It’s funny what we remember. I was 11. Too tall and wide for Gap Kids, Mom took me to the Gap to select my recital outfit. My wrap skirt was pastel plaid, and I wore a sleeveless, denim button down. I imagine that brown loafers and white socks completed this early ’90s classic look.
A mere month after starting piano lessons, I was thrust into a recital. Even then, I knew I wasn’t ready. I sat in the audience for hours awaiting my turn; the more remedial the student, the later the time slot, meaning I was one of the last to play. With every piece I listened to, I slunk lower and lower into my seat. Surely I wouldn’t have to follow these (what seemed like) masterful students? Alas, my name was called. Dead woman walking, I approached the stage and banged out “Hot Cross Buns,” or something equally as easy. Upon blessed completion, my face burning with shame, I turned to the audience with my head hung low and took a bow I felt I didn’t deserve. I never returned to my lessons though every once in awhile I’d sneak back to the keyboard and teach myself a song by sounding out the notes.
Though I understand why I quit lessons at the time, I still long to play the piano. Actually, I wish I could sing, but, well, that’s not in the cards for these vocal chords. I like to think that there’s a musician inside my soul just waiting to break free and rock out. This desire has been escalating over the past month or so, and after casually mentioning wanting to take lessons again to my family, I ended up with my childhood keyboard in the backseat of my car last night. I set it up in my room, started to walk away, but then ran back to it, pulled up a chair, and started trying to sound out “Silent Night.” Finally, I Googled the music, Sharpied the notes onto the keyboard, and practiced and practiced and practiced. At last, confident I had the song down pat, I called down to Roomie and asked if he wanted to hear me play a song.
Roomie: Is it “Silent Night,” by any chance?
So, next order of business is to get some headphones. I don’t want to subject Roomie to any more one-hour, one-song concerts.
Roomie and one of his colleagues go to SBUX most afternoons for some chai and a break from the daily grind. On a recent outing, Roomie wondered aloud just how much sugar was in a chai?
Colleague 1: Why do you care all of a sudden?!
Roomie: I don’t know! Maybe because Lauren is on a diet?
Colleague 1: Why is Lauren on a diet?!
Roomie: I don’t know!
This cracks me up. Rewind to winter 08, and Roomie and I were participating in a six week yogic cleanse with our yoga studio, and on week four, we underwent a three-day fruit fast. It wasn’t TOO terrible, but it was a tad inconvenient, particularly for Roomie since he goes to lunch with his colleagues almost every day. On the first day of the fruit fast, he announces to another of his work pals that he can’t go to lunch that day or the two days after that because he’s doing a fruit fast. Without even looking up, colleage 2 responds: “Is this the roommate’s influence?”
I guess if I’m going to have a reputation, this isn’t a terrible one to follow me around.
My dear friend Anaka was sharing literature examples with me this afternoon, and the below (a passage for her students to determine is a metaphor) made me laugh. Ah, yes, dating. So often it seems like I’m swimming around in an over-fished (very small) sea, and the occasional schools of fish I encounter are composed of mackerel and herring. Not my type of guy. Er, fish.
But I’m still swimming.
“The world is supposed to be full of possibilities, but they narrow down to pretty few in most personal experience. There’s lots of good fish in the sea…maybe…but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you’re not mackerel or herring yourself you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea.”
- D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Perhaps I’m just procrastinating writing my next post, but I made a word cloud out (http://www.wordle.com) of my post “We are so cute…”
I have ever so much to write about my trip to Guatemala. But first, I must pack, sleep for a few moments, and then head to Lake Tahoe for my baby brother’s wedding.
Please stay tuned…
It tolls for thee...
I so enjoy reading “The Economist.” I love to learn, and each issue provides me with such deep satisfaction in that department; I feel like I’ve really accomplished something when I finish a week’s publication. But you might be surprised about my favorite section. Yes, I feel a little guilty that I love “Books & Arts” and “Science & Technology” in a magazine by the name of “The Economist.” But those aren’t what I look forward to the most when I open a fresh issue. No, it’s the Obituaries I love.
One of my dreams is that when I die (hopefully a long time from now), I will have led a life special enough to warrant an Economist Obituary. The respect with which the writer(s) treats the deceased — even the less than savory characters, ie warlords or mobsters — and the poetry the writer evokes… I am always, always moved after reading about these people. These are no daily newspaper she’s-with-the-Lord-Jesus-now-please-donate-to-your-local-pet-shelter Obituaries. I find “The Economist” Obituaries to be some of the most beautifully-written pieces I’ve ever read. And for the most part, I’ve never even heard of the decedents prior to reading about them in the penultimate section of the magazine. Yet, for a moment, and sometimes longer, I mourn them.
Six months later, I still think about Conchita Cintrón, who I had never heard of prior to the March 5th, 2009, issue. I hope you will read her Obituary in full. I wept at the end.
Conchita Cintrón
Mar 5th 2009
From The Economist print edition
Conchita Cintrón Verill, bullfighter, died on February 17th, aged 86Conchita Cintron, (c) Corbis
FOUR in the afternoon is the vital time in bullfighting. Most corridas start then, when the declining sun shines full in the bull’s eyes, dazzling him. And that was the only time Conchita Cintrón felt afraid. Behind the closed gates of the patio de cuadrillas, mounted and ready, she would feel a sudden lightning bolt to the pit of the stomach, the realisation that she didn’t know how the bull would be, or what was about to happen. At that moment, everyone was quiet. All she could hear was the tinkling harness of the mules that would drag the bull out of the ring, the chink of spur on stirrup, “and the voice of some well-intentioned supporter wishing you luck, and you can hardly bear to give him your hand.” Then the gates swung open, the trumpets blared out, “and it’s just God, the bull and the bullfighter.”It was also at four in the afternoon that she had dared to knock, years before, at the door of Ruy da Cámara’s riding school in Lima. It was a cold, pale day in winter; she was 11. The place was deserted. Da Cámara found in front of him a slender child with blonde page-boy hair and blue eyes, dressed in overalls, which she wore as nonchalantly as if she had no other clothes. She handed him a ten-soles note and asked him to give her a lesson. Yes, she added, she knew how to ride a little; she had been given a horse as a present on the day of her first communion.
Da Cámara noticed then what fans treasured later: her delicacy, her solemnity and her fearlessness. She was a gringa, with a Puerto Rican father and an Irish-American mother; this accounted for her fair northern colouring, which earned her the name “Golden Goddess” in Mexico, where she made her reputation. Her fine hands allowed her to flick and twirl the muleta, luring the bull and teasing him, with extraordinary artistry. Beside the huge black beast, one commentator wrote, she looked like a Sèvres figurine, but one brimming over with duende—courage, grace and defiance. She was known especially for her verónicas, slow backward swings of the cape with both feet rock-steady as the bull raced towards her, almost upon her.
But Ms Cintrón had not intended to work with capes or muletas. She had started as a horse-rider, until the day when da Cámara encouraged his pupils to stick banderillas in an old chair from horseback. She took to the new game so eagerly that, at 13, he tried her talents on a frisky bull that was being driven to the local slaughterhouse. Her horse, as she gave it rein and raced forwards, leapt “like a swallow” with fear, but she saw her banderilla planted firmly for the first time in the black, mountainous neck. That was it. At 16, though her parents wished she would do something ladylike, such as learning French, she was touring professionally round the bullrings of Latin America.
Learning to kill was harder. She practised at the slaughterhouse, serenely confident, as she would tell preachy Americans later, that these bulls would otherwise die by the hammer, an “unsporting” end. At first she closed her eyes, missing the vital spinal gap where her dagger had to fall. She forced herself not only to look, but to stay still as the bull charged her. Only then could she see the spot. The keen, true thrust, and the instantaneous death, made her sing with joy. In her fairly short career—she retired in 1950, at 27, wanting to marry a man who would not roll over so readily—she killed more than 750 bulls, happily collecting their ears, tails and feet.
A passing caress
Her skills were not always welcome. This was, and is, a man’s world. She had been trained as a rejoneadora, in the Portuguese version of bullfighting, and was supposed to stay on her horse. Men went on foot to do their duelling with the bull, and to kill it; this was not women’s work. But Ms Cintrón found her horse got in the way. “Twos always work better than threes,” she liked to say. In her rejoneadora gear—no flashy suit of lights, but a silk jacket, leather chapped trousers and a wide-brimmed hat—she would slide from her steed and right into the close, bloody dance.
One late fight, in Jaen in 1950, was especially famous. Women were forbidden to fight on foot in Franco’s Spain, in case they were gored in unseemly ways. (Ms Cintrón was often injured and twice gored, once in each thigh, but managed to finish off the bull after fainting briefly.) On this occasion, having slipped illegally from her horse, she snatched a muleta and sword from the waiting novillero, raised the sword as the bull charged, and then dropped it, instead caressing the huge black neck as it hurtled past. For this “burst of glorious criminality”, as Orson Welles described it, she was instantly arrested and as instantly pardoned, as the crowd rained down hats and carnations. That final caress, with her delicate fingers, was a gesture only a woman might have thought of making.
She married well, to an aristocratic nephew of her riding teacher, and spent the rest of her life writing articles, breeding Portuguese water dogs and doing the diplomatic round. In old age, she would complain that she had lived too long; a bullfighter, after all, “sees no importance in living beyond the fight”. Ordinary life dragged. But at times, laughing, she would make her hands into horns and imitate the rush of the bull out of the gate, at four in the afternoon.
Copyright © 2009 The Economist Newspaper and The Economist Group. All rights reserved.
At some point, the future awaits. Whether it’s today, this year, or next, I really should consider buying my own home. Yes, I have a honey of a deal where I live now: the best roommate anyone could ask for, an exquisite home in which to live, etc. But, nor do I want to cramp Roomie’s style indefinitely.
ANYway, I got a lead on a house today that’s perfect! It’s just the right size, and, should my personal life really pick up the pace, I can assign 1,000 square feet to myself and 11 man-friends (a modest harem, if you will).
I mean, seriously, who DOESN’T need three (3) kitchenettes and a coffee bar?!?
Who DOESN’T need six (6) living rooms?!?
What little girl DOESN’T dream of living in her very own castle?!
I tell you what: this girl will be growing out her hair Rapunzel-style tout de suite!
My castle awaits
I went running this morning (yeah, scary, I know), and this is one of the songs that Pandora sent to me for my jog. I realize this is a song about two people, but I couldn’t help but take it more personally than that, particularly in the midst of my present existential crisis. To me, these lyrics are a final request to get myself out of my own way.
“The one thing that I still know is that you’re keeping me down…”
My dad occasionally likes to say that he doesn’t want to read other people’s minds, but sometimes he sure wishes they could read his. And there are days when I definitely know what he’s talking about. In that vein, I’m sharing my results from a personality test.
*****
Our office took the Myers-Briggs test last year, and our HR consultant — the very savvy and wonderful Martha Duesterhoft of HR Ally — analyzed the results. I was surprised to learn I was an extrovert. Perhaps, dear readers, you might be confused as to why, but if you’re new to me, then you only know the “new” me, Lola, the one who likes other people and is chatty and so forth. The ol’ introvert is still in there, but I’m still getting used to the extrovert version.
In any case, I LOVE personality analysis tests. Can’t get enough of them. I once signed up for Chemistry.com just because I loved the personality test questions so much. I just really enjoy learning more about myself, so I suppose I’m an introspective extrovert.
Okay then, back on task. After Martha received our short-form results from the M-B test, she put together a very thoughtful analysis to share with our group. At the time, not one of my colleagues had a similar personality type, which I thought was pretty nifty. I was out of the office for most of Martha’s presentation, but returned just in time for my results, and oh, how illuminating they were. Martha read the headline, and my colleagues went berserk with laughter.
Myers-Briggs Profile: ENTJ – “Everything’s fine – I’m in charge”
For ENTJ types, career satisfaction means doing work that:
- Lets them lead, be in control, organizing and perfecting the operating systems of an organization so that it runs efficiently and reaches its goals on schedule.
- Lets them engage in long-range strategic planning, creative problem solving, and the generation of innovative and logical approaches to a variety of problems.
- Is done in a well-organized environment where they, and others, work within a clear and definite set of guidelines.
- Challenges and stimulates their intellectual curiosity and lets them work with complex and often difficult problems.
- Gives them opportunities to meet and interact with a variety of other capable, interesting and powerful people.
- Gives them the opportunity to advance within the organization and to increase and demonstrate their competence.
- Is exciting, challenging, and competitive; where they are in the public eye and where their accomplishments are seen, recognized, and fairly compensated.
- Lets them work with other intelligent, creative, ambitious, and goal-oriented individuals whose competencies they respect.
- Lets them set and meet goals and implement their organizational skills to keep themselves and others focuses on the larger goal while accomplishing all their objectives in a timely and efficient manner.
- Lets them manage and supervise others, using logical and objective standards, and policies that utilize each person’s strengths but without having to deal daily with interpersonal squabbles.
Work-related strengths and weaknesses of ENTJs include:
Strengths
- Can be visionary leaders
- Work best in organizations where opportunity exists to rise to the top
- Ambitious and hardworking; honest and direct
- Good complex and creative problem solvers; able to make logical decisions
- Able to keep long- and short-term goals in mind
Weaknesses
- May be demanding, critical, and intimidating
- May place work above other areas of life
- May overlook relevant facts and important details in haste to make decision
- May not express encouragement or praise
- May not invite or permit input and contributions from others
*****
While these are supposed to be work-related points, they absolutely ring true for other areas of my life.
So, now you can read my mind.
The older I get, the more often I catch myself mid-sentence sounding exactly like my mother. Fortunately, the older I get, the more I respect my Mom and appreciate her and all her quirks and how wonderful she is.
Lola and Mamasita, in Roma
After a round of golf, dinner and frozen custard last night, Mom and I were driving around town, and every time I said “turn left,” I meant, “turn right,” and vice versa. I did this about 20 times before I threw a minor temper tantrum of frustration with my silly brain.
Mom said, “yeah, I know what you mean. I’ve been putting my clothes on backwards lately.”
So, if you see me a few years from now with my shirt and pants on backwards heading left when I meant to go right, you know where I got it…
