Life's Most Embarrassing Moments--in Blue

One of the interesting things about embarrassment is that its pain can be referred to others.  When a couple breaks into a fight at a party, or a woman walks through a restaurant with her skirt caught in her underpants, my cheeks blush, too.  How often I have thought:  “There by the grace of God, go I.”

Throughout my career as a pianist I have had a handful of memory lapses in performance.  There is nothing like the feeling of being completely lost on stage before an audience, trying to keep the music going while you wait for your brain to kick back in.  It is like losing your way in big city traffic while the GPS chirps, “calculating.”   I practice for just such moments, designing re-entry points throughout the score that will put me back on track.  But there is no protection against that first moment of pure shock—the second when you realize that the brain fart has, indeed, occurred.

As a musician, you take a personal risk every time you walk on stage.  Musicians understand the cost and empathize with other performers.  We have all been there. 

Back in my high school years, I played in a youth symphony.  I try not to admit that I actually spent time as a violinist.  I loved making music; as a pianist you are relegated to the sidelines as other musicians get to collaborate in the playing of Brahms and Beethoven Symphonies.  Although I was purely self-taught, I achieved enough proficiency to audition my way into our glorious ensemble.  We rehearsed religiously on Sunday afternoons—Miami Dolphins championship games notwithstanding.

During one particular season, a guest artist was rehearsing Rhapsody in Blue with our orchestra in preparation of an upcoming concert.  Our principal clarinetist, who would be featured in the famous opening solo, was a fabulous musician and popular man-about-town.  He sported a thick mane of bright red hair and made all the girls swoon.  I can attest personally to the power of the twinkle in his eyes.  One week he announced that he would miss the next rehearsal in order to visit colleges in New England.  My older brother, who was assistant principal clarinet, was elated.  This meant that he would get to perform the opening solo with the 17-note glissando that was beloved by clarinetists everywhere.

Night and day my brother practiced the elongated Gershwin phrase, with the low trill on the tonal F rising to the high B-flat that set the key for the piece.   Written as discrete notes, the glissando was done originally as a joke in dress rehearsal in preparation of the piece’s premiere.   It is achieved by slowly gliding the fingers off the keys rather than fingering them individually.  George Gershwin, who gave the first performance of the piece himself, loved this treatment and asked the clarinetist to play the glissando in the live performance.  It has been done this way ever since—marking one of the great signatures of American “classical” music.

Finally, our Sunday rehearsal arrived.  The orchestra tuned up and settled down.   The soloist took her seat at the piano and gave the cue to the conductor that she was ready.  The conductor gestured to my brother to begin and relaxed her hands over the score—not needing to conduct during the opening bar of the clarinet solo.  I crossed my fingers, knowing more than anyone there how much this opportunity meant to my brother.  His opening trill was elegant, achieving that beautiful hollow tone that only a clarinet can make.  His glissando was perfect—every bit as good as any recording, but more importantly, every bit as good as the absent principal. 

At the downbeat, the horns, trombones and lower strings entered, sounding immediately dissonant and sour.  Suddenly, my brother cried out, “Oh noooo!” and turned an interesting shade of red.  The conductor kept the beat and the musicians kept playing, but my brother was painfully aware that he had been playing on the "wrong" clarinet.  Clarinets, you see, are a B-flat instrument.  This means that a C played on a clarinet sounds like a B-flat to the ear.  Because this full-step interval can wreak havoc with the clarinetist—an orchestral piece played in E-major can result in the clarinetist’s having to play in the difficult key of F-sharp—orchestral clarinetists have a secondary instrument that is built a half-step lower as an A instrument.  My brother had forgotten to switch from his A back to his B-flat.

My heart sank for my brother.  He fumbled with his mouthpiece, changing it to his other instrument as we began again.  But I knew, as only a loving sister can, that the opportunity he had long awaited had been spent.  Rehearsal got back on track and the pianist dazzled us with her rendition of Gershwin's masterpiece.  The following week the principal returned triumphant from his college tour, his magnificent red mane just a bit fuller, his blue eyes even more twinkly.  He opened the Gershwin in rehearsal just as he would at the inevitable concert performance--note perfect, but oblivious to the far greater meaning that the phrase had to another. 

Tomorrow's blog:  Nothing in Life is Free

Life's Most Embarrassing Moments--Part Deux

During my career as a corporate rat, I spent a great deal of time on the road presenting to clients, users’ groups, and professional associations.  As such, life was embarrassment waiting to happen.   I became cautious and superstitious to an excessive degree.   I learned to pack at least three pairs of pantyhose per day on the road, as I could not be trusted to dress myself successfully without tearing my stockings.  Even removing my watch and rings to avoid rips and runs was not a fail-safe solution.  I once made an emergency U-turn on the way to a client site; although I managed to spare my hose, I left my wedding rings on the bed in my hotel room.  

Over the years, I weathered my share of computers that refused to boot, demos that did not perform as expected, and out-of-sequenced PowerPoint slides.   No matter how seasoned I became at putting together a new presentation from an old one, there was invariably one slide that still bore the name of the client from the last presentation—an unforgiveable sin in the Fortune 100 world.   I became adept at turning off the projector spontaneously and resorting to a “chalk talk”—a seemingly impromptu discussion that was merely a cover-up for something gone awry.

In thirteen years of dog-and-pony-shows, there is one day that stands out in my mind above the rest.  There was a particularly prized client—one of the largest and most prestigious hospitals in the country.  The sales executive assigned to this account had spent years cultivating a relationship with their executive team, weathering the many turnovers and overcoming a couple of set-in-their-ways stalwarts who could not imagine changing from their traditional vendors.  Finally, the client agreed to allow us come on site and demonstrate our full product line to the many financial and clinical managers.  We dubbed these massive events “demoramas” as they cost the company literally tens of thousands of dollars to stage.   I was to be the keynote speaker, kicking off the event with a presentation of the company’s vision, making the connection between our application of technology and the hospital’s need for longitudinal functionality and clinical-financial integration.

To say this was a tough crowd is an understatement.  They arrived with their “shields up,” trying their best not to smile or concede any ground to our camp.  But in the end we prevailed, showing them how our approach was essential to the attainment of their strategic goals.  We shook hands and planned the next steps.  The sales executive was cautiously optimistic as he thanked our “corporate attack team,” continuing the post mortem evaluation all the way back to the airport, through ticketing, and even while we boarded the plane.   Once on board, we scattered to our assigned seats.

Exhausted, I let my body sink into the uncomfortable coach seat.  I rolled my neck and shoulders to expel the tension, then crossed my legs absentmindedly.  It was then I noticed the navy shoe on my foot.   It did not match the black and white glen plaid suite I wore with the solid black silk blouse.  I must have grabbed the blue instead of the black; the two identical pair of shoes sat side by side in my closet.   I shook my head, feeling the flush of embarrassment creep up my neck to my face.  Looking down in shame, I was stunned to discover it was even worse than I initially suspected.  There on my feet were mismatched shoes—one black, one blue.  I glanced around the plane, certain that all the passengers were staring at me, as if my shoe revelation had hit everyone simultaneously.  Mortified, I crossed my feet at the ankles and thrust them under my seat, causing the person behind me push back on the carryon bag they had stowed beneath.

Then, reality set in.  This wasn’t just a plane ride; it was the most important sales day of the year.   I recalled how my day had begun—the working breakfast, meeting the clients, the presentation in front of a packed Board Room.  How many places had I been?  How many people had I met?  How many had noticed the unfortunate woman with the mismatched shoes?  How much had this faux pas undermined my credibility as the company’s industry expert?

The next day at the office, I waited for the other shoe to drop, as it were.  No one called me on the carpet for my indiscretion.  The client still seemed determined to move forward with a deal.  But I was forced, lamentably, to sacrifice one of my favorite pairs of shoes just to ensure that there would never be a repeat performance of this particular embarrassment.

Tomorrow's blog:  Life's Most Embarrassing Moments--In Blue

Life's Most Embarrassing Moments--Part 1

When you write every day, you spend a lot of time forcing your life to pass before your eyes—anything to conjure a forgotten moment in the recesses of your brain.  Today, I began remembering embarrassments.  We all have those memories that we’d rather forget—tucking a skirt in our pantyhose, toilet paper stuck to a shoe, flop sweat in an important presentation—these are the times that give us character.  As I like to say to my children, it’s what you do next that counts.

Frequently—at least once a year—we entertain members of my husband’s department.  At one such occasion and at someone’s request, I made my almost legendary cheesecake.  Cheesecake is a rather simple recipe—not more than 5 ingredients—but it is the technique that separates a true chef from the dilettantes.  There are many secrets to making a cheesecake smooth, tall, and uncracked.   Most recipes don’t take the time to specify the importance of adding eggs one at a time, setting the cake in a bain marie, baking at a low temperature, or allowing the cake to cool slowly in the oven with the door open.  And the unfortunate part is that you cannot tell whether you are going to be successful along the way.  It is a surprise when you open the refrigerator the following morning and the cake is perfect.

So there we were, over thirty people mulling around the buffet eying the beautiful cheesecake sitting high atop its pedestal like a spoiled princess.  Thankfully, it was one of those times when the cake set up perfectly allowing me to showcase it without covering it with berries, or pecans, or something cloyingly sweet, like caramel.   People were admiring the lovely confection, pretending surprise that it was homemade and not from the bakery.  I oozed with pride.  

Then came time to cut the cake.  I officiated with knife in hand, cutting perfectly uniform slices and placing them on plates.  Then, as I worked the room I began finding uneaten pieces of cheesecake all over the house—on end tables, in the trashcan, on shelves.  I could not understand.  Quietly, I cut myself a piece and tasted it.  Something was dreadfully wrong!  It was so tangy—almost sour; it made my mouth pucker.  I closed my eyes and replayed the process, counting down the ingredients in my head.  Sugar!  I forgot to add sugar to the mixture.  The cake tasted like an oreo sandwich with a slab of cream cheese in place of the sweet icing.  

Humiliated, I removed the cheesecake from the buffet and searched the house for something to substitute while the red in my cheeks subsided.  People were beginning to make their excuses and slip out the door.  Apparently, embarrassment works both ways.  In my best imitation of MacGyver, I found a basket of strawberries in the refrigerator, a can of Hershey’s syrup, a bag of marshmallows, and a tin of Amaretti cookies in the pantry.  Placed on a large tray in festive bowls, I had an instant chocolate fondue treat!  With a flourish, I presented the new dessert and beckoned the masses back into the dining room.

Ever since this fiasco, I make sure to keep emergency provisions in the pantry.  I also bake off a small sample of my cheesecakes in a small ramekin for quality control.  Invariably, my husband will find something during a party that I have reserved in the refrigerator as a Plan B.  He will try to pull it out, confused as to why I haven’t served it.  Let this be our little secret!

Tomorrow's blog:  Life's Most Embarrassing Moments--Part Deux

A Father's Day Tribute

Let me tell you a little about my dad. 

My dad was a man who liked to live large, taking every opportunity to extract whatever fun or advantage he could from every situation.  He didn’t much care whether you agreed with him or not; he was a man of deep conviction.  He and I rarely agreed on anything, from education to curfew to politics to parenting.  And although he frequently angered or frustrated me, I always felt he deserved respect for knowing his mind and for being able to argue his point of view so meticulously.

When he wasn’t pulling rank in father-daughter terms, my father was a hoot.  Being in his presence was an advanced tutorial on living large. He loved to laugh, and he especially loved being able to get the last laugh.  He didn’t much care whether he was making the joke or was the butt of the joke—as long as laughter was the outcome.  He liked to say that he was an “equal opportunity asshole;” everyone was fair game, including himself.   Laughter was his currency.  He was never a wealthy man, but he was rich with friends and love and humor.  He was not scholarly, but he spun his own brand of street-smart wisdom.  He was not born to privilege, but he was thankful every day for the people with whom he shared his life.

My father was a gifted violinist; it was his musicianship that sparked the flame in me at an early age.  Although I played many venues in my musical career, there was none as special as the living room where we played together.  Here, we met as equals, blending our sounds and our love for music on a plane that we alone inhabited.  Many people would look on, talking and clapping occasionally, but we were oblivious.  No one could speak our secret language.  Together we closed our eyes and followed the phrases, feeling each pull of the bow and musical gesture in perfect unison.

Later in my life I became an executive in a large corporation.  My father loved the art of the deal, having spent his career as an electrical-engineer-turned-sales-exec.  He loved to listen while I conducted business over the phone, taking special pleasure in seeing a bit of himself in me.  He took great pride in having taught me mental toughness.  As a child, he would admonish me for “acting like a girl” while coaching me to be more “like a man.”  Although this political incorrectness makes me bristle today, I credit him with much of my resolve to break stereotypical barriers and glass ceilings.  Until life taught me otherwise, I entered the business world with a true belief that I could do anything.

I am always honest when I talk about my dad.  Although we had a tumultuous relationship, we always dealt honestly with each other about our likes and dislikes.  He was well aware that we did not see eye-to-eye, but it didn’t really matter.  We had the ability to shout it out one moment and then break into laughter the next.  The thing about my dad is that his beliefs were his beliefs, but his love was unconditional.  I could disagree vehemently with his rationales, his points of view, and especially his methods, but in spite of what came out of his mouth, I never for a moment doubted what was in his heart. 

It has been two and a half years since I lost my father.  The evening before his final slumber, we were on the phone laughing together.  There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of him, and the way his infectious laughter could fill any room.   

Tomorrow's blog:  Life's Most  Embarrassing Moments--Part One

I Scream for Ice Cream

True love has always caused me to wax poetic.  I really, really miss ice cream!

I Scream for Ice Cream

A sonnet is reserved to speak of love,

Its form thus structured in iambic beat,

Yet ice cream is the prize I’m dreaming of--

There’s nothing else that I am wont to eat.

The dairy goodness tugs upon my heart,

So worthy of the Bard’s resplendent verse,

Blank canvas for a culinary art,

A true cuisine remarkably diverse.

Tofutti and sorbet are just desserts,

Non-dairy treats I’d rather be dismissing,

Deny me the authentic blend, it hurts;

For coffee ice cream, I’ll be reminiscing.

Beware! These freezer treats bring on brain frost,

But I will take my licks at any cost!

Tomorrow's blog:  A Father's Day Tribute

Visualize It

My daughter, who is fine-tuning her skills as a designer, says the key to good design is in being able to visualize something clearly first. 

 

Today I was trapped for hours in traffic on the Mass Pike, unable to escape one depressing news report after another.  I suppose I could have changed to the Symphony station on SiriusXM radio, the listener equivalent of burying my head in the sand, but I felt oddly attentive to each factoid as if a doctor were reeling off a list of my own lab results.  Each truth was amazingly personal.  After all, don’t we all share in the ownership of these issues?   There I sat in my tight cockpit, becoming claustrophobic as the Eurozone crisis, the jobless rate in the US, the budget deficit, the intractability of polarized party politics, the violence in our streets, and Man’s basic inhumanity to Man piled up  around me.  As various voices decried one presidential candidate or the other, I started to realize how difficult it is in this day and age for even the most brilliant of minds or the most seasoned of public figures to make an appreciable dent in the common trash pile of top issues.  That’s when I started to panic that solutions did not exist; that we have passed the point of no return.

I do not pretend to have any answers.  On the other hand, we all realize that “same old, same old” ain’t gonna cut it.  This is when my daughter’s mantra hit me—v-i-s-u-a-l-i-z-e—and I started imagining living in a different sort of world.

Imagine what would happen if . . .

. . .if we handcuffed each member of Congress to a colleague from the across the aisle, forcing them to co-exist for 48 hours.

. . .if cars with even numbered license plates could only be driven on even calendar dates, while those with odd numbered plates could only be driven on the odd days.

. . .if we heeded George Washington’s warning and got rid of political parties.

. . .if respect were an inalienable right.

. . .if corporate executives, like the captains of ships, suffered the fates of their leadership—and only got bonuses from what remained after profits were booked and all other employees were compensated.

. . .if it were our accepted cultural practice to walk up to strangers on the street and introduce ourselves.

. . .if we had to surrender our cell phone into a locked slot in our car, concealing the keypad, before the car would be able to start.

. . .if one day each year all television stations and social media sites voluntarily blacked themselves out.

. . .if all the oil companies became fully invested in alternative energy sources.

. . .if all people felt like they were created equal.

. . .if doing right were more important than being right.

Buzz and Ruby's Nest

Everything I know about sending my kids to college I learned from a pair of red-tailed hawks named Buzz and Ruby.

Red-tailed hawks are indigenous to the area where I live, and are especially plentiful in my “backyard,” which abuts 114 acres of conservation land.  It is not uncommon for a particular hawk, who I have named Crim (for crimson), to perch on a particular branch of a large and ancient tree off our rear deck.  Crim will sit for hours guarding our home and bathing in the sun.  He is accustomed to humans so, therefore, is not spooked when we gather on the deck to admire him or to party wildly.  Since moving to the area and meeting Crim, we have become hawk-conscious throughout the region.  There is something touching about the way they soar through the sky and loom over us all—a poignant reminder that we are squatters in Nature’s backyard.

But back to Buzz and Ruby.  Red-tailed hawks stay together as couples, even returning year after year to the same nest.  Up the road in the Fresh Pond area of Cambridge, on a busy commuter parkway adjacent to the large Alewife T-station (the terminating point of the Red Line), Buzz and Ruby built a nest on a ledge of an office building, about seven stories off the ground.  A few years ago, we became aware that they had built this nest by the crowd that began hanging around in mid-April.  Each week the gathering became larger and larger while the telephoto lenses hanging around the necks of the onlookers grew longer and longer.  Eventually, Buzz and Ruby created a round-the-clock traffic jam along this already packed surface artery.

By May 1^st, Buzz and Ruby had hatched three tiny “eyasses.”   Both parents remained in or near the nest, taking turns circling the area for prey and bringing back food for the tiny chicks.  Most of the time, they positioned themselves on the edge of the nest between their offspring and the distant gawking crowd, staring the spectators down while preventing even a glimpse of their precious youngsters.  By June, at least two of the young hawks seemed vital (there was a question of whether the late hatchling was feeding well).  We began to see them spreading and fanning their wings as they approached the height and appearance of their parents.   Within weeks, as they acquired the capacity, the fledglings took flight and were unceremoniously pushed from the nest.

There is nothing as wonderful as filling a home with children, and nothing as important as sending them on their way when the time comes.  When my children reached those difficult years—16, 17, 18—my husband used to tell me that it was Nature’s way of making it easy for me to let go.   Neither of my kids applied to colleges in our home state; both had dreams and ambitions that took them elsewhere.  I am happy that they both knew their own minds and that each found a life tailor made for their need.  In truth, I have always been less afraid of letting go and more afraid to discover that my lack of motherly skill may have handicapped my children.  What if I failed to instill all the desirable adult attributes and necessary powers of reasoning?

    

But children, like red-tailed hawks have their own powers of flight.  They sprout wings and learn to flap instinctively, taking to the air with or without maternal accession.  Sometimes they falter a bit, but then they learn to adapt to the changing winds.  All we, as mothers, can do is to soar high above as Nature allows, hoping to catch a glimpse of our progeny at work in their own endeavors, and ever grateful for those moments when we meet up as fellow adults.

Tomorrow's blog:  Visualize It