I'm Here. I'm Here? (*poke, poke*) Yeah, I'm Here

I'm sitting here with the sinking feeling that my long, fabled and loving relationship with my beautiful and strong-handed pedicurist might be reaching its end.

My beautiful, etc pedicurist and I had a long absence from each other. I won't call it an estrangement, there were no hard feelings. I missed an appointment and never called to reschedule and she had a spate of medical problems, and we just kind of lost each other in the Rush That is Life. I probably went three months with no pedicures, no nice leg and foot massages, and I walked around on feet that sported badly painted toenails, but I survived. It wasn't that big a deal.

Then my beautiful, etc pedicurist called me out of the blue. She wanted to know if I was OK, if I was mad at her for some reason, we talked a while, and we set up an appointment for me to come back. That was in October. She scheduled me for a Monday. I told her I'd rather not be there on a Monday, but it's all she had open. I explained my Monday Podcast Philosophy, and now, I know that people who don't know and/or care anything about podcasts don't get this, but I try to explain it in very plain and simple terms so they will. Due to east-west time differences, I don't start recording my little internet show until 10:oo pm. (This has now meandered to 10:30, but it doesn't matter.) The recording and pre- and post-podcast conversation between Stennie and I goes late into the night, and I sometimes find myself finally disconnecting from the whole matter at 1:30 am or even later. Therefore - and really, how hard is this, even for someone far, far away from the internet broadcasting world - I basically have to be ready for bed at 10:00 pm on Mondays. That means I have to have completed dinner, dishwashing, any household tasks, have my face washed, teeth brushed, contact lenses out, and pajamas on, by 10:00 pm. Because after recording, I must hie my ass to the bed immediately. It's a routine I don't mind at all and have become very comfortable with, but it's the way it must be. It just must.

So I gave this plain and simple tale to the pedicurist, and she said, and I quote, "I'll schedule you for 6:30. That way I can have you back home at 8:00." And I could deal with that. That still gave me two hours to get all my tasks done and be ready to podcast.

When I arrived at her shop that night, at 6:25, there was someone ahead of me having a manicure. The beautiful, etc told me cheerily that my pedicure bath was awaiting me and to go start my soak. Which I did, but at 7:15, I was still soaking and she was still working on the person ahead of me. She arrived for my pedicure around 7:25, and it was about 8:45 by the time I finally got to leave, and it takes a half-hour to get back home. Needless to say, I was a little peeved, and mentioned this to her in a very kind way, not being peeved, but that she was to never again give me a Monday appointment because, and again I quote, "You promised to have me home at 8:00, and it will now be 9:15 when I get home and I still have to do all those things before 10:00." Her reply was, "Oh, I thought that was Tuesday you had to do all that stuff."

Now, this is just ludicrous, because I didn't get a Tuesday appointment. Why would I tell her all that about Tuesday if I couldn't even get an appointment that night?

Anyway, she scheduled my next appointment for a Thursday, which was tonight, and I have no commitments on that night, so I was ready to go have a relaxing pedicure and wash the stress from my feet and my life. When I arrived, she was holding her two-year-old daughter, and - no, I'm not making this up - putting her in a bathing suit. She said, "I've got her tonight," which didn't really bother me, the little girl's sometimes there and sometimes not, but it became very clear to me very quickly when she said, "She'll want to splash, splash, splash" that there wasn't someone looking after the girl, as is usual, and that my pedicure was going to involve a two-year-old child.

I used to hate kids. Let me make that perfectly clear. But The Nephew came along, and I got old and mellow, and I've learned that they're not as hideous as I once thought they were, but this really set my teeth to grinding, and I went back to soak. And after not three minutes of soaking, which, believe me folks, is not nearly enough, back she came with girl in tow to start my pedicure. And so I spent the next next hour getting a pedicure while a two-year-old rubbed lotion on my legs, asked to sit in my lap, gave me kisses, played and splashed in my foot bath, picked up all the sharp pedicure instruments, got smacked for such, cried, and asked for a diaper change.

Well, I'm no fool, and I know there are many, many things worse in this life than being kissed on by a two-year-old girl, but this was the most stressful manicure any person ever had in the history of the Beauty Industry.

I drove home, still grinding my teeth, and I'm now drinking a pitcher of martinis to try and forget.

And this all falls under the heading of, "I'm Just Too Damn Nice." For each of the above-mentioned appointments, I should have walked in, assessed the situation, and said, "This isn't a good night, I'll come back another time." I mean, that's honest and still nice! That's not even having to let out my real feelings, for cryin' out loud. But no, I sit and endure and grind my teeth, and I even let the beautiful, etc make me an appointment for next time, and I'm just a big, fat, steaming pile of sap. That's all there is to it.

Speaking of being a sap, guess who's back on the loose? Yep, Nervous William.

I'd been avoiding him pretty well lately, but last week when the boss was out of the office and I was sitting at her desk, in he came. It was so quick that San didn't have a chance to alert me and let me run to the back of the building to hide. He came in and sat across from me, spewing his spew, only about a third of it based in reality, and I was, well, I think, for me anyway, pretty damn rude. I sat at the desk and worked on all the tasks I was working on without looking up, not speaking to him. Made no difference, he stayed until he got to spew all his stuff, then he headed out and left me behind nursing a headache.

I was back at my desk, my normal station, yesterday, and saw him walk in the door. I immediately picked up the phone. Not to call anyone, just to have the red light blinking that I was on Line One and couldn't be disturbed. I held the phone receiver and went about my normal job duties. Five minutes turned into ten, and San walked back to my desk and said, "He's not leaving till he sees you," and I told her, "He can sit there till hell freezes over or he dies, but I'm not seeing him."

God bless the boss, she ran interference for me and said I was way tied up and could she help, and so he spewed to her for a while and finally left. It's not over, though.

Now, as we all know, it's Christmastime the world over, and in Betland as well. Until yesterday, I'd bought a total of one present. So I decided to get off my - wait, that's a lie - to get on my ass and hit the internet, and I ordered several more presents, but I'm far from being done with the shopping. And that starts into the reason why blogs, Picture Sundays, and Acros have been distinctly missing from your lives lately.

I'm spending most of my Christmas Season immersed in music. Playing music, practicing music, traveling to play music, thinking about music, wishing I didn't have to play music, and on and on. I've done a concert with the Community Band, another concert with a clarinet choir. That one was interesting. About eight of us, clarinets of all shapes and sizes, from the tiny E-flat clarinet to the massive contra bass clarinet. Meeting in a retirement home to play - for the first time ever - a concert. Yes, we sightread a concert, flying by the seats of our pants, and it was as you might imagine. Horrendous in the beginning, but finally starting to gel by the end, and I ended up really enjoying the experience. Other highlights of that concert were meeting a sweet doggie one resident brought along, and seeing, and I'm serious when I'm saying this, the biggest cat I've ever seen in my life. We called him Catzilla, and he wasn't just a fat cat, he was huge! He had feet the size of tigers' feet.

Most of my time, though, has been geared towards what I call "The Town's Christmas Concert," but that's really something of a lie. It's actually the local Methodist Church's Christmas Concert. It's at their church, and features their choir. However, since the church's musical director is the high school's old band director, he wrangles all his old students into being in the orchestra. And we don't dare say no. I mean, it's Mr Jones, beloved Mr Jones, and you just do not say no.

Practices have been at a minimum, and that's a shame because it's a nice program and very difficult, and we're going to totally screw it, due to the few practices and the fact that that church's choir is the biggest bunch of time-wasting bastards I've ever been around. But it will take place, ready or not, this coming Sunday at 10:30 am and 4:00 pm, and we'll either blow it like Mr Wind Himself, or squeak by without making fools of ourselves. And it's just a hunch, but I have a distinct and dreadful feeling that Nervous William is going to be sitting in the pew for at least one, if not both, of the performances.

And so I've said, to anyone who'll listen, that the 16th, the day of that concert, is the end for me. "If anyone wants me to play Christmas music for them after that, they're going to have to pay me," I've said, more than several times. Well, I was reminded last night by the very Mr M that he's lined up another clarinet choir concert for yet another retirement home in B'burg on the 22d. I can't say no because this is the "lesser" retirement home, the one where people with no money end up, and no one comes to them to give them smiles and music, but I told him my play-or-pay rule after the 16th, so he's giving me a quarter to play that concert. I'll take it, but I hope no one finds out, because then he'll have to give a quarter to everyone else who plays.

I've got a week to finish the shopping, get in the presents I've ordered, and wrap. I'm oddly not worried about it all. I mean, I endured 90 minutes of being kissed by a two-year-old. I'm strong.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* What are you talking about? That was an Olympic Update!
* OK, OK, update. Alessandro Carbonare recently won the chromatic scale competition in the Lucerne Open, a precursor to the Clarinet Olympics.