The Angry Pianist

I've wanted to learn how to play the piano for years now. So when a beginner's piano class was offered in a listing of community programs that came in the mail, I signed up. No keyboard required, and the class is within walking distance of our house OR a two-minute drive (because it's cold).

The program listing said the class was open to ages 10 to adult, so I figured I'd be among youngsters. In the first class, it was me, two tweenagers, Carla, a woman who is probably my age but seems older because in my head I'm still 25, and Sasha, a boy who showed up halfway through the first class because his mom got the location wrong. The teacher brought keyboards for everyone. But the two goody-two-youngsters had their own keyboards. We learned to play scales. With both hands. We learned a few chords. It was hard. And enough for week one.

Week two. Unfortunate Sasha must have been frustrated because he was already behind the curve, so he became a piano school dropout. The remaining youngsters brought their keyboards, and I jumped on the keyboard the teacher brought. Carla shows up, also sans keyboard, and learns that Teacher hasn't brought enough keyboards.

Ok: If the class literature says "no keyboards required" AND two people show up to the first class without keyboards, you would think that the teacher would have spare keyboards in his car. And you would think wrong.

Cue really uncomfortable Carla-Teacher confrontation.

Cue me trying to diffuse the tension. Cue Carla and I sharing a keyboard.

Naturally, after the scales and chords of week one, we jump into learning Let It Be by a little-known band called The Beatles. Our teacher explains how to play it, poorly, and when I ask for more detailed instructions, am told that "you just need to feel it."

That's like telling a student driver he just needs to "feel" how to drive a car. Or a 3-year-old to just "feel" how to read a book. Point is, I need a little more fundamental musical skill before I can start "feeling" how to play Beatles songs.

I left class determined to figure it out. So I went home and felt the hell out of Let It Be. And Googled it. And I put together a decent rendition of the intro. So proud.

Class three. Now it's just me and the two young'uns. Pissed-off Carla must have quit after the keyboard-sharing fiasco of 2011. And I play my version of Let It Be. And Teacher tells me I'm forgetting a part. This part: Cue quick playing of Let It Be so student can't figure it out. And then he says, "Honestly, you just have to feel it."

Honestly, I just want you to feel me punching you in your face.

So for the rest of class three, I channeled my anger into playing D scales or some such nonsense. And then about 15 minutes before class is supposed to be over, he says that he thinks that's enough for tonight, like we're so good he can teach us no more this session, and we can leave, unless of course we want to stay.

Honestly, I just feel that someone wanted to get home to see this week's Modern Family.

Good teachers are supposed to inspire you to push yourself and do great things. Apparently, terrible-awful teachers can do the same.

Buried

Something about being buried under several feet of snow has left me blog-ally uninspired. I've only seen this much snow while skiing, and trust me, it's way more fun when you're flying* down the mountain and enjoying hot toddies afterward, as opposed to digging out a place for your dog to poop and watching her do her business on the porch anyway. With no hot toddies to follow.


The trusty Saturn has been buried since the massive snowstorm in December, and only over the weekend did I finally clear a path so that I'd have any hope of getting it out before spring. Luckily, today practically feels like summer, and the wind reminds me of Kansas in March, so maybe that damn groundhog knew what he was talking about this year.

It's a good thing Avery and I are good at entertaining ourselves, otherwise I'd be going more stir-crazy than I already am. She is really taking in the world around her these days, and with the whole sitting-on-her-own accomplishment, she's pretty hot to trot. And has serious opinions.


"Boppy? I don't need no stinking Boppy."



"Mom. You got a little something on your pants. I know you just changed into them. But for reals, they're a mess."



"Do you think this look will work when I want to borrow $20 from Dad?"




"Get in my buh-lly."



"You want me to stop making out with this ball to SMILE??"


Tune in next time for more drool and possibly higher quality images not taken on my phone.

*I feel like I'm flying. Alan might say otherwise.