G-FLAT MAJOR

It has been written that the benefits of playing music help your brain more than any other activity, so yesterday I sat down to a new piece of music all excited to stretch my fingers and my mind. And what did I find? Someone decided it would just be a dandy idea to arrange it in the key of G flat major. To those of you who are not intimate with the different keys music can be arranged in, this means there would be six flats. Six… Flats. In order to have this happen, that means the 6^th flat needs to be C.

When I sit down at the keyboard I sit at middle C. It’s called middle C because it’s in the middle of the keyboard. For those not initiated in the layout of the keyboard, C is a white key with only a sharp black key to the right that is in close proximity.

I’ve had a little chat with the C key and it appears it doesn’t enjoy being flat. It’s not made to be flat. When a composer chooses to write a piece in the G-flat major key, that means that C is now being played as a B. Because, you see, there is no black key to the left of C. The only key to the left is a B. Being the C key is a privilege and an honor, it tells me, and it doesn’t like being relegated to being a half baked B. It’s not right, it’s not fun and it hurts C’s feelings.

I know this doesn’t make sense to many of you not familiar with the keyboard and I’m trying to describe my frustration. But I’m now getting frustrated in trying to relay my frustration. The playing of the keyboard is both simple and complex, both beautiful and intricate. All ten fingers going different directions at the same time in order to touch these stunning ivories. The brain making shifts in key changes, tempo and trying hard to keep up ahead of the fingers as they fly.

It is well known that playing a piece in the key of C is the easiest of challenges. No concrete sharps or flats; only those that appears occasionally in the course of the music. At the other end of the spectrum is a piece written in all sharps or all flats. If a sharp is written in, my brain has to read the note as C sharp and adjust the fingers accordingly. But C flat? Come on folks. This is just cruel to my brain.

This arranger expects the my neurons to fire on all cylinders. That would be the perfect scenario. But, alas, that is not the case. I haven’t been on all cylinders for quite a while and definitely haven’t in the world of playing the piano. What’s a magical mess to do? Should she tackle the G flat Major piece? Should she put it away in favor of a simpler sheet of music? Should she give up on this blog because while proof reading it, she’s found it gives her a headache? She can only imagine what it will do to her blog readers.

This entry is indeed a mess but it follows my mind accurately. So I’ve decided to post it in hopes that a few will understand and those of you who don’t will forgive.

I title this “ The Magic of Cooking” instead of “The Joy of Cooking” as there was no joy to be had in my kitchen this last weekend. I foolishly and yet typically decided to try three new recipes … at one time … in one day. Never before had I made these dishes and yet somehow I believed it was a good idea to lump their trials into one glorious meal for the husband.

Pinterest played a hand in this providing me with said recipes and ideas. Somehow it always makes me believe trying something new will be simple, delicious and quick. Maybe one of these dishes would have been, but all three at one time … not so much.

I started out the day choosing my menu, making a list of ingredients, and shopping wisely. No problem. I’ve done this hundreds of times before. I carted all of the goods home and started to assemble the individual items mentioned in all of the recipes.

The roasted beets and carrots in a maple glaze was going to be paired with lemon chicken scallopini in a tarragon/shallot cream sauce with turmeric vegetable rice on the side. It sounded like a great meal for the husband with leftovers for the next day.

In surveying the pile of ingredients I started to mentally plan what I needed to do first, second and so on. Chopping up all of the vege seemed like a great idea to start. Out came the carrots, shallots, assorted vegetables for the rice and onions. Chopping ensued, piles were made and then it was time for the beets.

If you’ve ever peeled, sliced, then cubed a fresh beet you may understand the blood bath that happened on my cutting board. It looked like I had fresh body parts splayed out with red “juice” running everywhere. My knife looked like Jack the Ripper had owned it. My hands were that of a mass murderer. My apron resembled one worn by Sweeney Todd. All this over only four beets. At last my chopping spree ended and the clean up of the autopsy room proceeded. I wasn’t even a half hour into my meal creation and already I had to scrub the kitchen down.

I squared my shoulders and straightened out my thoughts. On with the show, I thought, and started in on the rice. Not too hard sauteing the shallots, vegetables and herbs. Not too hard adding chicken stock and rice. Setting it to a nice simmer I felt refreshed and emboldened. One down, two to go.

Out came the chicken to come up to room temperature. The recipe said to season liberally, lightly dust with flour and saute in a combination of butter/olive oil. I’ve done this procedure too many times to count in my cooking life so I thought nothing of this step.

What I forgot, and continually seem to forget, is that I have a new stove that is light years ahead of my 20 year old Jennair. It’s faster, more powerful and even plays a tune when the timer goes off. So, when the recipe said to saute the chicken on medium high heat for six minutes on each side I should have adjusted that instruction to read medium low heat for three minutes a side. Alas, I did not. And to add insult to injury I stepped away into another room to do a chore, leaving that chicken in butter to get blistering hot and start to smoke. All of this happened at a fast rate of speed. So fast that I couldn’t hear the little tune the range was making at the end of six minutes because the smoke alarm was screaming, “Smoke, danger, clear the area. Smoke, danger, clear the area.”

Well, that’s just great. My house was filling with smoke, my alarm was yelling at me, my chicken breasts had a thin black skin on them, and if I didn’t hurry my own breasts would become smoky black in hue.

I opened up every window and door in the near vicinity, reset the smoke alarm, peeled off the black portion from the healthy portion of the chicken breasts, took a peak at my own to make sure they were still pink,  took a deep, haze filled breath and started to retrieve what little sanity and cooking skills I had left.  As the air cleared,  I realized I needed to get the beet/carrot mixture in the oven to roast. I also realized I had to make up the sauce the chicken was going to finish cooking in. I also realized the husband hadn’t batted an eye. So much for coming to my rescue, I thought. Or, had this scenario happened once too often in our 38 years of wedded bliss that he just figured he wouldn’t panic until the flames came near and I was passed out on the kitchen floor with smoke inhalation. Quite possibly this went through his mind, although he never said a word about it to me.

By now every pot and pan and cooking utensil I owned was doing some sort of job in the preparation of my creations. Lids were flying, spatulas and whisks were stirring, every burner on the stove was in use, when it suddenly occurred to me Julia Child would be very, very disappointed. She would probably even shake her wooden spoon at me in disgust.

At last, every dish was made and either simmering on the stove top or in the oven to roast. I breathed a sign of relief that it all came together in the end. And then … I surveyed the kitchen. Pots and lids were everywhere because, of course, I couldn’t use just one when it came caramelizing onions, creating a sauce, blanching vegetables, cooking rice, “browning” the chicken. No, I had to use a separate pan for each of these steps. Why? Because I have that many pans and I thought I should use them all. With pans came utensils and I have a drawer full. Out they came and use them all I did.

The stove top was covered with bits of everything I flung in the pans, plus butter that flew when the chicken became too hot. The cutting board still showed evidence of the beet murder and the sink was filling up with the various bowls needed to stage this bloody coup of the kitchen. It was a crime scene at it’s finest, the bludgeoning of a meal, menu-slaughtering.  Oh, the inhumanity of it all.

As with every crime scene it took twice as long to clean it all up as it did to commit. Soap suds, cleaning disinfectant and a lot of sponges and paper towels gave their life for this epicurean spread. It did turn out and was delicious but oh, the sacrifice. The husband was happily fed, the clean up was completed, but that meal cost me dearly. It cost me my hubris in thinking I was Julia’s twin; it cost me time out of a busy afternoon; it cost me a t-shirt soaked with beet juice that I can’t possible save. (It looked like I had been riddled with machine gun fire.)

But, in retrospect, isn’t that what trying new things is all about? Taking the chance that things will go wrong and agreeing to go with the flow? I went with the flow, alright, and ended the day in exhaustion. But, I mastered those new recipes by learning exactly what not to do. Pretty much everything I did I should never do again, ever.

And with age, smoke and beets comes wisdom.

You either get a great vacation or a great story.

The best laid plans of mice and men, often go awry.

The path to adventure is not always paved in glory.

There’s no guarantee you’ll get your piece of the pie.

 

A trip to see the lights of New York City

can end up getting stuck in the Holland tunnel.

Instead of climbing to the top of Madam Liberty,

You’re trapped on a ferry in your best flannel.

 

That weekend at Disney World that should have been so magical,

has morphed into wearing mouse ears and hiding from your family.

It’s been hijacked by teenagers who are quite tyrannical.

You’re broke, now, both emotionally and financially.

 

Hawaii beckons and you heed the siren’s song.

Flip flops and mu mus become the fashion of the day.

But one step too many on a hike gone wrong,

Can end in the ER and never dancing the ballet.

 

So, you see, not all sojourns end up as equal,

some may seem like a ruinous disaster.

But keep in mind, as long as they’re not illegal

the telling of the story can elicit much laughter.

 

In the end, it’s all about the adventure,

the getting out of tedium and routine.

So pick your self up and from now and hereafter,

say nix to the planned and embrace the unforeseen.

The piano has 88 keys, 52 white, 36 black and through the years I have touched and loved every single one of them. I first learned the piano at the tender age of six but didn’t really appreciate my knowledge until I was twelve. It was that year I figured out I could pick up any piece of music and, through practice and determination, play what I wanted. That was it for me, I had a crush on my piano that morphed into all out devotion.

Sitting at middle C gives me a thrill. All of the possibilities, all of the tunes, all of the notes. Those extra high notes clear at the right hand of the piano, sounding so pure and innocent. I’ve only touched them briefly as in a trill or an extra long set of scales. Then there are the bass notes, deep, sexy, meant to touch your soul.

I’ve gone through dry spells of not playing, just dusting and using him as a display piece. That is not how he should be treated. And yet, life got in the way and he languished by the side lines.

Yes, I’ve designated my piano a “he.” No woman could ever make me feel the way I do when I sit at his keyboard. It may sound sexist but no woman can give me that deep, heart thumping, mind splitting sound when I run my fingers all the way down to the low notes and just pause there, letting the sound reverberate through me and into the room. Good grief, it sounds like I’m having an affair.

The husband occasionally enjoys sitting while I master the ivories and I just realized that sounds a lot like a menage a trois.

Just recently I’ve come to the conclusion that he needs to play a bigger role in my life. Learning to play was earned and should be respected. So, last week out came some sheet music, keys were dusted and polished and I sat down to see if I could remember what to do.

It appears I can see the music and have my hands go through the appropriate motions but have no knowledge of why. I’ve buried music theory so far in the back of my brain that its file folder is lost. Why my hands can still fly over the keys without my brain engaging is a mystery to me. The muse calls it muscle memory. (Although he refers to that phrase in a totally different context.)

Now I am determined to relearn and polish my skills. Old loves do not go away. They just reside in the back of your mind ready to surface when you most need them. I plan to bring this love to the fore front and reconnect in a magnificent way. I may even take lessons again to hone this craft.

I love those keys and strings and what they can produce. I love the feel, the sound and the look of them. I love this instrument above all others. Yes, it is my life long affair and the husband is okay with that.

ITTY BITTY’S BIRTHDAY PLANS

Summer is fast approaching and in my family that means three different birthdays spaced three weeks apart. The first one that comes along is for The Boss Baby. He will be turning three. From here on out he will be known as Smalls as in the movie “Sandlot” Smalls. Oh, he still is a bossy boy but not technically a baby so I’ve moved on to a more appropriate name. I am looking forward to the day I can say, “Smalls, you’re killing me” and he will know what that means.

The second birthday in line is for my son. Somehow a grown man’s party pales in comparison to his sons.

The third of these three important land marks is Itty Bitty who is turning the ripe old age of eight. Eight years in age, smart as a whip and eclectic in his tastes.

He is now old enough to voice his opinion on themes for his special day and this year he has chosen … “Queen.” Yes, you read that right, this boy has a special affinity to the 70’s rock band Queen. He plays Bohemian Rhapsody over and over and is this close to being able to sing it all. He practices this alone in his room, dedicated to being able to perform this song in it’s entirety. Unfortunately, little brother (Smalls) likes to join in. Not with any correct words, mind you, just babbling along with the tune.

This annoys Itty Bitty to no end. He stops, he stares, he chases Smalls from the room, he starts over again. Only to be interrupted again. It’s hard to hone your singing craft with an interloper trying to make it a duet. On and on this goes until Itty Bitty has had enough and yells which then causes Smalls to erupt in a fit of epic proportions. It’s not easy being Itty Bitty or Smalls. Life is unjust for the young.

But back to the Queen birthday. How this is going to be executed is only known by Itty Bitty and his mom. I have gleaned a few details, such as mustaches and microphones for everyone with Queen music playing in the back ground. I personally think Itty Bitty should dress in white jeans, a “wife beater” (I hate that phrase) tee shirt, and a studded arm band. The food should be 70’s themed, (can we say fondue?).

But, let’s not forget the rest of the band. My personal favorite is the drummer, Roger Taylor. Drummers have always had my heart, or more precisely my crush. Maybe it’s the soul thumping beat, the upper body strength, or the deftness of the sticks but it’s always about the drummer for me. So I think a small portion of this birthday party should recognize the heart beat of the band. But, it’s not my party and I’m not going to cry about it.

As I shared my grandson’s fascination with Queen to a co-worker, she shared with me a birthday party for her four year old cousin with a Mama Mia theme. There was a stage with the theme song playing, a microphone and various feather boas. Boys and girls of all ages were welcomed up on stage to recreate the magic of ABBA. And who do you think did the best job? Why yes, the birthday boy. He listens to it several times a day to the quiet distraction of his mom who wants to tear her hair out. ABBA has always been catchy, with an up beat flavor, but the question is, can a stay at home mom listen to this several times a day for many days in a row and not slowly but surely so stark raving mad? We shall see.

In telling of these celebration plans I find myself delighted in the thought that the very young are appreciating the music of my youth. They are bringing back the foot stomping, heart pounding, joyous music. I listen to more up to date music on my car’s radio occasionally but so far nothing can get my heart stirring like classic rock. It’s just not the same. There is nothing like the beat of Queens “We will Rock You,” or the soaring feeling of “We Are the Champions.” But one of my all time favorites is “Fat Bottom Girls Make the Rocking World Go Round” …….. for obvious reasons.

Who knew a seven year old boy and his Nana could enthusiastically find common ground with music from another century. They don’t call it classic for nothing.

The day started out like any other, up at five, at work by six thirty, scheduled MRI at eight o’clock. WHAT? Yes, I had an MRI, the first one in my life. I thought I would be able to go through my years and die peacefully without ever having one…..but no. My left knee is on the fritz and nothing is helping. Not physical therapy, not a steroid injection, not massive doses of ibuprofen or Tylenol. Nothing is helping this knee of mine. Pain, throbbing, stabbing, aching, stiffness, instability…oh yes, I’ve got them all.

So, after spending three months trying different remedies, it was now time for the MRI. That big magnet that magically, at least to me, shows the body part cut into layers laterally, vertically, horizontally, basically every which way.

Having worked in the radiology world for a couple of decades I know the basics of an MRI. I know what the tube looks like, I know how long the scan takes, I know that there is a knocking noise. I also know not to wear any metal inside the room as that big ass magnet will suck it right off or out of you. (I don’t know how the multiply pierced public of Portland carries this off.) (There’s even some talk of the old dyes used in tattoos having metal in them. Can you imaging being the tattooed man and climbing in the MRI tube only to find your body starting to burn? Yikes. Maybe when you were twenty-two and getting the all over body tattoos you should have thought of turning fifty and having your body fall apart and needing an MRI. But no, you went for the mural on skin look. Now, where did that get you?)

Anyway, back to me. What I didn’t have any knowledge of were the various sounds that accompany the scanning. There is knocking and whirring; spinning and crunching; buzzing and humming along with an occasional squeak. It’s all a cacophony of sounds in a very mechanical orchestra. These are repeated over the course of the session in different sequences and order. Just when you get used to one sound it will quickly change over to a variation of a sound you heard 10 minutes ago. My scan took thirty minutes and in that time I was accompanied by many different parts of the MRI sonata. All of this with a radio station playing in the background. Needless to say I was fascinated and that thirty minutes flew by.

But even fifteen minutes without moving my knee means I have to hobble to walk anywhere. After thirty I ended up looking like an old, old woman with a stiff leg and a pronounced limp.

Upstairs I went to my orthopedist only to find out I have a meniscus tear. Yep, that little pad that sits between your thigh bone and your leg bone has a tear in it and is causing pain, suffering, limping, groaning and all around being a big baby. So we decided that surgery was just the thing to alleviate the pain. He’s basically going to go in and shave?, cut?, whittle? that tear away and I’ll be as good as new. Eventually. I have a ways to go before I hit new. Physical therapy, weight loss, healthy eating – all to be done to help the knee heal. New may still seem far away. Perhaps skin sculpting, face lifting, tummy tucking and sun spot bleaching will do it. Yes, I can just see that new body off in the horizon.

Now you and I know that will never happen. Besides, I’ve learned to love me as my sixty-three year old self. I’m still a cute, funny redhead just older and wiser. I dye my hair because, hello, we tend to turn pink as we age. And while that is all the rage, it’s not the kind of gentle, soft pink one would want. I try to keep up on my skin care routine and am doing a good job of it. But, and this is a big but, where are my eyebrows going? Have they decided to escape hair by hair in the hopes I won’t notice until they are all gone and safe in their hiddy hole? I am now penciling them in and that usually seems to turn out different every time. I look surprised one day, a little down another day, quizzical the day after that. I really need to get a grip on the eyebrow pencil and my magnifying mirror.

The age spots on my hands concern me so I’m buying special lotion for them. Have you ever noticed that a woman can look decades younger through great skin care and make up, or maybe a little surgery. But, look at her hands and there you have it, her actual age. Ladies, don’t forget your hands.

Looks like I started out with my medical condition and segued into my cosmetic condition. And that it how my mind really works.

So, enough about me. How is your week going?

A few weeks ago, it was a Tuesday to be exact, I arrived at work determined to: A. give my patient’s my best and B. get an injection for my painful left knee. The knee had been bothering me for an age and was only getting worse. Since I work for an orthopedic group, I am familiar with the steps one should try before agreeing to surgery. My next step was a steroid injection. I had an appointment at 10:00.

Upon arriving at work I was notified they needed me to work with a different provider then my usual one. No problem, I thought, he’s amusing, easy to work for and has great poster art in his exam rooms. Around the corner I went and started my day. At 10:00 I had the knee injection. This consisted of the steroid Kenalog for long-term use and Lidocaine for short-term. The Licodaine kicked in within 10 minutes but I knew it would only last 6-8 hours. That would be enough to get me through the day.

Work went on at a brisk pace and the knee felt amazing. I even forgot I had a bad knee and practically skipped through the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon. At 2:30 on the dot I went out to get my next patient and realized that the elderly woman who was bent over like a paper clip sporting a walker was my target. I gently called her name and when she got up and shuffled forward it was like watching a Carol Burnett skit with Tim Conway as the “lil old man.” Step by step she inched forward. I assured her we didn’t have to hurry and she could take her time. Around the corner, through the door, around two more corners and we were finally at the exam room.

I did the proper rooming sequence and called for the doctor to enter. Two minutes later out came the doctor and the patient. Seems she had to use the restroom immediately. As she walked to the restroom door she stated, “I feel dizzy.” Quick as lightning a chair was pushed under her and 3 medical assistants plus the doctor were taking her vitals. As this was happening she also announced she had to go to the bathroom NOW. What she didn’t mention was she was actively going to the bathroom … now. Her vitals were normal and when asked if she was still dizzy, she answered no. Up we got her and into the bathroom she went.

I proceeded about my task of taming a mound of paperwork and lo and behold ten minutes went by with not a peep out of my patient. I knocked on the bathroom door and heard, “Help, I’m in trouble in here.” Upon opening the door I witnessed she was indeed in trouble and apparently so was I.

My poor patient had just pooped herself silly. It was on the floor, running down her legs, all over the toilet and filling her Depends. Alrighty, then. As I backed out of that room my main thought was “NOOOOOOOOO, NOT POO”. Then I had a strong desire to run, run straight and run fast to the nearest exit. But fortunately I quickly came to my senses, gathered up my courage and started collecting the equipment I would need to help my patient. I donned gloves, a mask, grabbed a hazardous waste bag, said a prayer and leapt back into the fray.

You need to understand, this situation is not in my wheel house. I chose orthopedics because it was mainly “clean” and didn’t deal with any of the bodily excretions. I had never in my life seen this much poop. But, because this was my patient and I felt I had no right to pass this on to someone else, I swallowed hard and went in to do my duty with the doody.

Twenty minutes later after using a whole stack of paper towels, two hazmat bags and a roll of toilet paper, I had cleaned the floor, the patient, the toilet and the sink. I had taken off the soiled Depends and put on new ones. I had scraped drying poo off her legs. I had kneeled on the bad knee without even realizing it. I turned myself into a paperclip getting up and under and everywhere that poo was located. I “went in” four times to make sure nothing was left. At one point I flipped her skirt over her head in order not to drag it through the poo. I changed her Depends, flushed the toilet multiple times, double bagged the paper products. Somewhere in amongst all of this she had taken off her shoes. At this point I told her, “Do not step away, go nowhere, do not make the slightest move.” Finally I felt it safe to escort her out into the hall and sit her down in order to get her shoes on.

That day we decided that wasn’t just a number two. It had surpassed that number by leaps and bounds. Three might not cover it either but to skip to four is unthinkable.

So, there ends my day of poo. I hope never again in my life time to encounter such as this, but who knows? Life is full of poo and sometimes it’s hard to avoid. When my patient is one of the most vulnerable of the population it is time for me to step up, no matter my personal abhorrence to poo.

By the way, the next day the Lidocaine had worn off and the Kenalog had not quite kicked in. I could hardly bear weight on the left knee. I hobbled through much of the morning and decided to give up on the afternoon and went home. The next day I was unofficially awarded the Poop award of my department. Perhaps not my proudest moment but after all, I did what needed to be done.