The Avengers

For living less than fifteen minutes away from Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, and Celine Dion, you would think that I would have had more accidental run-ins with celebrities.  Granted, they only live fifteen minutes away if you can avoid the top screening security inspection by their private armies or have enough co-op equipment to effectively track down Osama Bin Laden's removed wisdom teeth.  Seeing as I don't have either of these, I haven't really had many celebrity encounters.  No spontaneous Justin Beiber concerts.  Not even a George Clooney sighting in Whole Foods.  I think the closest thing I've gotten was this girl who kind of looked like Russell Brand from the back end.

So today, I was starstruck.

The orchestra took a day trip to New York City as a break from the crazy schedule of the week.  We started off at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which I had never been to.  And strangely enough, one of the exhibits the Met, or MMA as I like to call it (yes, I know those are the same initials as Mixed Martial Arts, it makes it sound less dweebish), is the instruments display.

Wait a second, NYO, did you set this up?  How did you know I liked classical instruments?  Is this some kind of crazy mind-reading ploy? Are you a part of that whole government surveillance thing?  I mean, honestly, how else could they have known that I played the horn?

Following the museum, we went to a New York Philharmonic concert conducted by Bramwell Tovey.  Don't you just hate it when you go to a classical music concert and the conductor is hilarious and breaks down the stereotype of stuffy and pretentious concerts? Cause I sure do.  There were some witty remarks made about the British Wimbledon Victory and even some sarcastic comments to the latecomers walking in after the second number.  Gosh, it was just too much fun and too much laughter for a snobby classical music concert.  

Aside from the horribly lighthearted atmosphere, the performance was mindblowing.  The main work on the program was the Planets by Gustav Holst.  I don't know if I can actually describe the gigantic amount of power that this orchestra has in their sound, but it was truly awesome.  I'm trying to find a way to relate how exciting this is to me (see that engaging with audiences class is really paying off).  Think about it this way:  The Avengers show up at your door and after Robert Downey Jr. makes a few corny puns, the group decides to take you along with them on their crazy crime bashing raid.  The Hulk steps on some bad guys while Thor and Captain America play a rousing game of monkey-in-the-middle using Captain America's lethal shield (Hint: it's not a good thing to be in the middle of that game.)  Meanwhile, Iron Man is making a rousing commentary while mimicking the voice of Latin-American soccer announcers.  That's what this New York Philharmonic concert was like.  They are my heroes.

But it gets even better.  After the concert, we were given the opportunity to have a meet and greet with three of the NY Phil's members and their personnel manager.  Although there wasn't a horn player, Nancy Allen, the principal harpist, was there.  All of that crime fighting stuff may have been cool, but meeting Nancy Allen was like arm-wrestling with the Hulk or quizzing Captain America on state capitals.  I really hope that she didn't think I was weird because of how close I was to fainting out of excitement.

NYO was finally able to pull me away, kicking and screaming (because I bet Nancy Allen didn't think that was weird at all) and we went on a dinner cruise on the Hudson River.  

Even really before my first visit to the city, New York has been this surreal place of excitement and legend.  I know in my anti-Yankee brain that this couldn't possibly be true, but my heart tells me that NYC is a city of a people who are following their dreams.  It's a city created by people who have all, at one point or another, sought out to be the best human being they could be and to make something good and lasting come from their lives.  It's creation from motivation, if you will.  And it's this same dream that's brought me here to NYO.  A desire to do something greater and touch lives and maybe be other people's superhero someday.  I don't know if I could live up to the titans that exist today, but I will sure don my cape as best as I can and try to fly.  And even if I crash into the ground, I suppose I'll just have to dust myself off, and climb back up to the top of the building to try again.  They say that "insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."  If that's true, then you might as well cart me off to the nuthouse right now.

So, farewell until next time New York.  I can safely say that this visit was far better than any run in with George Clooney at the supermarket could ever be.

Alarm Clock

I slept in today.

A whole 30 minutes later than I usually do...putting me at 7:30am.  Yippee Skippee!!!

This is a huge accomplishment for me to be getting up all by myself.  Without a parent around.  It's like potty training for adolescents and my 18 year old self just got there.  This entire school year, I was supposed to get up at 6:50.  I think that maybe happened twice.  But, I tried.  Oh did I try.  I had four alarms turned to deafening volume scheduled about 2 minutes apart from each other each in a different place around my room.  One of them was that sleep cycle app that is supposed to track your sleep pattern and wake you up at the best time.  And just like when trying to find an opportunity to tell your parents that you're pregnant, there really is no best time for either of those things.  Surprise! (Dear Mom, I am very much kidding so you can put down your cell phone and refrain from calling me in a complete state of panic and disarray.  Also, tell Dad to put his shotgun away, false alarm.)

Regardless, I have been able to get up at 7 just about every day and the extra thirty minutes were much appreciated.  And I had to admit, I thought I had an easy day ahead of me.  Today, we had workshops scheduled in the morning.  Each participant got to choose their own workshops and so I chose Engaging with Audiences and Yoga for Musicians.  

Engaging with Audiences was first and it was led by a few members of a chamber music collective group called Decoda.  When signing up I was expecting a few performances from the members and since there was a horn player from Genghis Barbie (The horn quartet version of the Spice Girls...yes horn players are that cool), I was all on board.  But I missed the important word in the title of the seminar: "engaging".  We were encouraged to psychologically break down a piece and connect it with the other participants in the room.  And believe it or not, your own brain has to be engaged in order to try to understand someone else's.  There's a reason hypnotists don't try their tricks when they are half awake.  By the end of it, everyone will be sleeping and no one will be around to snap their fingers and wake them up. 

Moving onto yoga, I was looking forward to some nice meditation and relaxation.  Throw some "om's" in there and I am all set.  Wrong.  I have played sports for almost all my life and like to consider myself strong enough to open those really tricky water bottles and pickle jars.  That being said, yoga is one of the most physically demanding things I've ever done.  Wearing a pair of jeans and a collared shirt because I am certainly not a "be prepared" boy scout, I think between the hopping, falling, and flailing I spent more time off my yoga mat than on it.  I would have wagered that half of the poses were impossible if the instructor hadn't been nailing them smoothly without hesitation or any stumbling.  In retrospect, I might have been able to see this coming based on my clumsy and sometimes hazardous mannerisms.  (It is in fact possible to injure yourself while playing a friendly 4th of July kickball game.)

We were less than halfway through the day and this was already not the Golliwog cake walk in the park that I was expecting.  Next up was orchestra rehearsal with Sean Shepherd, the composer of our newly commissioned piece, Magiya.  After he compared his music to an "abominable snowman" and asked the second violins to musically show-up the first violins, I threw all my sheepish and antisocial composer stereotypes out the window.  And we got to work.  

Later in the rehearsal, we found out about this amazing opportunity that we would have while in Russia (as if we aren't having enough of those already).  We will be giving a side-by-side performance of Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliette Fantasy Overture with a Russian Youth Orchestra.  And after learning my part, all I need to do is learn how to hold  a full-length conversation using only the words "goodbye", "yes", and "no".  Yay for limited Russian knowledge and an alphabet that I can't even sound out.  

Clearly, I think I needed that extra thirty minutes this morning.  Tomorrow, we hit it Ferris Bueller style and take a day trip to NYC on our own "day off".   A clumsy and occasionally absent-minded teenager and a bustling metropolis.  I don't see a problem at all.  

For now though, I have to get ready.  Because although New York City may never sleep, I certainly do.  

There is good news though.  We don't have to leave until 10am.  You know what that means.  

Maybe I'll only have to set three alarms for tomorrow.  

Too Cool for School

"Those who can, do; those who can't, teach."

Oh yeah....good one.  I mean come on, whoever came up with that saying could have done a much better job.  There's no literary merit to that.  They probably just think that they are "too cool for school".  And at least that phrase rhymes.  

Honestly, there's not a lot of truth to it either.  If that were true, skydiving would be a very messy sport, most heart operations would be extremely unsuccessful, and Luke Skywalker wouldn't be able to hit a deactivated droid if it were standing ten feet in front of him.  

Don't get me wrong, it's not like this is true for every great teacher.  But I don't really think we can blame Mr. Miyagi for not being the American Ninja Warrior.  It's not because he can't do it, it's because he's like sixty. That's like asking your grandpa to put on a cape and fly.  He may have a titanium hip replacement but he's still no Man of Steel.

Regardless, the best way to lead is by example.  It's quite hard to give an example of something that you know nothing about.  Just ask any student who's fallen asleep in the middle of a lecture. (Note: Choice C is the way to go.  It works for English and Spanish.)  You can't really "fake it 'til you make it" as a teacher because quite honestly, your students probably already know that strategy.

The faculty here at NYO is a real testament to this teaching expertise.  They come from all over the country: the Philadelphia Orchestra, The Metropolitan Opera, The New York Philharmonic, The Chicago Symphony Orchestra, etc.  And I'm pretty sure that you have to at least have some clue of what you are doing before hired in orchestras such as these.  Otherwise, I could have had my dad take orchestral auditions.  And all he can play, musically speaking, is the radio.  He's currently working on learning the TV as well but that's been a little bit slower of a process since they don't make Rosetta Stone for the remote. 

Of course all of the NYO faculty offer extremely incredible expertise, but not only are they just principal players but they are players with principles (ba dum tsch).  Each one has is invested in the students they teach just as much as they are invested in the instrument they play.  Because of their commitment, we have become a part of their ability to share their work with others and it has been so rewarding for me to be in the company of these players.  

Today, when Robert Chen subbed for Joshua Bell and played the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto, I knew that the violin wasn't the only thing he was playing.  His humor and his artistic comments were his contribution to us.  And I loved being a part of that.  And last week when Professor Vermuelen decided to sit and eat lunch with us instead of sitting with the other clinicians, that was a part of his investment.  And don't get me wrong, it wasn't social suicide (we aren't that uncool) but the horn section can't really hold a candle to the company of the other faculty here.  

Ultimately, I think that expression needs to be changed because it's a little bit outrageous.

How about this:

"Those who have a lot of free time on their hands like to make up vast generalizations about people who are more talented than they are."

I think it kinda rolls off the tongue, don't you?

The Rebecca Black Dilemma

I really enjoy personal space.

It's one of my favorite things.  Right next to the quiet game and timeout.  It's still better than Julie Andrews' apple strudel and brown paper packages.  Like...what?  Someone's got her priorities straight enough to take care of children.  Not.

So, when my mom explained to me what Feldenkrais was after it was announced as an activity for NYO, I have to say that I wasn't totally gung ho about it.

"Well, it's like...kind of...erm...like touching with regard to...eh like movement....almost like yoga but...not like yoga at all really."

"...wow.  You should really write that one down, Mom."

Needless to say, I didn't know what to expect other than the fact that there would be some kind of touching which I would probably not be a fan of.  It's okay, I'll try to paint a smile on the best that I possibly could.  Unfortunately, I paint facial expressions and body language about as well as I paint in real life.  I haven't made it past stick figures in art class.

So, here we are: Day 3 and Feldenkrais is in the morning.  I'm in the first group of the day so I can't ask someone else who's walking out of the room what the deal is--not that I have ever done that in school.  Not me.  We walk in and it's set up in a double layered semi-circle with one chair in the middle.  

You know when Rebecca Black describes that dilemma she has about "sittin' in the front seat" or "sittin' in the back seat"?  That is a real thing.  It's no joke, especially in a classroom.  Each seat has extreme repercussions.  Sit in the front and you get a good view, appear eager to learn to the instructor, but also appear to be kind of a teacher's pet to those who don't know you and are quick to make judgments.  Sit in the back and you seem casual to the other kids and can hold a nice conversation (if you don't have an obnoxious stage whisper) but, you might been seen as uninterested to the faculty member.  This is a problem.  The struggle is real.  

I saw someone I knew and snapped out of my slowly developing panic attack long enough to find a seat next to them in the back row.  Luckily, it was just before Aliza Stewart walked out to start the class.  

We just started by talking.  Talking through why we move when we play, why it's important to move correctly, why some movement can be a hindrance and harsh (there's a reason they call some people violin-t).  Slowly, we moved into exercises on our own.  The best way I can describe it is really relaxed stretching.  Stretching as if you had an hour before your soccer game instead of the ten minutes I usually had because I was always so late (surprise!).  

No touching yet!  I was enjoying it, and it seemed to be helping with some of the tension I have built up.  What can I say? I'm pretty in-tense. Ha.

So, when she asked for volunteers to individually demonstrate some Feldenkrais applications relating to their instrument, I raised my hand.  I didn't think she'd pick me, but I needed to recover from the back row decision I'd made earlier.  So, I halfway put my hand up and everyone else's hand was higher than mine.  No worries.  She would never call on...ME? She's pointing to me? What have I done?

I was freaking out.  Several people went before me and the no-touching thing was called off.   A violinist who was playing some Bach is all of a sudden stretched and pushed to her limits of motion.  And I mean limits.  I don't know when she will ever need to play the Bach hunched over, on her tip toes, or while pirouetting around the room but I hope it comes in handy for her because for some reason it really perfected her intonation.  The oboist playing Scheherazade could probably be flown on ropes from the top of the concert hall if he needed to.  But, at least his sound was rich.  The percussionist ripping through the Festival at Baghdad should skip lunch from now on and instead just have a full out picnic while he's playing.  It would have been cool to watch if I wasn't next.

She asked me what I was playing and I had decided on the excerpt from Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony.  I told her I'd like to work on my breath support in general and was wondering if she could help.  She talked about what she would normally do in a private lesson to help me but she couldn't hold one of these lessons in the fifteen minutes we had left (I breathed a sigh of relief).  But instead we'd do some other exercises through leaning on "the chi".  

I didn't know what that was.  If I had to guess at that moment, I would have gone all ethereal and said it was your internal concept of your own emotions and mentality.  Nope.  Wrong.  "The chi" is a tangible thing.  It's the place below your belly button at the waist line.  After hearing this, all I could say was Chi's Louise.   

She put her fist smack dab in the middle of the chi and told me to lean on it as I played.  Never in my life would I have guessed that I allowed this to happen.  I was going to lean forward from a place I barely knew had a name until ten seconds ago while playing a hard horn excerpt and internally crying about the situation.  This is way harder than you think.  It's like repeatedly trust-falling in the middle of a marathon.  You have to think that something's got to give, either your legs or your trust-fall partner.  But nothing bad happened.  Until she asked me to do an un-example by leaning away from her as she pushed and thus resulting in me almost falling straight on my back and needing a chiropractor instead of Feldenkrais.  I secretly think the only reason she did it was just for the laughs around the room.  But the real funny thing is, when I got over my touching hatred and actually trusted and leaned a bit, my sound opened up.  I really am wrong a lot.

I made it out alive.  I even stopped to shake her hand on the way out.  She'd done her job by doing better job of explaining the method better than my mom had.  With that and the playing improvements, I'd call that a success.  Who knows?  I might just have to start Feldenkrais-ing on my own.

Next time though, I think I might be sitting in the front row.

Girl on Fire

I sometimes make the mistake of thinking that I'm really witty.

For some reason, I put it into my head that I have these really good jokes.  Sometimes I don't even need anyone to laugh at them but I think they are just the funniest things on the planet.  So, I recycle them.  Over and over.  And over.  Like the plastic bag that's been turned into everything from a pencil to a work of art back to another plastic bag (because the first time wasn't exciting enough).  And sometimes, that plastic bag needs to be put to rest for good.  So do these jokes of mine.

One of my "favorites" was a comparison between high school and the Hunger Games.  College applications throw us into a ring and we try to destroy every one else in the ring so we can survive.  Some can play it cool and just try to outlast without killing but others go about it in a more bloodthirsty fashion by sabotaging each other.  Giving false critiques on resumes, poor advice, backstabbing, figuratively and literally.  Well, not literally but I think we've all been close.  

So, this Hunger Games reference is my joke.  I used it all the time in almost every college essay.  Even in my NYO essay.  No lie.  But the thing was, I never read the Hunger Games.  Didn't even see the movie so I could be scoffed at by the devotees to the "original intent of the author".  Excuse my ignorance.  

Whenever I used this joke, I didn't know what I was talking about.  But this summer, I broke down and read the books, all three...in four days. I watched the movie too so I could now do my bit of scoffing as well.  Think aristocratic cocktail party laugh while swirling their glass of wine and that's where I'm at.  Guffaw.

But now, after thoroughly reading the books, I am able to make another Hunger Games reference albeit not as reusable.  I am now the girl on fire.  

Let me explain.

Before we got to NYO, all wind players were given our part assignments ahead of time based on our audition tapes.  But string players had seating auditions.  Yeah, I was really bummed about not having to stress out and over-prepare for an evaluation of my playing.  I haven't done any of those before while applying to college.  None.  So yeah, really broken up about it.

So because of this, the strings spent the morning of the first day auditioning while the wind players had sectionals.  The horn section is extremely fortunate to work with William Vermuelen from Rice University and David Krauss who plays trumpet...oh and they are also principals of the Houston Symphony and Metropolitan Opera respectively.  No big deal.  Life ambitions.  Whatevs.

So, the first time we all got to play together as a full orchestra was in the evening.  

Everyone has expectations for an opportunity like this.  Everyone thinks that they have some idea of what it will be like, how it will sound, who they'll be friends with, or in my personal case, who will be able to tolerate their antics for more than two outrageously corny jokes.  But quite honestly, first rehearsals are almost always a disaster: Take 120 young people from different parts of the world and ask them to perform that ice-breaker human knot exercise and you just end up with a giant mass of arm, legs, and a dash of awkward.  Ask them to perform a piece of music?  Oy vey.  Because of the frequency of losing track of where the orchestra is, like to call that a "all children left behind" rehearsal.  Those were my expectations.

I was more wrong than I have ever been in my life.  Shostakovich's Symphony No. 10 starts with a string opening and with the drop of the downbeat, the basses revealed the most deep and resonant sound that just echoed with a soft power.  The upper strings chime in, seamlessly supporting and moving in this gigantic wave of one and yet, of many.  It seems so effortless, yet I know full well how much persistence and how many hours are invested in many orchestras striving for tone concepts such as the ones demonstrated with in the first section of the piece.  A group of people who had met merely yesterday was already revealing to each other their deepest emotions and allowing others' emotions to replace their own.  A teasing and flirtatious piccolo to a woeful and broad bowing.  All in unison broadcasting a message.  Broadcasting our message.  This was a feeling I had never experienced until this moment.  And with so many emotions, all I could do was smile.  A smile of pure and unmatched happiness.   

We didn't know each other less than 24 hours ago and it felt as though we'd been playing together ever since we had first fallen in love with our art. The entire rehearsal I wasn't lost once.  I knew exactly where we were and I knew that everyone else knew exactly where we were.  We were home.  We were together at last.  And it was such a joyous reunion.

There really aren't words to describe how I feel.  But, I thought back to the Hunger Games for just a brief moment and thought that if there ever were an opportunity to use "girl on fire" this would be it.  Burning from within, I am the girl on fire.  We are the orchestra on fire.  

So, I hope desperately that you will be able to hear us play somehow.  If you do, I have some words of wisdom.  Even though it can get cold in a concert hall, there's no need to bring a jacket.  I have a feeling that we will keep it pretty warm during our performances. 

Now that I think about it, I really like that "orchestra on fire" line.  I might just have to recycle that one.

Dog poop.

Even the best laid plans…

I’m not actually sure what the end of that expression is but I think it’s something like “Even the best laid plans can step in a giant pile of dog poop every once in awhile.”

Maybe that’s not it.  

To be honest, I was actually prepared for once.  Or thought I was.  I had everything packed, knew everything I needed to know, and I thought it was physically impossible for my mom to have any more tears.  I was completely wrong.

About ten minutes into my day, I realized we never had weighed the suitcase.  No worries, we can just pop that on the scale and no worries.  Using my bathroom scale, it weighed 55 pounds.  Five over the limit.  But that’s okay.  My bathroom scale is wrong about my weight all the time.  Just like every other scale with a woman living in the home.  It wasn’t wrong this time.  

But no big deal.  After all, you don’t have to diet and exercise to lose weight off of your suitcase. 

All ready to gohmygoshwhere’smyhornmouthpiece.

Pause for question: Wait, Nikki.  Why isn’t your mouthpiece with your horn?

Well there’s a very good reason for that.   I bring my mouthpiece everywhere: the movies, the park, even prom.  I’m not kidding.  What if a famous horn player walks into prom,baby blue tuxedo and all, and has a horn that they want me to play but they're missing the mouthpiece?  Huh?

My mom thinks it’s ridiculous, but I’m a teenager, you aren't supposed to understand me.  Gosh.  

After finding it in my suitcase, we have now averted two crises and it's 9am.  When we finally got to the airport, I discovered that my mother is a direct descendant of Hoover Dam.  No joke.  As soon as we saw the security line, the floodgates were released.  If she hadn't been squeezing so tightly, I'd have requested a mop.  

I usually don't have many problems going through security and this time was really no exception.  I was through in no time.  The biggest hold-up I've had with the horn is between two TSA agents trying to decide if it was an oboe or a tuba.  I told them it was a tuba.

Soon enough, we are on the plane.  Now, I did a lot of flying for college auditions and basically the rule was, once we got on the plane, we were all set.  Especially on my direct flight.  Nothing else to worry about.  Oh, how naive I was.

The airport was too busy.  We couldn't land because it was too crowded and so air traffic control had us circling.  And circling.  To top it all off, the pilot hadn't been as prepared as (I thought) I was, we had to go back to Dulles airport because we ran out of fuel and had to refuel the plane.  

We weren't allowed to get off because the captain told us that he "would leave us right there in the Dulles airport with your hamburgers in hand and a stupid expression on your face."  Word for word.  I didn't leave.  We didn't leave the people who did.

But after that, things got better.  Two hours later I made it.  And the people who had been waiting for me all this time were just as happy as I was.  We had a long car ride compounded with traffic. (I know--traffic in NYC, no way.) So the six of us got to know each other and despite the fact that we missed the NYO photo scavenger hunt, we still took three pretty good instagram pictures complete with catchy filter and all.  

And I realized something.  There's a silver lining to every dark cloud.  Sometimes, the dog poop that your best laid plans clumsily stumble into can lead you to the new shoe that you've always dreamed of.  

And then I got back to the dorm room and the ethernet wouldn't work.  

Goodbye optimism.

Last minute preparations.

A wise woman once said: "The best minute to complete something is the last minute."

That wise woman is me.

And I like to practice what I preach.  When I talk about having some last minute preparations to complete, I'm not talking about turning off my thermostat, throwing together an emergency kit, or rushing around my neighborhood looking for someone to feed my fish because I've forgotten he existed.  No, by last minute preparations I mean all preparations.  Everything.

So, today being the last day possible to complete anything, I did everything.  

I started off my day by immediately coming to the harsh realization that "dry-clean only" does not mean you put the clothes in the dryer before you start to wash them.  And because I needed two dresses cleaned before um...well...tomorrow, I proceeded to call twenty two (no exaggeration) dry cleaning stores asking one question: "Do you offer same day service?"  Twenty of those twenty two stores said no.  Two left.  Store 1 said that if I brought it in right away, they could get the order to me by 4pm.  Store 2 said that I had the wrong number and they were a restoration company, not a dry cleaner.  I went with Store 1.  

While getting the dresses, I checked the weather for Russia and London and realized that the 53 degree low average for the month of July was not in Celsius.  And so I needed a coat that I could use over the dresses.  (To the Northerners: people in Florida don't wear coats with dresses.  When it gets cold out, we wear a tank top over a bikini.  Naney naney boo boo.)  So as I drove to the dry cleaner, I called my Aunt Kath, the queen of the bargain scene.  Aunt Kath can find anything if you give her about three hours and four Goodwills.  I mean anything.  She was the first one to take Macklemore thrift shopping.  So, I knew I'd be okay.  In three and a half hours, including a lunch break, we found two winter coats, three nice sweaters, three collared shirts, one purse, and two belts for less than the price of a Snuggie.  (You may be comfortable in your reverse bathrobe, but I can go out in public.)

Getting back to the house...it's around 4, so I figure it's time to pick up the dry cleaning.  Great, so all I will need is my wallet and the dry cleaning slip.  I'm sure it's in my purse somewhere.  

It wasn't in my purse.  I lost it.  In 4 hours.  Shocker.  And as I drive to the cleaners, I panic.  I'm gonna get there and they aren't going to give me my clothes.  I guess I could try the dresses on to prove they are mine.  Like Cinderella!  But, what if the dry cleaning shrunk them and then the dresses are too small.  Then they won't believe me and I won't ever get an invitation to the ball.  Oh no, I'll have to probably call Aunt Kath back and we will have to look for dresses at the Goodwill.  But what if Goodwill kicks us out for already buying too many things.  Is there a store limit?  Maybe if I start crying they'll let me in.

The dry cleaning employee didn't even ask for the slip.  Not a word.  She just brought the clothes out on a hanger and I paid.  Great.  I'll just have to head over to the doctor to cure the stomach ulcer that developed from my ride over.  At least I won't have to cry at Goodwill.

And after picking up laundry detergent and a book (it's important to smell good and look smart, even if you can't actually read), I went home to pack.  Oh, packing.  I'm the kind of person who forgets a toothbrush in their overnight bag.  Packing for two weeks for me is like cooking an omelet when you are five: you need a parent.  So my mom came and helped.  So did my dog.  Here's the thing about that: your dog might be able to play fetch or catch a Frisbee or jump rope, but mine can strategically place herself in the most inconvenient spot possible.  I may play the horn, but the dog is truly the artist.  About halfway through our joint packing (which was more along the lines of me launching clothes over the dog so that my mom could pack them), the unthinkable happened.  I realized I needed a button on my pants sewed.  So we brought out the sewing kit.

You have to understand, the ancient Greeks designed the Venus de Milo as a metaphor for my mom's sewing ability.  That statue could probably have fixed the pants faster.

A grueling half an hour later, we were done.  Finished.  Completed....Except for the list of things we have to do for tomorrow.  It's okay, I still have time, my flight leaves at 11:00am.  If I'm lucky, I'll be done at 10:59.  That sounds about right.  Now, I just have to move the dog off the suitcase.  Eh, I'll do it at the airport.