Una poca de gracia pa mi pa ti!

Although I quit band before I finished high school, I picked it back up in college. (I was a piano performance major, and some sort of ensemble class was a requirement. I couldn’t see myself in the orchestra, so: Marching Mizzou!)

1992! (I think!)

During my sophomore year, Marching Mizzou traveled to Denver to march at a university football game and a Broncos game. I packed up all of my overnight stuff, I packed magazines and books for the bus ride, and I packed a few tiny bottles of alcohol. (Looking back I really have no idea how I did that because I was only 19. Maybe someone gave me a few tiny bottles of alcohol? Maybe I’m making up the part about the alcohol.)

When our bus broke down in Kansas, a friend of mine joked that we should grab our instruments and practice our show in the corn field beyond the smoking bus.

This is a photograph taken at the exact moment when I realized that I had left my instrument in my best friend’s car back at Mizzou.

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Because my timing is impeccable, I chose to approach our band director when he was on the phone trying to charter another bus.

Me: Mr. Ruebling?

Mr. R: I’m on the phone, Reiner. What do you need?

Me: Well, I need to tell you that my instrument is back in Columbia and I—

Mr. R: YOU will take care of this. YOU will get a replacement instrument. I don’t want to hear another word about it.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the ride to Colorado. I’m sure I spent it staring out the bus window and trying to figure out how in the hell I was going to conjure up a mellophone, which is a marching French horn in case you are curious. (A French horn’s bell faces the rear. The mellophone twists that bell around to the front so the horn player is now blowing through what looks like a fat trumpet.)

After the university band director in Colorado welcomed us to their school, I approached him and asked if I could borrow a mellophone until the game was over.

Colorado Band Director: You’re really lucky. We typically wouldn’t have an extra, but one of our mello players is out with a foot infection. You can borrow his horn!

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(If you know me at all, you know that I don’t want to talk about feet. I especially don’t want to hear the word Foot buddying up with the word Infection. AND, I don’t want to put my mouth on someone else’s horn, much less someone with a Foot Infection, but I was stuck.)

Me: That is awesome. Thank you!

(I won’t bore you with the rest of that day, although I WILL tell you that I celebrated something or other that evening by singing with a Mariachi band as they strolled around a Mexican restaurant. My memory is fuzzy.)

Because our marching show had a Batman theme (of course) and I was good friends with the piccolo player who was portraying Batman in the show, he allowed me to “play” his piccolo at the Broncos game the next day, and although it looked silly to be a lonely piccolo in a line of brass, I was grateful.

Fast forward 26 years to yesterday.

Meredith’s band was scheduled to play God Bless America at the Cardinals’ final home game. We splurged on tickets, we bought Meredith a Cardinals shirt to wear, we packed our bag with snacks, and off we went.

When we were a little over halfway there (20 minutes into our 40 minute drive), Meredith announced that she had left her instrument at home.

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We turned around, grabbed the instrument, and hauled ass to the stadium where Meredith and I jumped out of the car and ran to the entrance gate, rushed through security, ran down the ramp into the catacombs below the field, and eventually found the band right before their rehearsal started.

After leaving her with the band, I got lost trying to find my way from the catacombs to the main level. When I eventually located the ramp, I ended up right in front of a whiskey booth. (I know!) I haven’t had any sort of alcoholic beverage in 19 months. I almost broke that streak yesterday.

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The band played beautifully. The Cardinals lost, but we were able to sit by friends and the weather was perfect so I have zero complaints.

Biology IS destiny, and Harper will begin playing the clarinet in less than a year. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Biology is Destiny

After struggling with crappy sleep for more than a year I’ve finally decided to brand myself as someone who no longer sleeps. I know they say that practice makes perfect and if I started practicing now, I could probably play Rhapsody in Blue on the clarinet in about a decade or so. I also know that I could trade in all of my shoes for skates, yet I will NEVER skate as well as Dorothy Hamill. I will die having never done a back flip. It’s time to just roll with every single punch and So Be It. I no longer sleep.

(My mother just got a CPAP machine and she’s sleeping like a baby (one of the babies who sleep) for the first time in years and Confession: I’m a wee bit jealous.)

At 1:58 in the morning, I found myself in the bathroom looking in the mirror and clicking my teeth to the Soul Asylum songs in my head. Less than ten minutes ago, I accidentally hit myself in the face with a seven pound bag of apples, and that bag of apples had no business being above hip level because I was simply trying to move them from one countertop to another.

Do you remember my new doctor? The one I love? (I really don’t expect you to remember anything you read over here.) I saw her yesterday, and: 1. She gave me exercises for my shoulders. 2. She told me to get regular massages. 3. She recommended physical therapy for my shoulders and neck. 4. She recommended Botox injections to deaden my shoulder muscles. 5. She doubled my Celexa in an attempt to lessen my shoulder tension. 6. She noted my “profoundly low” B12 level and will be giving me a shot tomorrow. (My mother has been getting B12 shots for a dozen years. She’s also a knitter and has very short hair.)

While I sit over here in the corner thinking about a Gehenna tattoo, please know that the girls have been showcasing Jeff’s DNA. This evening we’ll be attending Meredith’s National Junior Honor Society induction. Last week Harper told us that not only did she make it into student council, but she is now the PRESIDENT of student council. I will rest (un)easy knowing that as I high five Edgar Allen Poe for describing sleep as “slices of death”, 75% of my family is Lake Wobegon-ing. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Cleaning House and a Mention of Milestones

Because I spend entirely too much time on Facebook, this week I made one of my smartest Facebook moves yet. (I’m making moves! On Facebook! Just watch me change the world!) Anyway, I visited the pages of each and every one of my friends and then asked myself the following question:

Does this person lift people up or tear people down?

If said person is mostly a lifter upper? They’re still in!
All tearer downers? Not unfriended, but no longer invited to hang their stuff on my wall.

After reading an article that Tempe sent this morning titled “The Rise of Victimhood Culture” I have determined that I mostly chill out in a dignity culture (as opposed to an honor culture). When aggrieved, I exercise covert avoidance, quietly cutting off relations without any confrontation. Some people may see my ghosting as a shitty way to handle relationships, but it has served me well over the years. Peaceful detoxification? Just as necessary as colonoscopies and flossing!

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those who lift. The world needs more people like you.

Last week I finished my 2015 cardigan. It fits better than any cardigan I’ve made, which can only mean that I’m finally getting to know myself better.

This website of mine will be fourteen years old one week from today, and fourteen is my favorite number because it used to be Doug Wickenheiser’s number when he played for the St. Louis Blues. Anyway, half of my words are located here and half of them are spread out in other places and Fluid Pudding has taken me from my weirdo single life in Nashville, Tennessee to my weirdo married with two kids life in St. Louis. It is one of my very favorite things, and I want to thank you for stopping by. Let’s eat apples and wear cardigans and celebrate by lifting each other up. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I know it feels like a Monday. I know. Holidays mess with everyone.

On Saturday morning, Jeff and I drove across the river to the capitol of Illinois to attend the wedding of one of my very favorite people. While there, I was able to see several of my other favorites—some who know me, and some who don’t. (I’ve had internet access for eighteen years, and it still widens my eyes.)

Oh, this wedding. It could not have been more perfect. The bride and groom were encircled by friends and family and that big circle of people was lit by dappled sun and everyone was smiling and: So Much Joy.

After the ceremony, I found myself sitting at a table with six people who have accomplished great things with their writing and because I love writers and I love weddings and I love hearing acorns being crunched and I love eating toast corners with egg slices and some sort of spread (I have no idea what those things were, but I can’t get them out of my head), I just kept thinking things like, “I want to be Better. At writing (and at social situations) and at life.” I’m just sort of grateful that we left before the music kicked up, because I was starting to feel carbonated, which means it was only a matter of minutes before my whirling dervish tendencies kicked in. (No one would want to see that.)

With Labor Day behind us, it feels like the summer is finally ending and you know how much I love it when the summer ends. Here’s hoping the end of summer also means the death of webworms because they’re ruining my life by running their tiny wispy ropes in a design that makes it impossible for me to walk from my garage to the mailbox, and my neighbors think I’m batty for driving twenty feet from garage to mailbox, but I don’t care what they think anymore because I just need to not feel webs on my face ever again. Ever again. (I want to be Better. At writing (and at social situations) and at life.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>