to me!) He didn’t want to tell anyone about applying to the Foreign Service just in case he was rejected. Kind of like when a woman is only two months pregnant she doesn’t say anything just in case. In Doug’s good conscience, he felt uneasy working for Olup and not only working toward but hoping to be hired into the Foreign Service. The fact that he started the process to join the Foreign Service before he was hired by Olup did little to relieve that.
I am struck by the many requirements to becoming a Foreign Service officer. I have always looked to Senators, Representatives, Governors, etc. with a little bit of awe (and a LOT of other stuff) but I realize they just had to get elected. Not that that is easy, I’m sure it is not. But elections can be bought and one can lie their way into a position of authority and power. There is no faking or buying your way into the foreign service.
On a light note, those of you (and I know two of you) who are considering the foreign service – listen to this: It is the best dating pool you will ever find. Think about it. 1. You know your fellow worker is intellectually equal. 2. You know they have been screened extensively for security so they have no major skeletons in their closets. 3. They had to pass a physical so you know they are healthy. You can’t get much safer than that.
Briefly, the first step towards being hired by the State Department to work in the Foreign Service is to fill out a lengthy application which, if I remember correctly, has lots of blanks to fill in, bubbles to color in and even an essay question or two. Doug turned in his application in May of 2008 and waited. No one at the State Department looks at these applications, but it is the first required step.
We were both excited about the possibility of Doug working for the State Department but also realized that this would not happen in a week or two. He had now been unemployed for about five months. Ever vigilant, Doug researched unemployment at his stage in life and career and it found out that the average time period looking for a job was a year and a half.
He turned in many applications, most of which were completely ignored (a sad state of corporate America and general cordiality). Those who did respond found themselves unable to categorize him. In his past jobs he oversaw accounting, human resources, facilities and anything else he saw that needed attended to that no one else was doing. However, he was not an accountant or a human resources specialist. His double major was Political Science (focusing on the then Soviet Union) and International Relations. He also has an MIM (Masters of International Management). For the many positions he applied, they deemed him overqualified. He couldn’t do anything (short of lying) to prevent them from seeing him as overqualified but he could bring some focus into his resume. He decided to get certified in Human Resources.
In the meantime, in keeping with our new dedication to free offerings, we stood in line outside a Chris and Rob’s the day of their grand opening in hopes to be one of the first 100 customers who would receive a free hotdog once a week for a year (no purchase necessary!). We got it! It was so fun walking the few blocks each week to get our free hotdog. I missed eating lunch out and this filled the spot.
The next step towards the Foreign Service was to take a scheduled written examination which is offered in a variety of locations. Doug took his at the University of Minnesota on July 12, 2008. This test covers local and international knowledge of politics, geography, culture and arts. It includes things we should remember from school, things we would know if we were really paying attention and some more obscure facts. I looked for about a half hour trying to find sample questions and had no luck. I know that somewhere online there is a place but it eludes me. After this examination the applicant waits. After about three months the test results are revealed.
Doug was hired by Olup and Associates in June of 2008 (happy birthday to me!) He didn’t want to tell anyone about applying to the Foreign Service just in case he was rejected. Kind of like when a woman is only two months pregnant she doesn’t say anything just in case. In Doug’s good conscience, he felt uneasy working for Olup and not only working toward but hoping to be hired into the Foreign Service. The fact that he started the process to join the Foreign Service before he was hired by Olup did little to relieve that.
I am struck by the many requirements to becoming a Foreign Service officer. I have always looked to Senators, Representatives, Governors, etc. with a little bit of awe (and a LOT of other stuff) but I realize they just had to get elected. Not that that is easy, I’m sure it is not. But elections can be bought and one can lie their way into a position of authority and power. There is no faking or buying your way into the foreign service.
On a light note, those of you (and I know two of you) who are considering the foreign service – listen to this: It is the best dating pool you will ever find. Think about it. 1. You know your fellow worker is intellectually equal. 2. You know they have been screened extensively for security so they have no major skeletons in their closets. 3. They had to pass a physical so you know they are healthy. You can’t get much safer than that.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Well, it Depends . . .
Dedicated to Zoe
Beginning late January 2007 I became a dependant. I only know this in looking back; I did not know it at the time. I became dependant, at various times, on myself, my husband Doug, the economy, the dedication of my students and their families, our government, God and fate.
First, Doug lost his job and I became our sole source of income in addition to the severance pay he was given. I was a piano teacher. I’ll pause and let you laugh a bit. If it sounds more like Doug was the dependent it’s just an illusion. That was (again, unbeknownst to me at the time) probably the beginning of our nation’s recession or depression or obsession or whatever this is or was that we are or were in. I was teaching around 40 piano students at the time. I rarely actually count them; it scares me. During the 17 ½ months Doug was unemployed I was actually able to take on a few more students. At $23. per ½ hour before extortion, I mean taxes, I wasn’t bringing home a lot.
Ever vigilant, Doug researched unemployment at his stage in life and career and found out that the average time period looking for a job was a year and a half.
He turned in many applications, most of which were completely ignored (a sad state of corporate America and general cordiality). Those who did respond found themselves unable to categorize him. In his past jobs he oversaw accounting, human resources, facilities and anything else he saw that needed attended to that no one else was doing. However, he was not an accountant or a human resources specialist. His double major was Political Science (focusing on the then Soviet Union) and International Relations. He also had an MIM (Masters of International Management). Many positions he applied for they deemed him overqualified. He couldn’t do anything (short of lying) to prevent them from seeing him as overqualified but he could bring some focus into his resume. He decided to get certified in Human Resources.
I was holding together pretty well. It was nice having Doug home during the day. He enjoyed making stew so when I came home the house smelled welcome and wintery.
Between his severance and my income and some easy budgeting we were able to get by easily without ever touching our savings. We scaled back our mortgage payment to the minimum, canceled a periodical or two, I gave up my private piano lessons and piano pedagogy classes and we did very little buying. We explored free things to do which proved to be quite fun. For example, I remember a week during which the Schubert Club in downtown St. Paul offered a free concert every day at noon. We went to most of them. We also used the bus when we could to avoid the expense of driving. This was easier than I ever expected and we continued using the bus even after our income was up again.
One reaction we had to Doug’s job loss was surprising. Immediately and almost instinctively we looked around the house and asked “What can we get rid of?” Just when you’d think we’d take stock of what we had that was usable, we wanted to purge. So we cleaned up the basement and some closets and drawers and donated a lot of things to St. Vincent de Paul. If I were a better writer I could draw a parallel between the two. Let’s see, he loses his job against his will; we willingly rid ourselves of things we no longer need or want. It could be that his job was no longer needed or wanted and he just didn’t realize it. Perhaps in a time of need we decided to give. Maybe we were ready to live very basically – little income, a good amount of uncertainty, less stuff (and no new stuff), just the two of us existing together examining our lives at present and yet to come. Yes.
I am blessed and fortunate to be with someone as wonderful as Doug. Not only has he set a good example in his living, loved me actively, instilled in me an urgency and desire to learn, work with me to seek a better life for us inside and out and been great company all the while, he has worked hard to provide a very nice lifestyle for us. We have been able to travel, attend concerts, eat out, buy nice clothes and give gifts to friends and donate to charities. If I were single, I wonder (with not a little fear) where I’d be. I have always worked hard but I have never had high paying jobs. Without Doug, I’d likely not own a home nor would I enjoy the comfort of the savings we have. I would not have been able to afford to go back to school to study piano pedagogy as well as study piano or voice privately.
Yet, to be fair, I must be grateful to myself for becoming who I’ve become. I take genuine pleasure in simplicity – walks with Doug, storytelling, reading to someone or listening to someone read to me, gathering with friends and singing in someone’s home, parties that never leave the kitchen, on and on. I didn’t overreact by feeling sorry for myself, showing anger or panicking by running out and getting extra jobs that would have run me down in so many ways. I did get frustrated at times when I wondered if he was doing absolutely everything out there to find a job. I did put that in his face more than once. But I can honestly say that I held faith in Doug and the way he was handling the situation.
Doug was unemployed one other time in our years together. He quit a job (that in my opinion he should have quit months earlier) after putting up with a dishonest boss making him false promises and generally being used and abused by him. The weeks following were horrible. I cannot speak for Doug, but I think he was depressed. He stayed in his pajamas most of the days, watched a lot of TV and did almost nothing around the house while I worked teaching at the YMCA and a couple dozen or so piano students. This did not last long. But the memory of it is vivid to me. It was a scary time. What is fascinating to me is the opposite reactions he had to both job losses. When he was in control (he quit) he seemed to fall apart and give up. When he was fired (unjustly, in my limited, distant vantage point), he took control of everything around him. The night he came home that January with the news that he had been let go, we went out to dinner. We then planned a Caribbean cruise (using a travel voucher that the company had given him as a Christmas gift). I wonder if Doug felt guilty for leaving the fledgling start-up company. I had never considered that before now. He is a very loyal man – sometimes, by what I see, to a fault. So when he quit the company he proceeded to punish himself. Yet when someone forced him out he refused to stay down by building himself up to a point that he must be reckoned with. Laura Rose, psychological evaluations, free online.
Beginning late January 2007 I became a dependant. I only know this in looking back; I did not know it at the time. I became dependant, at various times, on myself, my husband Doug, the economy, the dedication of my students and their families, our government, God and fate.
First, Doug lost his job and I became our sole source of income in addition to the severance pay he was given. I was a piano teacher. I’ll pause and let you laugh a bit. If it sounds more like Doug was the dependent it’s just an illusion. That was (again, unbeknownst to me at the time) probably the beginning of our nation’s recession or depression or obsession or whatever this is or was that we are or were in. I was teaching around 40 piano students at the time. I rarely actually count them; it scares me. During the 17 ½ months Doug was unemployed I was actually able to take on a few more students. At $23. per ½ hour before extortion, I mean taxes, I wasn’t bringing home a lot.
Ever vigilant, Doug researched unemployment at his stage in life and career and found out that the average time period looking for a job was a year and a half.
He turned in many applications, most of which were completely ignored (a sad state of corporate America and general cordiality). Those who did respond found themselves unable to categorize him. In his past jobs he oversaw accounting, human resources, facilities and anything else he saw that needed attended to that no one else was doing. However, he was not an accountant or a human resources specialist. His double major was Political Science (focusing on the then Soviet Union) and International Relations. He also had an MIM (Masters of International Management). Many positions he applied for they deemed him overqualified. He couldn’t do anything (short of lying) to prevent them from seeing him as overqualified but he could bring some focus into his resume. He decided to get certified in Human Resources.
I was holding together pretty well. It was nice having Doug home during the day. He enjoyed making stew so when I came home the house smelled welcome and wintery.
Between his severance and my income and some easy budgeting we were able to get by easily without ever touching our savings. We scaled back our mortgage payment to the minimum, canceled a periodical or two, I gave up my private piano lessons and piano pedagogy classes and we did very little buying. We explored free things to do which proved to be quite fun. For example, I remember a week during which the Schubert Club in downtown St. Paul offered a free concert every day at noon. We went to most of them. We also used the bus when we could to avoid the expense of driving. This was easier than I ever expected and we continued using the bus even after our income was up again.
One reaction we had to Doug’s job loss was surprising. Immediately and almost instinctively we looked around the house and asked “What can we get rid of?” Just when you’d think we’d take stock of what we had that was usable, we wanted to purge. So we cleaned up the basement and some closets and drawers and donated a lot of things to St. Vincent de Paul. If I were a better writer I could draw a parallel between the two. Let’s see, he loses his job against his will; we willingly rid ourselves of things we no longer need or want. It could be that his job was no longer needed or wanted and he just didn’t realize it. Perhaps in a time of need we decided to give. Maybe we were ready to live very basically – little income, a good amount of uncertainty, less stuff (and no new stuff), just the two of us existing together examining our lives at present and yet to come. Yes.
I am blessed and fortunate to be with someone as wonderful as Doug. Not only has he set a good example in his living, loved me actively, instilled in me an urgency and desire to learn, work with me to seek a better life for us inside and out and been great company all the while, he has worked hard to provide a very nice lifestyle for us. We have been able to travel, attend concerts, eat out, buy nice clothes and give gifts to friends and donate to charities. If I were single, I wonder (with not a little fear) where I’d be. I have always worked hard but I have never had high paying jobs. Without Doug, I’d likely not own a home nor would I enjoy the comfort of the savings we have. I would not have been able to afford to go back to school to study piano pedagogy as well as study piano or voice privately.
Yet, to be fair, I must be grateful to myself for becoming who I’ve become. I take genuine pleasure in simplicity – walks with Doug, storytelling, reading to someone or listening to someone read to me, gathering with friends and singing in someone’s home, parties that never leave the kitchen, on and on. I didn’t overreact by feeling sorry for myself, showing anger or panicking by running out and getting extra jobs that would have run me down in so many ways. I did get frustrated at times when I wondered if he was doing absolutely everything out there to find a job. I did put that in his face more than once. But I can honestly say that I held faith in Doug and the way he was handling the situation.
Doug was unemployed one other time in our years together. He quit a job (that in my opinion he should have quit months earlier) after putting up with a dishonest boss making him false promises and generally being used and abused by him. The weeks following were horrible. I cannot speak for Doug, but I think he was depressed. He stayed in his pajamas most of the days, watched a lot of TV and did almost nothing around the house while I worked teaching at the YMCA and a couple dozen or so piano students. This did not last long. But the memory of it is vivid to me. It was a scary time. What is fascinating to me is the opposite reactions he had to both job losses. When he was in control (he quit) he seemed to fall apart and give up. When he was fired (unjustly, in my limited, distant vantage point), he took control of everything around him. The night he came home that January with the news that he had been let go, we went out to dinner. We then planned a Caribbean cruise (using a travel voucher that the company had given him as a Christmas gift). I wonder if Doug felt guilty for leaving the fledgling start-up company. I had never considered that before now. He is a very loyal man – sometimes, by what I see, to a fault. So when he quit the company he proceeded to punish himself. Yet when someone forced him out he refused to stay down by building himself up to a point that he must be reckoned with. Laura Rose, psychological evaluations, free online.
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