Farewell Cards from Children

Some of the children at Lucy School made beautiful goodbye cards for me. I thought I'd share a few here.

Dear ms. monica,
Your stores are the best your singing is the best you dansing is the best to I love you mosv your the best music thr.
Kayla

Dear ms. Monica,
I like when you are my music teacher. And I really like when you play your recorder. Wut I willy like about your recorder is your voice.
Jordan

Dear Ms. Monica,
Thank you for being my music teacher. I love all the stories you did with us. I love the way you play the piano because it sounds butyful.
Love, Sophie

Dear Ms. Monica,

I love your stories. You are nice. so I wrote you this. (She sang the next part to me.) If I cold let you go. may be it will flow. butt I don't think so, not now, butt how.

Sincererely Anika

Dear Ms. Monica,
I love the way you sing, dance, and play the piano. You are the best music teacher in the worlde I know. My favort storie is statues. Good bye. Thanke you for everything.
Sincerely, Sadira

Dear Ms. Monica
It is the last day of the year for the your muosic clas. I hop you have a good life and a good year.
form Nino  thank you

... I hope they have a good life and a good year, too...

Learning from Goofus School

Friday was my last day teaching at Lucy School -- the "Gallant" of my teaching career. I learned so much there.

But I also learned a lot from The Goofus School of a Performing Art, which I must remind you is fictional, because who could believe any school would be so incompetent?! (Any resemblance to an actual school of a performing art is purely a coincidence, and a very bad sign.)

As School Director of Kinetics Dance Theatre, I want to be sure I'm doing everything right. Since Goofus School considers Education People incapable of the fine art of Office Work, I have to question whether I really know what a stapler is for. Is my understanding of file cabinets completely accurate, or do I make false assumptions about them? Are my skills at typing up to par, or do I make embarrassing typso?

Simple decisions might SEEM to make sense, until I remember the Goofus School way. I must always keep in mind my complete lack of experience in Goofus School Administration.

Just three examples:

1. Online registration.
Kinetics doesn't have online registration yet, and I think it's important. As a novice, I found we can pay a service $15 a month, customize a few forms, and link our database of classes with a few clicks.

But The Goofus School has devoted three employees and four years to setting theirs up, and then gradually -- very, very gradually -- implementing it. Assigning this work to people with no expertise in technology gives it that unmistakably fresh perspective. Although the faculty doesn't use the system, they must be trained. Slowly. ("Here where it says name, the student types their name.")

2. Class listings. 
In my silly naivety, I am listing the classes we offer -- ballet, modern, yoga, etc.

But The Goofus School has developed a clearer way of listing lessons this summer. Simply list one offering -- "Ballet," for example -- and then group the rest under a "Non" heading -- such as "Non-Ballet." Why didn't I think of that? Maybe "Non-Jazz" will be big this year.

3. Fees.
I was thinking of going with the standard registration fee you find everywhere. But that shows how little I know!

The Goofus School charges a "$60 non-refundable withdrawal fee." It's $60 added on to your tuition, in anticipation of your decision to withdraw. You might think it'd make more sense to say, "In case of withdrawal, the school will issue a refund less a $60 fee," or something. But why do that when you can make people feel they're paying something for nothing? I'd never have considered it! That's why they're the experts.

Yes, I'm sure I'll keep the Goofus School model in mind many times over the coming year.

What Asia Learned in Puppy Class

I'm so proud.

So Asia graduated the other day. How time flies! It seems like only yesterday she was a not-overweight, not-spoiled, not-crazy-haired little girl. I can still remember her very first "Oh my God what IS that I MUST have it!!" encounter with peanut butter.

But now she has an education. 

She's come to know the critical realities of Bil-Jac Little-Jacs liver treats.

Due to her "weight problem" (as the trainer politely termed it), she shouldn't have the "Liver Pate" allowed her puppy classmate. But she was allowed half of a Little-Jac for each "Good Girl!!" 

(How to make half of a Little-Jac: Take one Little-Jac from the bag, try to get your nail into it as if to divide it, attempt to press the crumbs that result into something you can squeeze between two fingers to make one "treat," try to get dog's attention away from crumbs that fall onto the floor.)

Asia took "Puppy Class" because she hadn't had prior training (as far as anyone could tell), even though she's likely over a year old. Her one classmate was an actual puppy, who started the class around Asia's size but, to Asia's growing annoyance, grew bigger over the six weeks.

What Asia learned:

1. The distinct sound of the Little-Jac bag opening and closing is something to get really excited about!

2. Check the floor for Little-Jac crumbles.

3. Randomly running around, sitting, lying, following, staying, etc. eventually leads to a piece of Little-Jac. Somehow.

4. When in doubt, sit and blink in irresistibly adorable fashion.

5. Puppies are just so totally immature.

6. Immature puppies who are bigger than one's self must be put in their place.

7. If standing on hind legs and waving paws in the air doesn't work, retreat to under-chair trench and prepare for major assault tactic.

8. Major assault tactic from under-chair trench: bark and growl in a soprano version of German Shepherd Dog roommate, successfully getting the trainer to glare at my human, the puppy and its owners to stare at me in a confused manner, and everybody else in the store to stop whatever they were doing to focus on me, and me alone.

9. Check the floor for more Little-Jac crumbles.

10. "Bye-bye" time is "I'm full" time, so no reason left to do anything the human wants. (And I get a car ride home for nothing -- saweet!)

Health Insurance on $83 a day

My husband and I are those "small business owners" politicians love to pretend they support. And since they're so determined to protect us from the evils of "European-style socialized medicine," we subsidize our friendly for-profit health insurance company to the tune of $2,510 a month, before co-pays, meds, etc.

Yup, that is over $30,000 a year, for a basic HMO, for two non-smoking people.

(No, my new job won't come with health insurance benefits, either.)

We're looking at cutting it down by taking on deductibles, higher co-pays, higher costs for medicines, hospital admissions, etc. We might be able to get it down to about $22,000 that way. 

Pretty soon, my (ancient) husband can go on Medicare. But for people age 54 and under, which includes me, our politicians are talking about changing that, never mind we've paid into it all our lives. Well thank goodness they aren't socialists, right?...

Anyway, I just found out I'm going to need a biopsy. On the one hand, we're finally getting something for what we pay -- um, yippee? On the other hand, if I were actually to get sick, the friendly for-profit insurance company might decide to drop us, or at least raise our rates even higher. 

I think I feel sick. 

Another Break from Not Dancing

You know the typical story of the young chorine who gets her big break when the star breaks her leg? Or storms off the set because the lighting isn’t right? Or runs off with the guy who always wears a tux?

Well my weekend was just like that! Kind of.

The dancer who had to bow out is actually the young one, while I’m the old less young one. And she just had the flu.

I’ve given up dancing onstage. I've given it up at least twice a year for the past ten years.  So I do need a break, but not the “Let me do the part!” kind. More the “Let me sleep til noon!” kind. 

I’d actually co-created this particular duet, five years ago, when I was less less young. But I was the part the not-sick dancer was performing. I didn't really know the sick dancer's part.

As we know, the older more less young we become, the more less good our memory is. (“So it’s leap, land, swivel, and turn to the right or the left?” “The right.” “Got it. Leap, land, swivel and turn to the – did you just say right or left?”)

“Just have fun with it!” everyone said, which is the standard thing you say when you know somebody is about to make a fool of herself. (Also, “The audience won’t know the difference!”)

The dress still fit, although a little tighter less loose than before. And in the end, it went okay. I just had fun with it. The audience didn’t know the difference. 

Then I RE-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-retired from dancing onstage. Until next time.

Meanwhile, don’t wake me before noon.

My New Job

“You can’t always get what you want

But if you try sometimes, you just might find

You get what you need.” 

– Jagger & Richards (who may or may not have gotten what they need)

What I wanted when I was young was to work as a performing dancer. I had lots of encouragement from teachers, and in fact I had everything it took, except being completely healthy.  Besides, my piano kept calling to me.

What I wanted next was to work in music academia, just like my Dad. But that’s for people who go in one direction, not two (or more). How could I just be a musician, without dance? It’s all the same thing, to me.

Next I wanted to make my own way, taking roads less traveled to combine music and dance.  I know that thoughtful movement makes musicians better musicians, and getting music in their bodies makes dancers better dancers.

Along the way, dance kept coming back to me.

For instance, I’ve choreographed the theory of dark matter in the universe for a Unitarian Church, “The King and I” for a high school, and “Iphegenia at Aulis” for a Classical Theatre group in Georgetown. I’ve danced “The Arabian” in Nutcracker, a cha-cha for the Unitarians, and ballet for children’s audiences dressed as a lamb (minus the wool – this lamb was practically naked). I’ve taught modern to ballerinas, ballet to brats, and ballroom to some of the oddest people on earth at Arthur Murray’s on 5^th Avenue.

Anyway, lately I decided it was time for a “real job.” Of course, this occurred to me right at the age when most people are thinking of retiring.

Maybe I’d go for that job in academia after all, joining the ranks of safe, comfortable friends -- as junior faculty, after getting my Ph.D, starting by writing a cookie-cutter essay for the geniuses of the GRE (grrr…).

Maybe I’d be an arts administrator, and sit at a desk wearing fabulous clothes every day – but my background doesn’t count as real work for jobs like that. (Plus there’s the whole shoes and pantyhose thing.)

Maybe I’d start my own school, which would put me in one place instead of five – but since I’ve been driving around the region, my footholds of students and supporters are also scattered all over the place, hours apart. (“Well, if you bring little Johnny after rush hour, it should only take two hours each way. You could be back home in time for the 11:00 news!”)

Then it fell into my lap – School Director of a small non-profit contemporary dance organization. So close to home I could walk, so my 15-year-old Honda should survive. No pantyhose or shoes! No getting fat, bored, or overly comfortable. No getting health insurance either – but I’m sure once I get the school’s finances up into the multi-millions, that will be no problem. (Note to self: play lottery.)

I’m taking over in June, and start teaching in August. That should give me plenty of time to get back my 20-year-old body, right? Okay, maybe the 30-year-old one? I’ll settle for one that can plie without sounding like a percussion ensemble.

Stay tuned!

Birthday. Happy?

So yesterday was my birthday. You can fill in all the complaints about getting older yourself. EVERYbody complains about it. In fact, half the birthday cards you see in stores are one joke: "Haha, You're getting really OLD!"

(To the people who send me cards: Thank you for knowing not to send me cards reminding me that my body is going downhill, I'm not adorably young anymore, and soon I'm going to die.)

I like the saying that "it beats the alternative." You're lucky if you get to grow old. Like people walking a labyrinth, being young or old is simply a matter of being in different places on our journeys. 

But of course that's not comfort enough. There must be reasons it's all for the best to be where I am on the journey in 2011. Hmm...

1. There's Facebook, where lots of people -- many I haven't seen since I was adorably young -- wish me Happy Birthday. That wasn't possible before, and in the future people might be too busy playing with holograms (or something) to bother. That, or the polarization of rich and poor will have friends living without running water, let alone Facebook. Well, yay!

2. I am forever younger than Vivien Leigh and Eleanor Powell. I adored them as a teenager, but now I can look at their beautiful young selves and think, "Yeah but I'm still younger." Any day now, that's going to work for me.

3. In years past, people my age were on the verge of retirement. I'll probably never be able to retire. But that's great, because I'll stay active! And that will keep me healthy and happy, right?....  Right?

4. I'm a baby-boomer. I have lots of company. There's no way a whole generation of us could be thrown under the bus without adequate care in our old age... right?

5. Okay, well if the younger generations aren't able and willing to sustain the Social Security and Medicare we've paid into, think of this: they LOVE our fashions. Save everything. Our "how could I have worn this" is their "vintage." As long as eBay survives, so will I.

6. Now dark chocolate and red wine are good for me. (Take that, Vivien!)

7. Someday there will be a cure for wrinkles and pimples. But I get to have both. It says, "I'm not too young, and I'm not too old." For what, I don't know. It sounds good, though.

8. When shopping for clothes, there are distinct departments suited to one's age. An immediate reaction of, "Cute!!" interrupted by the realization that I'm not 17 anymore propels me into the next department. There I see "career" clothes, where fantasies of being chic and smart in some high-power position are interrupted by the realization that I work in bare feet most of the time. Off I go to the next department where the clothes are hideous, shapeless, but often 70% off. By the time I hold up a square-shaped t-shirt with daisies on it thinking, "Well this one isn't so bad," it's just time to go. This is all for the best because I save lots of money, which I may need later when I can only afford to eat cat food.

9. Besides, in generations past, women wore the only thing worse than pantyhose: stockings with garter belts. (I'm old enough to have experienced that horror.) And in the future everybody will be wearing those stretchy outfits like in Star Trek and Lost in Space, I'm sure -- and they look itchy. Ugly daisy t-shirts are better.

10. I remember the COOL disco dancing, not the John Travolta Wonder Bread disco dancing! The hip, funky street hustle was apparently such a rare, fleeting phenomenon that nobody else seems to remember it. (Somebody please tell me I'm not making it up.)

Yes indeed, 2011 is a great year to be on the edge of retirement age without being able to retire while wearing daisy t-shirts and dining on red wine, dark chocolate and cat food. There was never a better time.