greensleeves and car woes

6/16/99

Why didn’t anyone tell me my calendar was all fucked up? I didn’t realize until yesterday, June 15, that I’d put the first on Monday and followed through for two whole weeks. Thanks a lot.

Though really, I guess you probably don’t need that calendar anyway, what with the current entry thingy and the entry list. I just feel good looking at the calendar and saying, “Look! I’ve only missed two days this month.” It meant more back when I only updated every other day or so. Maybe I’ll get rid of it. It’s a big pain in the ass.

Enough of the boring journal crap. Conducting Symposium was run by Wes today, who’s really only a student, though he’s ABD now. He’s an amazing conductor, incredibly nice guy, and I love to hear him say mean things about people, just because he’s a nice guy. I love Wes.

More of hearing my student kick ass on the solos. Today two of the college-kid trumpet players were checking her out while she was playing. I spotted the “who’s that?” head jiggle and the “got me” eyebrow twitchies. I’m fairly sure they were just impressed by her playing, though they could have been checking her out for real. They really should have asked the next trumpet player down the line, ‘cause that one’s her ex-boyfriend. I love ironic details.

My poor student got tired by the end of 2 hours, though, and asked me to take over the “Greensleeves” solo in the Holst fourth movement. I felt just a teensy bit bad. I’m a professional player now, officially, and I’ve performed that solo a million times, so, I, uh, kicked ass. (Get me, all cocky.) Plus, I was fresh, having been accompanying her for the whole session. She pretended to be embarrassed.

Can’t help it. I’m a freaking show off. I’m so shy until I get a big chunk of metal to blow my hot air through.

With Whitwell gone, Daryl and I are in smartass heaven. Having Wes in charge is like having one of your best friends as a substitute teacher, and tuba/euph players are not known for their high levels of maturity.

The car saga continues....

Let’s see, where were we? My car’s in the shop, borrowed my dad’s van and hit my carport with it, all up to date? Okay.

The van’s engine started overheating. I had the oil changed, fluids checked, all that. Kept it up. Had to call my dad and tell him that the van was fucked up, but this time it wasn’t my fault. He came and took away the van, which made me very happy; I was sick of the damn thing. Turns out the radiator conked. Of course, it waited until I was borrowing before it did all that.

And I’m being blamed, indirectly. That van’s been to the same repair shop since Dad bought it, and I took it to a different place for a fucking oil change, and my dad’s just sure that they drained the coolant so I’d have to come back with major damage. He doesn’t hear me when I tell him the “check engine” light came on before I took it in.

So I’m carless—the fucks in the body shop are waiting for a part on back order. For fuck’s sake, I don’t need the grille* in order to drive the car. Just give my goddamn car back. I left my favorite shirt in the trunk.

*Eric says this is how to spell grille, and he’s Mr. Scrabble, so don’t blame me if it’s wrong.