The Violin as a Weapon

One can all it insomnia. Maybe inquietude sounds more profound. Perhaps it's simply nighttime restlessness. However one describes it, I look and feel like the "before" half of a Lunesta commercial. I need to be asleep now because I was awake late last night, and I must be up reasonably early in the morning for a full day of activity.

I'm tired; that's not the issue. The problems is just that sleep won't come though my body and my mind both know I need to be asleep. I think I'm harboring fears of the dorm though God knows I'm old enough to be there. I just don't want to be. but if I don't spend at least half my nights there, how can I be prepared to be in an apartment all by myself next year?

I'm not doing the Craig's list thing for next year for a roommate even if I'm lucky enough to end up with a fellow medical student. While having another body there could be comforting in some ways, I can't know this person before I move in with her. How can I know she won't duplicate the key to the front door and give a copy to every guy she knows? I cannot deal with a roommate and her boyfriend du jour having loud, passionate coitus that I have to listen to through parchment-thin walls. My second year, once I've had a chance to get to know some of the others, a roommate might be an option, but for the first year, I can't know anyone well enough to trust her or him (I'm told some of the best roommates are males) well enough to share an apartment. Most med schools have student apartments in the vicinity. Residents have first choice, but then med school students have a crack at what's left over. Some schools give priority in order of class, while others give priority to groups of two. Others couldn't care less as long as a person comes up with a deposit and first and last month's rent. In general, it's to the school's benefit not to favor groups of two, because utilities are generally included in rent, and one person uses less water and power than do two.

Perhaps it's immaturity on my part, and it's not as though I'll never encounter it in the dorms, but the idea that one roommate is paying rent, but another one is showing up to spend the night on a regular basis for free, messing the place up but not cleaning up after himself, using the bathroom when I might like to be using it, and then causing me to have to scrub the tub anytime I want to take a bath because I don't want to soak in all the filth of civilization from some male I barely know. (Chances are that I'd scrub it after my female roomie used it as well, but that's just one person after whom I'd have to scrub, and she at least would have paid for the privilege of using the shower/tub combo.)

I could get lucky and get a Mormon girl for a roomie, but not many of them go to med school, and even if they do, they're probably already married. I could get a Seventh-Day Adventist roomie as well, but most of them go to Loma Linda, and I'm not even applying there.

I'm lucky in that I haven't yet touched my college money --even the part my parents have saved for me -- and will still have some of my original college scholarship money as well. I also have money my Godparents have put away for me. I also have a job offer for once I've finished with my violin recital that will pay about $20.00 an hour, which I will probably take. All of this combined gives me the luxury of not needing to have a roommate. Once I've spent a year at the school and have gotten to know people, there's probably not a great reason to find someone with whom I can live compatibly, but for the first year, I need to be in the apartment alone.

A positive aspect to living in med school and resident quarters is that relatively few axe murders happen on the premises. Also, I should get to know neighbors fairly quickly, as we all have something in common regardless of our stage on the road to MD and board certification in a specialty. I can clue them in to thugs who could conceivably be on the lookout for me. There won't be an alarm system, but the university probably wouldn't have a problem with my Godfather having one installed.

All of those things, however, are just reasons why I need to be in an apartment, and most likely by myself next year. The reality for now is that I'm moving into the dorms as preparation for living in an apartment. My Uncle Michael and my Uncle Scott have both offered to come and get me at any time of the night if I'm too afraid or too embarrassed to drive to my parents' home if I'm scared or uncomfortable during the night. My parents say I can come home any time and at any hour. (They say that, but I'm not sure how thrilled they'll be after the tenth night or so of my actually doing it.) The reality of the dorms is creeping closer and closer.

We had to fill out questionnaires. The primary purpose was to ensure, as much as possible, compatibility between roommates, which I will not have, but I filled one out because there are situations I'd rather not have in the rooms on either side of me. I don't particularly care what goes on across the hall unless it's too loudly pornographic. My primary issue is that I do not want to hear the sounds of sex at night when I need to sleep. In the daytime I can crank up the music or find somewhere else to study or practice. At night, options are more limited, plus I need to sleep, not study or practice for the most part.

It's a terribly rude thing to do to a roommate, anyway. Most students other than frat rats and their ilk wouldn't have sex with a third party in the room, or at least I'd like to think that they wouldn't, but someone might hang something on the door as a sign for a few hours of privacy (which is asking an awful lot after 11:00 p.m.), but there will be other nights when the roommates may be elsewhere for the night, and the lovers have privacy. My mom said if anyone on either side of me is rude enough to have sex loudly enough that I can actually hear what's going on, I should pull out my violin and play the most loudly obnoxious music I can think of. If others complain and the senior resident shows up, I'll just explain that I was drowning out sex. Sex really isn't supposed to happen in the dorms, but it's overlooked as long as it doesn't get out of hand.

If others will be discreet so that I don't have to know everything from their preferred positions to just what sounds they make immediately preceding the big O, I can deal with it. I'll also try headphones, but I'm not sure I can easily grow accustomed to the pressure on my ears to the extent that I can actually sleep with the things on my head.

Anyway, I think it is my concerns about the living in dorm and even the future apartment situation, which is a whole year away, that are keeping me awake. I wish I could wish the worries away, but it's not so simple. I wonder if one of my many doctor relatives would cough up a Lunesta prescription. It might make getting up in the morning a bit more difficult, but I can shower in the evening, and my earliest class, which I only have one day a week, is at 9:00. Other classes don't begin until 9:30 or 10:00.

It's funny, but I never really thought of a violin as being a weapon, but against people who have loud and crude sex while others are trying to sleep, it might prove to be an exceptionally good defensive or offensive tactic.

Status Quo

NOT my dorm room
Now that I've forced the computer to at least divide sections of writing into paragraphs, I'll probably stay here. I like the my background. On the other hand, it sucks not to be able to change fonts or font sizes, or to insert videos, or, for that matter, to use spell-check, which is a valuable tool for a typist as poor as I. whatever. I don't think it was a computer or Bolgspot malfunction, but perhaps I'm paranoid and it was. If anyone knows how to repair these defects, please clue me in. My dad has no time to look at my computer. (He's busy looking for cures for leukemia and lymphoma. He says that whenever he doesn't want to do something. I happen to know he's holed up in his office [which has a TV now that I'm too old to be sent there for time-outs] watching ESPN Classic.)

This is my last Monday off for a long time. I should not complain about my week, though, as my only day with classes is Thursday, and I only have two classes on Thursday. I will practice with three of the people I'm accompanying for their senior recitals. It's ovrkill, as their recitals are not intil November. You usually get two rehearsals with your accompanist, and these people will probably get five because of my immense generosity. it's all good, though, as I could't live with myslef if I screwed up someone's senior recital.

My Godmother is coming tomorrow to put the finishing touches on my dorm room. Most of the stuff was delivered yesterday and today. She's bringing bedding, pictures, etc.

Living in the dorms --even when I know I can go home anytime I feel like it, 24 hours of the day -- is still going to be a real trip. I haven't been around people my own age since fourth grade. I'm fine with all their silliness as long as they don't leave their popcorn in the microwave for too long and cause the alarm to go off and everyone to have to evacuate at 3:00 a.m. I also don't want people throwing up in the halls. I hear the boys are worse about that than the girls, but I may be wrong. Their noise I can handle. I'm more worried about my noise if I have a nightmare than the stupid noises they may make.

I'll help my Godmother apply the finishing touches to the dorm room, and we'll go out to lunch with my mom. Then I'll put in more practice. I wish it weren't too late to scrap the piano rectial, but my mom says that would be foolish, as the piano is my major instrument.

This blog is ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the ord and to make as much noise as you want as long as you don't smoke up the dorms and set the fire alrms ogf with your microwave popcorn.

possibly the end, but I'll begin again in a new location

I will probably soon drop this blog and start another. someone has presumably hacked me. The most recent change was that the ability to divide my blog into paragraphs has been disabled. Whoever did this, I hope you are very proud of yourself. I'll try a few more things, but then I'll need to start over. I'll leave the new link here.

The Future

This is such an overdone topic for anyone my age. Do we ever live in the present, or are we continuously mapping out what's down the road for us? I've been aware of this tendency for awhile and have tried hard not to dwell on the future too much, but it's impossible or at least highly impractical not to be impacted by it just a bit. The people living or spending much of their time on what I refer to as our campus community's Bourbon Street probably don't give a great deal of thought to their futures beyond where their next bottle of vodka or fix of a more potent variety is coming, but for the rest of us, if we're even semi-serious students, it's tough to dwell on the present and not to let our thoughts be taken up with what we'll be doing next semester, next year, four years from now, or in ten years.

It's not a phenomonon unique to university students. People beginning their careers but looking to move upward, young parents trying to financially plan for their children's educations, middle-aged mid-life-crisisers [I know I just made up my own word there], those approaching old age who wonder how best to ensure that they will be cared for whe they can no longer care for themselves, and those facing imminent mortality who wonder what comes next -- people at every stage of life dwell upon the future. Neither is it a tendency new to humanity. I think it was the twelfth chapter of Luke that discussed the lilies and their beauty "though they toil not" and other aspects of not worrying so much about the future.

Still, I'm at a critical juncture in my life. I didn't want to jinx anything by discussing it, but I've already taken the MCAT. Much of the time I was supposedly lolling around on the beach, I was taking prep courses and studying. My brother took the test on the same day I did. We should have results in October at some time. Medical school is my first choice, but I'm hedging my bets by taking the law school admissions test as well. I'm still not certain I'll go to law school (even if admitted to one of my choosing) if I don't get into medical school this time. It does give me one more option. I may, instead, get a masters in a science-related field, possibly take the MCAT again, and throw the dice one more time. I feel as though if I give up on medical school even if I'm rejected this time, I'll be settling, and I really don't want to settle.

My LSAT is scheduled for December. I'm taking the prep course and I am studying. How much I study depends upon how prepared I feel for my violin recital. I can't see jeopardizing something that's been documented as a major factor in medical school acceptance for something that I'll do only if I have no other options. Still, it isn't entirely unwise to hedge one's bets.

I'll begin scheduling medical school interviews as soon as MCAT scores are reported. My current plan is to attempt to stay in California for medical school, but I will not put all my eggs in that basket and end up gaining acceptance nowhere. I'm also looking at U. of Nevada - Reno, a place in east Tennessee, and University of Washington, which actually covers about five states, including Idaho, in the city where my aunt and uncle live. Between the three out-of-state schools and the seven California schools to which I apply, if I'm not admitted somewhere, it wasn't meant to be. Ten is a large number of interviews. I have a very light courseload in anticipation of the interviews, but ten is still a considerable number. If I have any dead time when waiting around before or after interviews, I'll probably hike or take a cab over to the main university with my violin and find a practice room. Most of the interviews will take place before my recital, and I'll have to make any spare minute count.

Soon enough, this portion of my life will be history, and I'll have some new aspect of my future over which to obsess.

Almost There

My supervisors don't show me as much deference as this man is presumably showing Mr. Prez.

I was supposed to show up at noon today, but the fog lifted early, so I arrived at 11:00, and the head honcho said I could start my shift early because there was plenty of work.  I did all sorts of things - a WBC count, a possible leukemia slide (they'll re-test and follow up to verify before delivering any news like that) and an analysis of a kidney stone, which is near and dear to my own heart [sarcasm font].  We

We measured the stone, then compared for overall appearance to make an educated guess as to its composition. We then broke it and put different sections into different solutions to test for reaction. It ended up being the usual, which is the good old calcium oxalate stone.  It wasn't especially large - 5 mm by 6 mm, but plenty large enough to cause its bearer some intense pain. The bad news is that calcium or calcium oxalate are the most likely to reoccur. Having given birth to just one of the things, I can sympathize.

I typed up six reports of lab findings. Of course my reports are always checked for accuracy by one of the real employees, as it wouldn't do to send out a report from a college intern without a professinal checking the report for accuracy.  Nothing needed to be changed on any of my reports. The only suggestion given to me was that I tended to be wordier than necesary in the report. My supervisor said use complete sentences if I must, but make it to the point so the doctor receiving it doesn't have to read the equivalent of  Gone with the Wind to determine whether or not a patient has HIV. My reports weren't so wordy that the superviser  redid  anything; he just told me to try to be a little more succinct in the future. I hope I'm able to do at least one or two tomorrow in the three hours I work so that  I can attempt to be less wordy.

Tonight when I finished work and arrived at my aunt's and uncle's house, it was close to dinner time. After dinner, I was, as usual, bombarded with requests from my cousins to play games. I played one game of chess with each of them. My uncle says I can toy with them a bit occasionally to lengthen the game, but that I should not ever allow them to win unless they're beating me on their on because he doesn't want them to get the idea that they're smarter or better than they actually are. He prefers, in fact, that I play them as I would any adult, so that they can measure their progress by how they do against me, which is tough to do if I'm deliberately making mistakes to prolong the game. I then played both of them and Uncle Steve in Scrabble.  We do allow them to occasionally browse the dictionary, which would be considered cheating  under orthodox Scrabble rules, but it levels the playing ground a bit and keeps them from being total non-contenders.

I ended up beating Uncle Steve by a mere two points. I don't usually beat him. I think the difference for me is the obscure vocabulary I've picked up in some of my more esoteric classes. Uncle Steve challenged my use of the word leptokurtic. We use Oxford Unabridged dictionary,so the weird words I've picked up from classes are usually in there, and we also allow internet sources to check on specialized terms. If I pull one more word in the leptokurtic category and he challenges and loses, I'll likely be able to make up words at will that he won't dare challenge. Tomorrow I'm working from 10:30 to 1:30, then heading home. My Uncle Michael and Uncle Steve and their families are coming to my parents' house for dinner. The children will all want to play with each other, plus Matthew and my cousin who left his mission early will be there, and they're both much more exciting attractions than I am. I can practice and sleep until dinner without any interference from children. My godmother is coming to decorate my dorm room on Monday. The dorm was short one bed because some overweight freshman had sex on a bed and broke it, so my aunt told them she didn't mind providing a bed herself. She found a twin-style bed that also has a bed that folds under it in the event that I have company. It will have a Westin mattress on top, so it will be high off the ground, but that does not bother me. She'll use similar color schemes to what I have in my room because it's the most homey for me, and when I'm in an apartment next year, I can take various stuff from home and from the dorm to furnish my apartment. She bought the sofa that I can't remember if I showed anyone that looks like a piano keyboard. It's not terribly comfy, but it's cute. I'll move into the dorms officially on Wednesday. It is not as though my parents are getting rid of me totally, because I will do most of my practicing at home each day, as I don't want any of the competition to know just what it is I'm working on. Depending upon my next-door neighbors, I should be able to practice in the dorm a bit. I don't want to abuse my dorm neighbors' charity, but an hour a day on violin doesn't seem excessive, and I have a digital piano with weighted keys mfor which I can use headphones. It's at least as good as the pianos available in the practice rooms in the music department. I'm merely spoiled because we have a Steinway and two Kawais at home. So changes are on the horizon, and change is generally a good thing.

This blog has ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the Lord and to try to avoid kidney stones if you're able, as passing them is the very essence of pain.

If at first you don't succeed . . .

This is less bizarre art work than that which accompanies the musical selection at the end.

The piece in the video at the end is the one my dad and and I will play at my recital in February. We don't quite sound like the video sounds yet. I should say I don't sound like the violinist sounds. My dad sounds at least as good as the featured guitarist does. I'd been trying to give him the music for days, and he'd say, "Put it on my desk," where I  new it would be lost amidst a pile of journal articles and lab reports that weren't his but were of interest to him. (Lab reports of patients he's actively following don't end up in random piles on his desks. Just about everything else does.)

So tonight I told him I wanted to practice the piece. He complained, "There's nothing quite like throwing something at me at the last minute." First of all, we were not performing the piece tonight, and secondly, I had given it to him to weeks ago.

I fished his music from his miscellaneous pile of stuff he thinks he'll read but won't unless his chief assistant hands another copy to him and says, "You really should read this."  I should have given the music to his chief assistant. Anyway, he got out a guitar, tuned it, and started to play. I started playing along. "Stop!" he barked at me. "Please let me play the #$%*^  piece through at least once before you add the infernal violin part to it." My dad hates the sound of the violin, even when played semi-decently, with an inexplicable passion.  I patiently waited while he played through his part. Flawlessly, I might add.

I looked at him and waited for some sign that he was ready to start, as the guitar and violin begin together. "What are you waiting for? The Second Coming?" he muttered. "If we've gotta  play the damned piece, let's get it over with. I have things to do."  Did I forget to add that my father is always extremely positive and supportive of my endeavors, whatever they may be?

We played it. I screwed up a couple of times, but he nailed it just as he did the first time. I think he's wasting his talents. There have to be plenty of people out there searching for cures for various forms of leukemia and lymphoma.  On the other hand, there really aren't all that many people who play guitar the way he does. There are some -- he's not in a league of his own -- but the world isn't overpopulated with people possessing his level of guitar skill. "I suppose this means I have to wear my tux to your recital," he added, more as a statement then as a question.

"I couldn't care less what you wear," I told him. "You could wear bib overalls with wife beaters and black out half your teeth for all I care."

"You say you don't care, but what if I really showed up wearing exactly that?" he asked.

"It's your choice," I told him. "I hardly think I'll be penalized for what my accompanying musicians wear. Just don't expect me to admit I'm related to you."

"I'll make sure everyone knows we're related," he added.

"You'll probably pull some sort of  Deliverance  routine," I commented.

"Alexis," my mom interjected, " Don't give him any ideas. His mind is demented enough without your help." I don't know if I've ever mentioned that my family is obsessessed with the movie Deliverance. "Remember," my mom continued, "You'll be gone after this year. I'm the one who  has to work there."

My mom got out her flute so that we could go through the Telemann flute/violin sonata. I've practiced that one a bit more, and it sounded pretty good already. My mom was impressed. I'll probably be playing it with my mom's best friend's daughter, but she's a good musician and will be prepared. In a worst case scenario, if she gets strep or something, there's no hard-and-fast rule that my mom can't play. We're just trying to avoid any appearance of nepotism.

My mom says that, as a general rule, a musician should limit practice on a single instrument to a total of four hours a day on his or her own. If one is practicing with a group that is attempting to pull a complicated work together in a short time, a greater time may be needed, but it usually winds up being no more that four hours of actual playing time for any one musician, as a considerable time is spent waiting around for the French horns or oboes to get their parts together. With two separate instruments, for the most part, I limit my practice to three hours each day per instrument. That didn't count the time I spent playing through the pieces with my parents.

Tomorrow I travel up the road a bit to spend the weekend finishing my internship. The ending is bittersweet. I like most of the people (Jeffrey, I don't think you know about my blog, but if you do, note the emphasis on the word most) and I like most of the work, but it wouldn't bother me if I never prepared another stool sample for analysis as long as I live.

I don't know what the art work has to do with anything. It's positively non sequitur, like saying, "The Raiders aren't doing very well this year. I suppose I'll eat a pomegranate." This blog is ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the Lord and to black out your teeth (if you're fortunate enough to have teeth) and to buy bib overalls and wife beaters to wear to formal recitals. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctHQMqiEZEY

My Favorite Freeway [sarcasm font]

where the Pope hopes to be tomorrow

I just got back from spending the day with my friend Megan.  i left before the sun was up in order to avoid the worst of the morning traffic, and was successful in that regard for the most part. Anywhere near southern California is going to have traffic to some degree almost any time of the day or night, but there are times that are worse than others. I came home later than my parents would've liked.  They know I'm an adult and don't try to impose a curfew on me, but they're not thrilled with me being on the freeways much after 9:00p.m. I understand where they're coming from and try to humor them for the most part, but I didn't feel like dealing with even 7:00p.m. LA traffic.

Megan is a vocal performance major at her college. She has her junior recital (I was able to bypass the junior recital thing by doing faculty juries, which are slightly more demanding, but you can avoid the hassle of a dress recital hall, reception, and all the hoops. Just play well and everyone is happy. Also, i was never technically a junior, so I'm not sure when I would have done it.)

Megan's junior recital is scheduled for late February, while my senior violin recital is scheduled for late January. She wants me to be her accompanist. It would be much cheaper, as the going rate is about $200 for a junior recital and $300 for a senior recital. I would not charge her. because i don't attend her university, she has to obtain clearance to use me as her accompanist. Such would involve my auditioning or getting a faculty recommendation from my own university. Had we coordinated tings better, I could have auditioned today. I don't mind auditioning via skype, but I don't really want to make a trip into LA just to prove to some professor that I actually do know how to play the piano.  I'll  probably fill out their forms and ask my new professor to sign. Since her even is well after my last concert, and I really don't need to practice with her until a week before her recital, I can't see my professor refusing to sign. In a worst-case scenario, as in if I got sick or had a relapse of myositis (which isn't supposed to happen until between five and twenty years after the initial occurrence) my mom could play for her.  Any significant illness that would prevent me from playing is highly unlikely anyway.  Since I'm not collecting a fee, I could use it as volunteerism on my medical school aps.

Megan has not decided upon a final repertoire for her recital. She doesn't have a car, but I told her she should take the train here for the weekend in the next few weeks and get my mom's advice on what to perform. My mom knows at least as much about her voice and its relative strengths and weaknesses as her professor does. My mom has been listening to Megan's singing since Megan was ten.

We got Megan's paper completed even though it's not due for two weeks, and I helped her to brush up on some calculus that she had forgotten. She didn't take the AP test for it in high school, which she now greatly regrets.

Saturday I start my final weekend of my internship. My dad always wants me to drive there the night before because of morning fog on the 101, but my direct supervisor said I don't have to report until noon, so I can stay home tomorrow night.  I'll still have to stay at my aunt's and uncle's Saturday night, but one night is not so bad.  Everyone there is really nice, but their children always want me to play board games or card games (they don't even have an X-box or gaming system; my aunt and uncle say they're not good for kids) and I feel guilty saying no, because I can remember worshipping older cousins and wanting them to play with me.

So I have tomorrow to practice and to otherwise do exactly as I please. my dog is feeling neglected, so he needs to go on a long walk in the morning. Otherwise, the day is wide open.

This blog is ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the Lord and to walk your dog or your neighbor's dog or someone's dog. With all the power vested in me by absolutely no one, I have declared tomorrow to be "Walk a Dog Day."

All practicing and no play makes Alexis even duller than she normally is.

two friends -- though not Megan and I --- studying

I'm practicing too much. One can do too much of a good thing to the extent that the practice is counterproductive and one's skill level is either going nowhere or backwards.

My friend Megan doesn't have any classes tomorrow, so I'm visiting her about an hour away for the day. We'll just do fun things, and I'll help her with one paper she thinks is going to be difficult. I get a charge out of doing things like that. I'm not going to actually author the paper for her, but I'll give her  good start, a good finish, and an outline for her middle paragraphs. I'll help her brush up a bit on calculus as well.  It never came as easily to her as it did to me in high school.  She's no dummy, but calculus can be complicated, and I'll be available a needed to tutor her.

On Friday I'll be back to practicing, since I have my final six hours of lab internship this weekend and will only get in a bit of violin and piano practice. My aunt and uncle don't care if I practice during waking hours.

I have my first class a week from today, but then I have Friday off, just like I have every Friday off unless I need to meet with a piano or violin professor.

I'm getting a new piano professor. My old one was over-booked, so I volunteered to be one of the ones to switch. My mom is taking much of her clientele, but there's an obvious conflict of interest in my mom being my piano professor. My old professor didn't like me all that much and wasn't looking out for my best interests anyway, so I think it's best for everyone this way. She was the one who wanted me to switch my recital at the last minute to early September. Had I been given three months notice I might have considered it, but I wasn't the one who was so over-confident as to schedule my recital for early September.  They guy couldn't find anyone to trade, so he didn't get his deposit on the hall refunded, but he found an open date in November for his recital. It's like a Wednesday night, which isn't optimal, but he was lucky to get any date at all. His recital will be the Wednesday night before mine on the following Sunday. I think I'm actually glad to follow him as opposed to having him follow me. I'm reasonably certain I have the last date that is allowed. (I could have also done my recital the following quarter, but I'm glad I'm getting it out of the way this quarter, and I'm also happy to have the final piano recital of the quarter.) It's sort of like being the final skater in a competition even though we're in theory not competing with each other in our recitals.

This blog is ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the Lord and to help your friends with homework but not actually to do it for them. There is a difference, and most of us know what it is.

The Lawrence Welk Show

If you missed out on this, eithr in real time or on pBS reruns, consider yourself lucky . . . very lucky.

Long ago in a faraway place, or maybe in a place very nearby, people used to gather around their television sets, which were black and white until sometime in the 1960's, to watch a disaster in television musical variety history history known as "The Lawrence Welk Show." My mom says her parents watched it, though not religiously, and with an element of snark that made the viewing of it bearable. To my dad's parents, however, "The Lawrence Welk Show" was second only to "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir and The Spoken Word" in both quality of musical taste, presentation, and overall importance. Much of what my dad would have seen must have been PBS reruns, but it did not matter to my parents.  It was "culture" to them, and it needed to be imparted to their children.  My dad tried to spend as many Saturday nights at his best friend Jerry's house, as his parents were Cuban immigrants and didn't, thank God, appreciate the imortance of Lawrence Welk and his merry band of unmusical halfwits.

In fairness to Mr. Welk's cast, there were a few genuinely talented performers who drifted through the cast on occasion while on their way to bigger and better things or simply while trying to pay the bills.  Because my mom's older sisters saw some of the real thing, they have memories of watching for the Lennon Sisters each week until the ladies wised up and took their talent elsewhere. (Some of them are still performing live in Branson , Missouri.)  The Lennons had a beautiful sibling blend, and were pretty women who looked much prettier after they were no longer forced to wear some of the inane costumes the Welk costume department dug from the apparent rejects of  Catholic thrift stores,  the Goodwill,  Salvation Army bins, or  similar sources.

My parents saw the Lennons perform in Vegas shortly after their marriage, and had a chance to meet them afterward. My mom said they seemed to be very down-to-Earth, genuine people.  Sadly, their father was murdered by a crazy person in one of the earlier celebrity stalking events that ended in violence. Some guy named Chet was reading movie magazines, which were prevalent back in the 60's early 70's. These magazines printed roughly 90% lies, and most celebrities about whom they lied didn't even bother suing them because the magazines  would simply fold and change names, and tracking down the people actually involved in perpetrating the lies became very difficult. Anyway, this nutcase named Chet  was reading through the lines of the movie magazines, much as more modern schizophrenics sometimes get their messages from the cryptic words and phrases one must sometimes type in to leave a comment. (I have a sanity-challenged cousin who records these words and non-words in a journal and prays about how they should direct his life; anytime my mom gets word of him doing anything really nutty, she calls both the FBI and his local law enforcement, because she's convinced he's going to eventually be responsible for an incident such as Sandy Hook or Aurora; the police try to keep tabs on him, but they don't have enough evidence to put him in a lock-up mental health facility. We tell everyone in that part of the family [except for my grandma; she's as afraid of him as we are]only our P.O. box that's in another town than where we reside, but, if one invests enough resources, one can find almost anyone, although we float false addresses and do have an elaborate security/alarm system;  he hasn't threatened us or anyone else as far as we know, but neither did the Sandy Hook shooter, to the best of my knowledge.)

Anyway, the crazy person, Chet, thought he and Peggy Lennon, the second eldest of the Lennon children, even though she was married and had several children already, were destined to be together. Chet thought the only person or thing keeping them apart was Bill Lennon, the Lennon Sisters' father and manager.  He caught up with Mr. Lennon one day while Mr. Lennon was arriving at a golf course one day with one of his sons. He shot and killed him point-blank. It was a terrible tragedy, and it happened somewhere in the midst of the Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King shootings and the Manson murders.  My mom was maybe two when it happened, so she really doesn't remember any of it, but her sisters were devastated.  The Lennons by that time, I think had a musical variety show of their own independent of Welk's debacle, and continued with their show with heightened security.

Another at least semi-talented member of Welk's cast at one time was his daughter-in-law, Tanya, who started out as being no relation to him and  but at some point became his daughter in-law.  She didn't last too terribly long as either his cast member or his daughter-in-law, but she harmonized well with some other members of the cast and had a decent enough solo voice. I don't know what she did after leaving Welk's show. She probably went on to perform lounge acts in Vegas or somewhere similar. Whatever she did, she made  good decision in separating herself from Mr. Welk and his band of music-less cretins. I doubt that she would have been given her share of solos or even featured trios after parting ways with Lawrence Welk, Jr.

Some man named Ken Delo also had a decent voice and harmonized well with the Welk daughter-in-law and a few others.

A lady named Ralna English had a nice if countrified voice. She was hired first, then convinced Mr. Welk to hire her husband Guy something or other. Their sound was decidedly country, but their voices mixed nicely. One of my favorite Welk memories was of Lawrence himself announcing [I think] Guy and Ralna singing what Welk described as a "modern-day spiritual."  The song was "One Toke Over the Line." I wonder if Welk, with his limited English  (German was his native language even though he was born in North Dakota), had even a clue that the term "one toke over the line" was a drug reference. I have to assume no, but then, maybe Mr. Welk was more hip than anyone would have guessed. I'd say the chances were highly dubious, though.

When the Lennon Sisters saw the light and  left, Welk tried without success to replace them with a variety of related and non-related female singing groups. The most notorious of these replacement groups was, as Mr. Welk frequently referred to the, "The Lovely Semonski Sisters."  Even with beauty being in the eye of the beholder and talent sometimes being within the ear of the same, these sisters were neither lovely nor talented.  Some were  little prettier than others, and some had better voices than others, but they had neither the prettiness nor the voices in and of themselves than did the sisters they were supposed to cause us all to forget about, much less the sibling blend despite being full siblings (unless the Maytag man played a role in some of their conceptions). Not all siblings who sing have voices that blend.

I'm sure I've written about these Lennon Sisters wannabes before, but I must once gain describe the impact they had on my musical development. The Semonskis were half Polish and half Irish, and presumably Catholic, as were the Lennon Sisters. The Lennons emerged in an era when most practicing Catholics took the ban on artificial birth control very literally and very seriously. The Lennon family had ten surviving children. (Little Mary Lennon was run over by a car as a one-year-old.)

The Semonski Sisters numbered six, although it's unknown as to whether any additional Semonski sisters,or for that matter, brothers, existed. If there were more Semonski siblings, excluding them from the performing group would have been arbitrary, as neither looks nor talent seemed at face value to have been  criteria for inclusion in the performing group. For whatever reason, the eldest five Semonski sisters appeared to be relatively close in age to the extent that it would have been different for someone who didn't know them to place them in order chronologically. The youngest Semonski, who may (or may not) have been named Michelle, was noticeably younger by several years than the next older Semonski.   One can only surmise as to the reason for this. Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Semonski had a long-running feud, at which time Mr. Semonski  spent several years sleeping on the living room sofa. Perhaps Mrs. Semonski had a crisis of faith of sorts, at which time she figuratively told Pope Paul to take a flying leap into the Mediterranean Sea while she took her contraceptive pills regularly before she eventually repented and found her way back to Natural Family Planning. (What do you call people who use the rhythm method as a form of birth control?  Parents.) Perhaps it was neither; it may have been divine intervention at work  all along  , as the world was not yet ready for Michelle Semonski.

Regardless for the reason, Michelle appeared to be much younger than her sisters, and made the most of her relative youth while the cameras were rolling. Michelle could teach university courses on how to mug for  cameras while performing if such courses existed or were needed.  The footage I've seen of her in the PBS reruns I've watched with my paternal grandmother remind me very much of Patty McCormick in  the old movie "The Bad Seed."  Welk might just as well have stuck Juliette Lewis on stage with the Semonskis and glued an over-sized bow to the back of her head. She would have been more believable as a pure and seraphic child than Michelle Semonski was.  If the smile was intended by Welk's producers to be angelic, they got it all wrong. I've seen  more sincere smiles in footage of the Manson followers being led in cuffs and chains to their courtrooms or back to their cells. Michelle's smile would be describe as sinister at best, and more aptly, as depraved and malevolent, or as evil incarnate.

This Semonski performance occurred after Semonski #1 left to embark on her highly succesful solo career Ithink, or maybe she's just not visible in this portion of the video.


Enough of bad musical variety television. This blog has ended. Go now to love and serve the Lord and to snark on TWOP or wherever else you find such activity suitable and satisfying.

Geeks Take Exception to New Oxford English Dictionary of "Twerk"

Perhaps geekism has redefined itself.

Twerking is a style of dancing I don't know if I could master if I had any desire to. Fortunately for me and for everyone else, I have no desire to take it on, and it would take so much mind-altering substance to persuade me to try twerking that I'd be dead from an overdose of whatever I took before I even made it to the dance floor. I actually have some rhythm, so to speak. (We all know that dancing ability is really not about rhythm or even coordination. It's just a unique and mysterious skill that some possess to a high degree, some were out with the unicorns playing in the rain when God was handing out the skills to pre-mortals or babies or whomever, and most possess to some degree between the maximum and none at all.)

Anyway, twerking involves moving ones buttocks up and down rapidly while dancing. The most recent edition of The Oxford English Dictionary defines twerk as: a verb meaning "to dance to popular music in a sexually provocative manner involving thrusting hip movements and a low squatting stance. 

"

The geekosystem website defines  the OED's inclusion of twerk as a waste of time, but, furthermore, proclaims the definition to be inaccurate.The site takes exception to the description of thrusting hip movements, to the necessity of popular music as an essential element,  to the squatting stance as being elemental, and to the sexual provocativity of the dance move. Geekosystem proclaims that what is sexually provocative to one isn't necessarily to anyone else. I'm inclined to go along with Geekosystem. After all, who has a better opportunity to closely observe twerkers practicing their "art" : aged and overpaid Brits, or self-proclaimed geeks who have the ability to blend into the woodwork as they observe twerkers perfecting their arts. If your answer was B, you guessed correctly.

For further information on the topic if you are interested, which I suspect you're not check out the website. http://www.geekosystem.com/twerk-in-oed/.  It's interesting reading even if you have less interest in twerking than I do, which I doubt is possible.

This blog is ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the Lord and to learn everything you ever wanted to know about twerking.

my own good fortune and the totally unrelated subject of Miley Cyrus

Miley Cyrus in her more innocent days

Sometimes I forget that there are advantage of having senior standing when it's time to schedule courses. I have no classes on Fridays this quarter. Having every weekend be a three-day weekend, except for the one  Monday-holiday weekend, when I have  a four-day weekend, is pretty nice.

This weekend is my final leg of internship at he lab, and it's only ten hours divided between the two days. I told my direct superior to schedule it however he wished. I'll find out on Friday night when I'm supposed to show up for work Saturday and how long I will be there.  Then I'll put in the remaining hours on Saturday and be finished. I look forward to the end of having it hanging over my head and to having weekends essentially wiped out, but the work itself is not something I mind. I could see myself doing something like that full-time for a living.

Right now I'm catching an interview with Robin Thicke's mother concerning Miley Cyrus' performance, or whatever you might call it, at the VMAs.  Robin's mother, Gloria Loring, was on a soap opera in the 70' and 80's, my mom said, and was (maybe still is) a talented singer.  All things considered, she was charitable in her comments, although she did comment that Miley essentially stole Robin's song during the performance with her on-stage actions.

I've never quite gotten the fascination the public had with Miley Cyrus. Speaking from a house made about 85% of glass and/or other equally breakable materials, I will say that I don't think she's terribly attractive, and that's with all the cosmetic enhancement Hollywood can provide. (Keeping things in perspective, I don't think I'm all that attractive, either.)   Neither do I think she has a pleasant singing voice. Shes loud enough within a limited range, but then, so are  whole lot of people.  Bottom line: were she not the daugher of an entertainer, I doubt most of us would have ever heard of her. That's just my opinion, though. Others are free to say her voice is the female equivalent to that of Josh Groban.

This blog has ended. Go now in peace to love and serve the Lord and to think whatever you want about Miley Cyrus.

Fall Quarter Courseload

Start young and practice less later.

I had a tough time coming up with an adequate courseload this quarter. I need not to be loaded down with challenging classes, as I need adequate time to practice piano and violin. At the same time, taking fewer than 20 units may look bad on my med school application, in addition to my final standing in my class.  I think I've found the perfect balance. I'm taking exactly twenty units.  Only two courses (other than my piano recital)  are potentially labor-intensive.  Anglo-Irish Literature and History of Mexico could rob me of some practice time. English Upper Division Seminar might be time-consuming for the average person, but it's all memorization, and I remember every poem I've ever memorized. It's entirely memorization of poetry and/or prose if one so desires, but poetry is much easier to memorize, and the credit is by line.

The Anglo-Irish Literature class just seemed interesting. I'll put out a bit of effort for a genuinely interesting course. I haven't picked many courses because I wanted to take them or because they seemed interesting. I can allow myself this one indulgence.

Vocal/Instrumental Coaching goes right along with accompaniment. It seems you don't actually  have to be able to  sing to coach someone else in singing. Who would've thought it? You're not the student's primary instructor. You merely point out problems and offer tips as you're accompanying the person, stuff like, "Take a breath here so you don't run out of air here" and "You're not hitting the high note cleanly; put your chin down, relax, and turn up the corners of your mouth slightly so you neither slide into the note nor go flat." You tell them the same stuff voice professors told students in the voice classes all piano majors were required to accompany. I'll also be given two piano students, but I get to grade them, so if they don't practice and master what they're supposed to, they're screwing around with their own GPAs every bit as much as they're messing up mine.  I'll get them through the basics and everyone will be happy. If I can teach my brother to play piano, I can probably teach a German Shepherd the same.

The Orchestral Conducting course should be a breeze. I can read multiple staves simultaneously, have known the beat patterns since I was little, and can tell what is off when someone or something is off.  When my brother and  were young, one of the local symphonies used to have a fundraiser where for $100 you could pick from the orchestra's repertoire and conduct a movement of a piece. My parents always had Matthew and me learn the pieces we would ask to conduct, then would fork over the $200 for the two of us to conduct the orchestra. We did this for about eight years. It seemed like a joke at the time (especially the time my dad was a little buzzed and threw in an extra hundred so he could conduct a movement; the orchestra was laughing too hard to play) but now it gives me more confidence in taking this course. Most of my classmates will not have had the practical experience I've had. Conducting their own high school orchestras a time or two will be the sum of most of their experiences..

Although I would have preferred Civil War and Reconstruction to History of Mexico, the Civil War / Reconstruction class was an 8:00 a.m. class. I can't think of very many good reasons to drag myself out of bed in time to be in class at 8:00 a.m.  A class about the Civil War / Reconstruction by itself most certainly is not sufficient reason.  I'll become obnoxiously informed about the history of Mexico instead. One never knows when it might be advantageous to have the knowledge to bore someone out of his or her skull. I'm already well on my way to being irritatingly tiresome when it comes to a variety of topics. I can add one more to my cadre.

I'm very glad I did the tough courses earlier in my academic career and need not practically kill myself with academics while I have one senior recital this quarter and one next quarter. For the most part, I'll spend most of my time glued to either a piano or a violin, anyway.

The following comprises my list of courses for this quarter:

Anglo-Irish Lit

Eng Dept Upper Division Seminar

Vocal/Instrumental Coaching

Orchestral Conducting

Senior Recital

Piano Accompanying

Gospel Choir

History of Mexico

This blog has ended. Go now in peace  to love and serve God and to search all available search engines with the intent of determining whether or not the picture at the top of the page is I or someone else.

Mrs. Ferrer

I've seen more flattering pictures of her, but I can't find of the others right now and it's time for purple sludge cough medicine.  She looks pretty in this one anyway.

I'm bored and awake and waiting fifty minutes until I can take my next dose of medication, so I'll throw a mini-blog together and post it.

She probably wouldn't appreciate  my calling attention to her, as I believe she values her privacy, but Judge Alex's wife, Mrs. Ferrer   (I will not use her first name here) is a very classy lady.  Mrs. Ferrer, if you ever come across this, keep in mind that my blog is low-profile and my readership is small. Nothing about you is being blasted across Page Six.

I don't know a great deal about Mrs. Ferrer because her husband respects her privacy and only shares the occasional anecdote, but a particular incident Judge Alex once related in an interview  I happen to have read clearly illustrates the character of Judge Alex's wife.

Judge Alex discussed the time when he had finished law school and was working as a civil litigator. According to him, it was a line of legal practice to which he was not terribly well-suited.  The bulk of his cases may have been related to medical malpractice and perhaps various forms of tort liability,  as much of  the workload of any civil litigator who cares to eat and/or feed his or her family on  regular basis often involves such cases.

Judge Alex found that this branch of law was highly financially rewarding for an attorney who was good, and Judge Alex presumably was skilled at the job. He mentioned that he did make a considerable sum of money during this segment of his career. The particular branch of law,  however, was not rewarding to the judge in a psychological sense.  I don't recall the specific words he used, but he said in essence that at the end of the day, the job left him feeling not terribly clean. Some aspects of the legal profession require a person, if he or she is to do the job for which he has been hired,  to on occasion violate his principles or to operate against his conscience. I don't know if the state of dislike of the work was to that extreme for the judge, but he did not like it.

Mrs. Ferrer suggested to the judge, according to the interview I read, "Why don't you just go back to being a cop? We got by on your salary as a police officer before, and we could again."   There's a noticeable difference in the salary of a police officer and that which  is earned by a successful litigator. It speaks volumes that Mrs. Ferrer would, for the sake of his happiness or peace of mind, urge her husband to give up a profitable career in civil litigation and to return to the police force even though it would have made a major difference in her husband's income and in the lifestyle the family could have afforded to maintain.

As it turned out, Alex Ferrer ran for and was elected to a circuit court judicial post.  After serving in in various capacities within the court system, and after presiding over several high-profile cases, Judge Ferrer chose to accept an offer to serve as  a TV courtroom judge, mediating small claims cases. The rest is history.

Judge Alex now presumably earns a salary that would make what he earned  either as a circuit court judge or even as a civil litigator seem like pocket change by comparison.  The Ferrers are in an income bracket that would be considered wealthy by almost anyone's standards.  Wealth, unfortunately for some, cannot be used to purchase refinement, decorum,  character, or anything of such nature. It did not matter for Mrs. Ferrer. She already possessed these qualities.

Duggar Video

they who spawned the "talent" displayed in the video

The Duggars made a music video using some old Marty Robbins song.  (The fact that kids so young even know a Marty Robbins song is , to me, more than a little eerie.)  .Here's a link  http://duggarsblog.blogspot.com/2013/09/duggars-film-music-video.html#comment-form. Hint: even though the two have nothing to do with one another, if you think Mark Russell is funny, this video might be something you'll enjoy.  Second hint: Ondansetron works best for me in terms of controlling vomiting.

If your thought process is at all similar to mine, you'll wonder why they wasted the time, battery power, and anything else that went into the making of the video. To each his own, I say, but this is pushing my "live and let live" philosophy to its extreme.  If the Duggars are amused by making videos that are of poorer quality than what my second grade cousin's class could come up with, they should by all means  shoot and lip sync (or "lip sing," and one of their followers called it) away. (We're just lucky they didn't do their own singing, as it's highly likely the result would have been literally painful to the pitch-sensitive among us. Some of you may think I misused the word literal , but hearing off-key singing is painful to those with strong senses of  absolute or  relative pitch.) One thing I can't help wondering is if you took a random family in a random hick town and had them shoot the same video (which you couldn't really do, because torture isn't legal in the United States) would the Duggar fans laud the video with the same level of adulation were they to view it?  My guess is that it is only the idea that the Duggars produced the "music video"  that made it such a fine production in the eyes of the Dugggar fans. I also think the Duggar fans wouldn't be able to listen to the pitchy singing, mediocre violin playing, etc.,  to which we are periodically treated if it the musicians were anyone other than the Duggars.

I don't wish to be a voyeur, as I've somewhat been on the other side of someone wanting to know more about me than I necessarily want them to know, but I can't help wondering exactly what goes on while the cameras aren't running that would produce the level of obedience that is observed when the cameras are running.  I think it's possible to raise well-behaved children without beating them, but I'm not certain I believe you can have the total and constant adherence that the Duggars appear to have from their children without instilling some element of fear, particularly when the parents are so vastly outnumbered by offspring.

I may be totally off-base.  Maybe JimBob and Michelle have a secret or two to which other parents are not privy that doesn't involve any threat of physical pain or excessive deprivation.  What they've published so far  I'm not swallowing as being the answer to domestic bliss. I'm not saying some of what they do is not good practice. I simply suspect a little more goes into achieving the level of compliance than what the public sees.

In a weird way I still like Michelle. If she and JimBob ever decided they could no longer make it as a couple, I'd be happy enough to have her as a neighbor. I don't fully  buy the sometimes forced smile, though, nor do I think a family can achieve the level of adherence to rules that we see when the older children are doing much of the parenting unless both the older and younger children have something to fear if the adherence isn't there.

Who wants to know about me?

This is obviously not me,. For one thing, the boobs are much too big. Someone had a problem with the picture my dad's friend took, so I'll use this instead.

Someone is very interested in me to the extent that he, she, or they have harassed  people who respond to my blog. The person or people are leaving odd comments and reading random past blogs in hopes of gaining my identity.  what is it about me that is so terribly interesting. maybe I really attend a major university. Perhaps I'm a thirteen-year-old wannabe who imagines what college life would be like.  Perhaps I'm a prostitute. maybe I live in the sticks in Idaho and am imagining in advance what my escape will be like when I get away from the sticks of southern Idaho and the LDS church and experience true freedom for the first time in my life. Maybe I'm someone's 86-year-old grandmother, or even grandfather.

I'm not sure why anyone cares, but I am unwilling to give up my anonymity. I rather enjoy the bizarre comments, but it would be nice if you would leave my cyber-acquaintances alone.

There are more productive things you could do with your time, just as there are probably more productive things i could be doing with my time than writing this blog. Writing this blog is, for me, therapeutic.  I say things I cannot say in real life. In order to do this, I do it under a cloak of semi-anonymity. I am not willing to give up my anonymity to just anyone without knowing to whom I'm giving it up and fr what reason. If you are one of a group of four people (if you ARE one of those people, you know who you are; I need not be more specific) or if you are a close associate of one of those people, you should cease and desist any contact with me for your own good. If you are someone else, sleuth away to your heart's content.

I've disclosed my reason for wasting my time on this blog. What is YOUR  reason for wasting your time? Are you acting at the bequest of a particular  blogging diva, or is it something more personal? Have I written something that offended you?  I'd love to know what it is about me that you find even mildly interesting.  Or are you not particularly interested in me but one of the self-appointed nosy Internet police, intent upon righting the wrongs of the blogging world?

Get a fucking life!

awake after about fourteen hours or so

from a stock photo; I'm too lazy to take a picture of my  own bottle

Something I took knocked me out for about fourteen hours, maybe more, maybe less; I've lost track. My mother heard mecoughing and came in to give me more purple sludge. If it's what knocked me out in the first place I suspect I'll be out again soon.  then again, amybe it was something else.

I'm getting many various and sundry  comments from anonymous bloggers, some complimentary but nit terribly sincere, and others random.  One commented on my format and how it looked just like her old one. I suspect she's hinting I stole it from her. I got it from blogspot's options. I've seen it in Mormon Mommy blogs as well. Maybe they stole it from anonymous, too. My guess is that they're all one and the same and are seeking info. If anyone wants to leave a comment, I'd appreciate a name,and ideally one connected with one of the log-in spots. Otherwise unless there's good reason, I probably won't publish the comment, though you;re freeto leave it for my eyes only, which is mostly whatit's for even if i publish it, anyway .

One commenter complained that she checked the box "please notify me when additional comments are made" and is now being notified when additional cmments are made. she wants me to fix if for her, but there's nothing I can do as far as I know. Hint to those who respond: don't check the "please notify me when additional comments are made" unless you really want to be notified of such. If you do, you're stuck unless you have greater knowledge of the workings if blogspot than I do.


Have a pleasant day.

megavirus

I would like to assume that anyone who reads my blog knows this is not I, but we'll leave it to everyone's interpretation. Regardless, it perfectly sums up how I am feeling. I suppose I could leave a link, but instead I'll let my stalker do his or her own work. Say hi to Becky (or Pat) for me while you're at it.                                                                                                                                                        

I have some sort of virus that doesn't have a name but has been hitting the area. The hospital has seen multiple cases of it. My pseudouncle is steering clear of the ER and is treating post-surgical patients on other floors. He wore a mask and examined me outside on the backyard deck to limit his exposure so he won't take it home to his wife, although she's sick with a milder version of the symptoms I have, so it may be too late for her anyway.

He prescribed an antiviral, gave me a mouth-dissolving antiemetic, and gave me steroids for my cough. He said if the cough gets any worse it will be a sign it's gone bacterial and I'll need an antibiotic on top of the antiviral, which  won't exactly alleviate symptom #2 of the gastroenteritis, but what has to be , has to be. I'm taking purple sludge with extra codeine, which can be an anti-diarrheal without the side  effects of Immodium or its stronger prescription counterpart.  My dad is out of town a the moment but will be back by tonight.

My mom just got a call.  Pseudoaunt has all my symptoms now, so there's little danger of cross-contamination.  There was talk of somethng polluting the oceam water here, but pseudoaunt never went in on Saturday.

The man who was in the final stages of some strange mitochondrial degenerative disease died today. The funeral will be Saturday.  When someone close to a person  or the spouse of a person to whom someone is close dies, one attends the service if at all possible no matter when it is, but it will be much easier for all those who wish to attend on a Saturday.

The bathroom isn't getting quite so much business, so something pseudouncle gave me must be working at least a little bit. I still sound like a barking seal.

feeling yucky

This is obviously not me, but it typifies at least part of my situation.

Since last night have had a combination of double gastroenteritis and cold/flu symptoms. I could deal with one, but not both.  It's an uncomfortable feeling each time you cough to have to be concerned about losing citrol, so to speak. I don't like to take Immodium or anything like it, because it works too well and starts a vicious cycle, so I've been getting my cardiovascular exercise before running to the bathroom, in addition to the infernal coughing, which has to produce some sort of cardiovasular impact, whether it be good or bad.

I didn't go downstairs or even next door to ask for anything, as I have 7-up in my fridge, and I just didn't feel like walking that far. I'm a late sleeper, so no one was initially concerned, but my mother eventually heard the coughing and came into my room. I talked her out of a trip up the road to my uncle's office because someone with a medical degre will be available sooner than we could've gotte there, anyway. Also, when one has the sort of gastroenteritis I have, it's not a great idea to be on the road for an hour, and there's not  great deal of commercde between here and there, which makes public restrooms few and far between.  My pseudouncle is coming by here with his diagnostic tools and an array of medications in attempt to prevent a trip to the pharmacy, if this is even anything medication beyond Tylenol or Ibuprofencan help.

My arms and shoulders hurt and it feels like iwas hit by a cement truck.

what my parents said

I am not either of these people, by the way. It was a promo shot from a local Grease production.

I  was nervous about mentioning the person who's too interested in me to my parents because of Internet troubles many year ago. I eventually said something after all the company had parted and had gone on their merry ways.  When I brought up the subject, my dad mentioned that the photographer told my parents he'd give waive his fees if he could sell it for limited use. My parents thought it was a terribly idea, but the guy said he'd be judicious about those whome he allowed to use it.  i think I'm grouped in as part of the Monsons family because of some LDS site my grandmother had her secretary share it with. The photographer didn't retain exclusive rights supposedly. Then again, maybe he did. I don't remember what was signed. I wasn't 18, so it required my parents' signature. I only agreed to it because my parents said they'd give me the money the photo shoot cost them if I chose to let the guy have the rights to sell it.  I don't think he had the rights to any of the other poses, but I'm not 100% sure. Becca, I don't think that doppelganger was I, as I don't even remember a pose resembling that, in addition to my thought that he didn't have rights to any other poses, but I'm not 100% sure.

I've looked around, and the photo isn't widely in use. Mainly the Mormons used it. They must've thought I appeared wholesome and the perfect Mormon girl. If so, what a laugh that is, and it shows how deceptive appearances can be. Other uses of it appear to be benign causes, as in a few non-profits.

I'm more concerned about the person's interest in it  and/or me than anything else. For the most part, for security reasons,  in terms of being anonymous, I'd prefer that no one thought it was really I, so the fact that heor she believes I'm being deceptive in posting my picture is of very minor concern. that he or she cares does bother me. I'm more worried about being outed to the enemies with whom I have violent past histories and court settlements, and someone considering this a violation of any terms of settlements. I've already said I'm not using my actual surname for this reason. I couldn't be open at all about the things about which I write if I were outed publicly as being the author of this blog.

I apologize to anyone who has been bothered by this person. I don't know how many of you this might be. I'm perplexed byt the amount of thime the person would be willing to devote to harassing me. It mkes it think it coud be personal except that anyone I know in real life would know that the photo is I.

My psuedoaunt has an interesting related situation where she modeled in college when she was an NCAA athlete. It's an extremely gray area for her, as she wasn't holding any athletic equipment or even wearing attire associated with her sport, nor was she trading in her fame for cash in doing a couple of photo shoots, as she had no fame, but how a court would interpret it should the institution through which she received her scholarship learn of it is totally up in the air, and the hassle is the last thing in the world she needed. at the time, Her parents were telling her she'd need to finance her own wedding at the time. She had basically no money, and didn't want a Kennedy wedding or anything like that, but she didn't want anything as tacky as a potluck, either.  Her parents and her husband's parents ended up paying for almost everything, so the money went into the bank. She could afford to give the money back if she had to, as it's still sitting in the bank, but if she were sued for the cost of her scholarship , and particularly if the institution sought punitive damages as a result of forfeiting any matches in which she participated due to non-amateur status, it could be ugly. It's highly unlikely even if it went to court that punitive damges would be awarded, as she didn't intentionally do anything wrong, but court costs alone could set her back in a major way. The only reason she didn't tell anyone about it was that she was concerned it would be embarrassing if her classmates and teammates learned that she had modeled, as it would be easy for them to get the idea that she had a very high impression of her physical appearance, and really didn't wish to undergo any hazing as a result. (In a way, my reasoning for not sharing that my photo was sold is similar; it's a nice picture, but I'm not that hot.)  Where pseudoaunt is concerned, she's looked it up, and the statute of limitations is closing in rapidly, anyway. She has limiyted time in which to concern herself.

I'm going to  delete the picture for now if I can remember how to do it.  I just hope the person gets a life and leaves me alone.

Surfing - not yet THE Maya Gabeira, but I did well

My friends and I had surfing lessons today. My brother and I actually did fairly well.  I would post a picture, but the place that gives the lessons is posting it on their website as well, which will probably ultimately land it on it  Google as well. My "conscience" who is concerned about blogging integrity would think I stole the picture of myself surfing from google or from the website.  You'll have to take my word for it  -- or not  --  that I was good  - not as good as my heroine Maya Gabeira, but good enough that the instructor said I'm a natural and don't need anymore lessons if  I don't plan to take the sport seriously and I just need to be careful and pay attention to lifeguards' and other posted warnings about shark sightings, riptides, undertows, etc., and not to overestimate my skill level with respect to the height of waves.

Note carefully, dear critic: this is Maya Gabeira, probably the world's greatest female surfer. I am not claiming that it is I. If you pay attention to the height of the wave, you'll realize that I'd have to be Jodi Arias to claim that I mastered a wave of such magnitude. I tackled the bunny waves. Still, I surfed them well after a few initial wipeouts.                                                                                                                                                                           


          

We're spending time at my house for the remainder of the day and evening.  Meredith doesn't officially have classes tomorrow because of freshman stuff, so she's in no hurry to get out of here tomorrow, though she wants to get her stuff into her apartment before her roommate takes up all the closet space.  I've been fortunate not to have to deal with that issue.  Alyssa has already started classes, but her college is just forty-five minutes or so down the road,  so she can leave either later this evening after the traffic eases up, or leave really early in the morning before traffic becomes heavy. I would go back tonight if I were she, but she's not bothered by early morning stuff, so she'll probably spend the night.  My dad will be awake so she won't set the alarm off when she leaves. Otherwise, she'd have to wake me up to disarm the system, and that early in the morning, I might do it wrong and wake up the entire neighborhood. I'm not a morning person.

                                                             I LOVE the Beach Boys.