No Six Strings Attached

A few months back, I introduced you to Ronit, the LA lady, who is part of my writer’s group. Ronit, wrote about an airplane trip she took with five children (three of which were her own). The children were very well behaved. Unfortunately, some of the other passengers were not. (https://larrydbernstein.com/no-fear-of-flying/)

Ronit is currently a stay at home mom in New Jersey, who previously toiled as a television producer. She is also now a blogger. After you read this guest post, check out her new blog and welcome her to the blogosphere at http://nitstyl.wordpress.com

Every few weeks or so when I come to the realization that the time has come to clean my room, I glance over in the corner only to find a guitar with a broken string limply hanging from its instrument.  And it is then that I am reminded of the brazen stupidity that brought me to this moment yet again.

A few years ago something possessed me upon discovering some extra cash in the cookie crumb littered depths of my fake Louis V.   Instead of purchasing a pair of really cute and very practical ballet flats, I blew the windfall on the way more impractical purchase of a guitar – a musical instrument I never even played.

Courtesy of Flickr

Courtesy of Flickr

What possessed me to make this purchase in the first place?  It might have been the fantastic notion that I was going to parlay my guitar playing into a satisfying and enriching musical career.  Laugh all you want but it’s my fantasy, and in it, I get to be a rock star.  Besides given the gaping hole in my resume, my prospects for a real job were just as realistic as musical stardom.

I arrived home and shlepped this six-stringed piece of potential firewood, with toddler in tow. It was then that I began to realize just how hard it was going to be to learn how to play this imposing instrument. I refused to attribute this to age.  And here’s why:   You see, I, the multi-tasker-hunter-gatherer have observed many intoxicated individual and/or drug-dependant individuals play this instrument masterfully.  Some of these axe grinders are so skillful that their artistry belies the fact that they can hardly recall their own names.  So, my logic went, if they can do it, then so can I.

But at the time of purchase I also failed to recall that my previous forays into musical mastery did not exactly culminate in my becoming a classically trained…anything.

It began (and ended) with Mrs. Taylor, my aged piano teacher who was so old school… like School of Athens.   In fact, I’m pretty sure that she and Mozart were “friends with benefits.”  Mrs. Taylor was about as inspiring as lint. She had me learn pieces that were as antiquated as she was.   Her philosophy was you cannot play the newer material until you’ve mastered the classics.  Surprisingly my inability to master her assigned pieces didn’t cause her to keel over on our newly painted white upright.

She lasted less than a year at which time she quit on us one day because my mother and I were late to my lesson after driving home from a matinee of Cabaret.  What can I say. The inimitable Joel Grey was the headliner.

After that our piano became nothing more than a place to display our ill-coiffed family photos.

Anyway, I immediately set out on my newest musical endeavor.  I whipped out my guitar picks opened the book that came with it and set out on my musical adventure. And that’s precisely when I realized I should have stuck with the shoes.

As children often like to whine…it’s haaaaard!  And it was.  For me.

I think my brain hit its quota in the “acquiring new skills” category.  I am still trying very hard to convince myself that age was and is not a factor.  After all, I can cook a soup, dress a child and wash the dishes simultaneously.  So why was mastering the finger work of the chords so monumentally exasperating for a woman like me.

Alas, sooner rather than later, the guitar came to be parked in my husband’s closet and left my closet with a shoe vacancy.  My attempts at late in life rock star notoriety seemed wholly misguided and derailed.

And now as I sit back and look around at the clothes and papers strewn around this ill-gotten purchase, I can honestly say I could kick myself with those ballet flats, if only I had had the good sense to have bought them in the first place.

Sometimes, I Feel Old

Sometimes, I feel old when…

Don’t tell me you never have this thought rumble through your head. Maybe, it arises when cars pass you on the road, or when you think three times about a particularly decadent dessert, or you hear yourself saying, “In my day…” I could go on, but you get the idea.

Most of you who read this blog are somewhere in your 20’s, 30’s, or 40’s. None of which is old. However, if you are like me, you do things that you thought you wouldn’t do when you were younger. Or maybe, you do things that at one point you would laughed at someone else for doing such a thing.

In my most recent post, I once again alluded to food shopping (https://larrydbernstein.com/the-need-for-speed/). As I mentioned, this is one of the household chores that falls under my domain. And I really don’t mind handling the food haul. Now, I don’t think that makes me old. Weird maybe, but not old.

Courtesy of Google.com

Courtesy of Google.com

However, there are some weird things that occur on my food shopping jaunts that make me utter the words, “I feel old.”

Last week – and it wasn’t the first time – I found myself singing and bopping my head along with the music that came over the supermarket sound system. I don’t remember the song, but you know it came over a station such as 99.4 Happy or 101.1 Sunny, or 104.8 Back in my Day. Of course, it could have also been some preprogrammed list of all your ‘favorite soft hits’.

Are you kidding me? Me? Now, I was never some long haired, leather sporting, ripped jean wearing, tattoo exhibiting, ear ring dangling, head banging guy. Shocker – right? Hey, but I had a Black Crowes poster in my apartment at college, I slept out for Who tickets, I blared Twisted Sister’s, We’re not Gonna Take It till my father said, “Turn down that damn music.”

Courtesy of Google.com

Courtesy of Google.com

Now, I’m bopping down the aisles of Shop Rite while trying to select the best looking bananas, hoping for sales on my family’s favorite items, and praying there will be no line at the checkout counter.

ShopRite.com

ShopRite.com

Oh G-d, I am getting old – aren’t I? Don’t answer that. Please. Imagine what I’ll feel like when the 2050’s come around.

Is it just me? What makes you feel old?

P.S. Please note I now have a Facebook like button and a WordPress like button. I had wanted a WordPress compatible like button since I started the blog. I’d like to thank Ingrid from http://nowathomemom.com/ for her alerting me about such a button. By the way, I highly recommend her site. I am not a do it yourselfer but do enjoy her blog.

So, continue to make your comments and feel free to press like as well. Thanks.

Feeling Better

102.3! No, I am not referring to a radio station.

“I told you I didn’t feel well,” I said, vindicated. I was shaking, my teeth were chattering, I was itchy, and I felt a perpetual need to pee.

And I was scared.

The last time I had a fever was about 30 years ago. I was 10. I woke up on Saturday morning, excited to play little league basketball. As a child, I lived for little league; some of my best memories come from me playing on various teams for the Bustleton Boys Club. I played basketball and baseball. My soccer career ended after one year when I didn’t even score one goal (I was robbed!), and my team was 1-7-1. Anyway, I woke up and called for my mom. Five minutes later, she removed the thermometer and diagnosed me with fever.

“But doc, I want to play. My team needs me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ahh mom. Come on. I’ll be fine.” I tried getting out of my top bunk bed. Was it me or was the room spinning? It was me, and I was done. I resigned myself to missing my game. Turns out the flu bug was going around, and many kids had to miss the game.

So, you could say I am not used to being sick.

My family and I had been at a synagogue event – parent/child learning. My wife was the organizer, so she was running around making sure everything was going smoothly. As the hour turned to 8:30 pm, SJ was getting cranky, and I was feeling more and more uncomfortable.

“Will you take me home? Daddy doesn’t feel well. So, can you take me home?”

SJ said through muffled tears, “What about mommy and BR?”

“They can get a ride home from someone.”

“Okay. You can take me home, and I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks buddy. I really don’t feel well.” BR told my wife we were leaving. She was ready for this contingency. A meltdown can come at any time at that hour. She just did not expect me to be the one melting down.

A rough Saturday night of Advil and fitful sleep followed. However, upon waking up Sunday morning, my fever was gone. G-d bless drugs. I probably should have relaxed and taken it easy, but I didn’t. After all, I am not used to lying in bed sick.

102.3 is back to being a radio station. And that is music to my ears.

 

Missing Youth

“We’re not gonna take it. No, we ain’t gonna take it. We’re not gonna take it anymore,” Twisted Sister.

Eurorail train schedules, Let’s Go Europe, and maps surrounded the unemployed 23 year old. He was planning out his backpacking through Europe summer. Responsibility and reality be damned. The epitome of freedom and youth.

“Larry,” my father shouted as he came into my room undetected.

I jumped, “Oh, hi dad.’

“Does the music have to be so loud?”

“Sorry.” I turned down the music.

“What is all the stuff,” he motioned at the paraphernalia that decorated my floor.

“Planning my summer trip.”

“Oh.” He shook his head, half smiled, and walked away after reminding me to keep the music lower.

I looked at the information around me, contemplated my looming weeks long trip, and considered my unemployed status. I felt guilty. Then, I got over it.

Yesterday, I was assisting a girl with her college application essay. During the tutoring session, she started talking to her mother. “Mommy,” she said “I am going create an empire.” She was certain that the business she had recently begun was bound for big things. I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. Her mother smiled a yes dear smile. The girl bubbled on so proud of her declaration that she wrote it down.

Another college recruiter visited my senior class. He talked about his school and how attending there will enable the students to achieve their academic goals. This of course will enable them to fulfill their dreams. Never mind the 70 average.

“I’m happy she is getting a chance to go away,” she explained. “But when I dropped her off, I felt a little jealous.”  So my fellow writer said at a recent writer’s group meeting. She clearly felt a little guilty. There was no need to apologize as the rest of us – parents with children in various stages – shook our heads feeling the same such feelings.

It’s not youth we want. It’s the unbound enthusiasm. It’s the certainty that everything is not only possible but a mere question of when.

I wish good things for my tutee, my students, and my co-writer’s daughter. I hope they achieve big and great things. They are in an amazing and exciting stage in their lives.

By the time you reach a certain age, there is some level of stuckness (I know it’s not a word, but it so fits). Whatever you’re level of contentment – nice family, decent job, comfortable home – choices have been made, life is being lived, and dreams come in size small.

The world is not our oyster. It’s not free for the taking. As adults, we know this. Lumps can and will be doled out. I, for one, am okay with that. I will cope and be happy for the dreams of the kids around me, hopeful about fulfilling my goals, and content with the wisdom I have gained.