Three Posts in One

For three days in a row, I attended the biggest event in Columbus of the day. (I have written and re-written that opening sentence and can't get it to sound grammatically correct. You all know what I mean though. I hope.)

Where do I even begin? I guess chronologically, with Thursday.

Thursday:

My dad had tickets secured for the sold-out Yo-Yo Ma concert for a long time -- front row seats in the historic Ohio Theater (on the very edge of the left side, but front row nonetheless.) I've always been a fan of Yo-Yo Ma, ever since my elementary school music teacher Mrs. Stoll introduced him to me with a CD in which he collaborated with Bobby McFerrin to do Flight of the Bumblebee. I also love the work he's done for movies such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Memoirs of a Geisha and... well, probably every movie ever made featuring Asian actors. Anyway, enough rambling.

I love classical music and am always up for an orchestra performance, but I was not expecting to be so blown away. Ma's cello-playing is absolutely flawless. His big strokes sound like spreading honey and his runs sound like trickling water. With our limited view from the corner of the theater, I could see that written music is completely unnecessary for him: he just looks up at the ceiling and feels it, as strands of horsehair break off of his bow one by one and wave passionately in the air.

I was also not expecting to be so inspired by the maestro, Junichi Hirokami, a 5-foot tall Japanese man whose little body could not contain all his energy. We were seated ideally to see his profile view throughout the concert and I have never seen a man exude more love for what he was doing. I definitely saw air between his feet and the podium more than a couple of times. With the duo of Ma and Hirokami, there was never a dull moment.

Lastly, I was not aware of the dire financial situation of the Columbus Symphony Orchestra, and that this concert may in fact have been the last for them. Understandably, lots of people are upset about this. (You can read more about it here. It's a poorly written article but you'll get the gist of the hornet's nest.) We joined the masses in standing ovation-ing and encoring the heck out of every song. It was awesome. I've never seen so much support for an orchestra before. Long live CSO!

Friday:

Although we'd been in possession of the tickets for only a fraction of the time we'd had the ones for Yo-Yo Ma, my sister and I had been every day in delirious anticipation for the Flight of the Conchords, which, as you can read in my previous blog post, was a result of Divine intervention. Our shirts turned out exactly the way I'd envisioned them, which is more proof of the inspired nature of the event. I'm not an artist by any means and have never done caricatures before but I was able to whip up the pictures in no time Friday morning.

Bret and Jemaine were as adorable as can be sitting up there on the stage with their guitars and other assorted electronic instrumentalia. They charmed us with all of our favorite songs and included three new ones which I look forward to seeing on their show next season. They specialize in parodies and comedic banter, but I'm here to tell you that they are way talented as musicians as well. At the beginning of the show, their harmonies were right on and they had some awesome guitar licks not featured on their TV series. Granted, they started slipping near the end but they were noteably exhausted; seriously, they'd been playing for 2 hours straight with no intermission. And Bret did an impromptu mad dash through the crowd on the main floor, even in his (probably) worn out state, to the delight of the audience. We were only about 5 rows away from him... I could almost smell his delectable sweat. So we didn't get to go up on stage like in my dream. But I still feel like I have a more intimate relationship with those boys now. Or men. Yes, technically, they are.

Saturday:

On a more sobering note (although the other two events are already plenty sobering), I got home from the Conchords concert late Friday night only to wake up at 6am for a more charitable cause. Race for the Cure is an annual event in downtown Columbus but this was the first year I actually considered running it, for some reason. Again, I was not expecting to be so awed. About 40,000 people showed up this year and at $25 a person, that's a heck of a lot of money raised. I'd never run a 5k before and had not done any running for years, so I knew I was going to be pathetic running it cold turkey like that. But how can I say "no" to a cause like breast cancer research? It was packed tight with people as far as the eye can see, and even when the race began, at first we could only inch along. I decided to run with my dad (who has been working out) and was only able to keep up with him for the first mile or so. However, I probably wouldn't have been able to run even a mile straight if it hadn't been for the crowds of people and live bands lining the streets, cheering us on. Talk about encouragement! And not to mention I could see the backs of all the people running in front of me, where they had pinned on the names of loved ones and victims of breast cancer. As a sea of flapping pink paper bounced in front of me with names like "mom" and "grandma" and "my teacher," I couldn't help but get a little teary-eyed as I ran and fought a little harder to keep running. The last stretch of road was lined with Harley Davidson bikers, revving their engines and giving high fives. As I snailed across the finish lines with all the other tightly-packed people, the air was rich with endorphins and good feelings all around. It was incredible to see so many people of all different backgrounds united in a cause like this. Waking up at 6am for it? Definitely worth it.

Overall, you could say that I am significantly prouder of Columbus right now.

Ode to a 5'5" Giant of a Man

Recently, dinner conversations have become more regular at the kitchen table.

I don't remember what led to it, but someone mentioned the long black socks I'd worn with my skirt to church today. I nonchalantly replied that I hadn't had time to shave my legs this morning, and my mom and little sister nodded their understanding. I got up to put my dishes away and thought the conversation was over, but little did we know that my dad had been listening and was now deep in thought.

A few minutes later, the silence was broken.
"Do you really have to do it that often?" he asked.

The three of us stared at him. Our female minds had long since wandered to other engaging subjects, like what to wear tomorrow, dessert, and whose turn it was to take the dog out.
"Do what, Poppy?"
"Shave," he answered innocently.

Here we all stared at him in disbelief. He's been living with 6 women for HOW long and he has to ask us this??? Oh my poor dad. It just goes to prove that there are certain things that men will never understand about women, no matter how many daughters he has.

It made me recall a distant memory, when mom was away and we were still 5 little girls. He had served us a dinner of soup (probably from a can) and we were all slurping away at it around the kitchen table, our long hair falling across our faces and into our vittles. He saw the problem and tried to fix it by grabbing a handful of rubber bands (the kind that come wrapped around the morning paper) and attempting to tie all of our hair up into ponytails. I think it was probably the first and last time he has ever done girls' hair. The result was probably a comedic sight that would have given 80's hair bands a run for their money. Well, the "guy"ness of my dad is one of his most endearing qualities.

The years have gone by and we have all done our best to live peacefully together, our dad occasionally driving us to the drugstore to buy tampons and putting up with our monstrous tantrums, while we try to keep him looking respectable in public by informing him when his outfit doesn't match or when he needs to cut his hair.

When people ask my dad how many children he has and he tells them he has five daughters, they always say, "oh, I'm so sorry." To which he always replies, "why?"

We love our Poppy.

Bigger is Better

I have a lovely young friend from Japan who is studying English at BYU. It's great every once in a while to catch up with her on the goings-on of this far eastern land and see what amazing things they are kicking our butts in these days. To start off my probing, I had a question ready at hand: "So, how small are those cell phones getting these days? Pretty soon the standard phone package will come with a magnifying glass, huh?" I was trying to be clever, but she didn't even crack a smile. "Well actually, they're getting bigger," she replied, looking at me as if I was nuts (not without reason). Bigger? Could it be true that the Japanese had finally reached a limit they couldn't supercede? Had they resigned to reverting to past trends like the Americans do when we're too lazy to be innovative?

Of course not. What I didn't know then was that what we think of as the function of a cell phone is actually becoming obsolete. We're no longer to be considered high-tech gurus for walking around with chunks of plastic that merely allow us to talk to other people who also own similar chunks of plastic. (Here, a group of Japanese teenagers starts snickering behind me. OK, so it's a fictitious group of teenagers. Nevertheless, I try to defend myself: "But my cell phone can take pictures!" Now the snickers turn into guffaws.) I had to see it with my own two eyes to believe it. Today I had a privileged opportunity to glimpse this nearly unfathomable phenomenon.

My dad came home from work today sporting... are you sitting down?... a BlackBerry (thanks to "big four" accounting firm Ernst & Young). Its sleek frame, impossibly large screen, and keyboard-style touchpad are truly a sight to behold. One look and my PC ran and hid under the sink in shame. Probably because it realized that junior was going to one-up him in emailing capabilities, graphic clarity, and ability to fit into a purse, and throw in some "yo' mama" jokes on top of all that. So I don't actually know how to use this baby yet, but I'm guessing that it has games to disgrace pong (I didn't think it could ever happen!), decodes secret messages in the Pentagon, and makes delicious homemade gnocchi. Whoa.

The BlackBerry may seem at its ripest to us, but to the Japanese it's already rotting away, reeking the putrid stink of yesterday's technology. So try not to fawn too much over the "new" RAZRs in their presence-- you may just take a serious blow to your (and America's) pride.

Doctor, It's Cold Outside

About 4 weeks ago, I sprained my foot. At least, that's the diagnosis I personally came up with, and as there were no professional opinions involved, there's a slight possibility that I'm wrong. However, for the sake of keeping this blog entry short and sweet, we'll just call it a sprain.

Injuries like this happen occasionally to us athletic types. On that fateful day 4 weeks ago, I was employed in the physical activity of napping on the couch. Since I am a trained athlete in the sport, I have incredible endurance and can keep at it longer than most-- even with my legs twisted in a way that cuts off blood circulation. Beginners, do not try this at home. Anyway, even after such a lengthy session, I decided that I still had enough stamina to walk over to the computer, a full 3 and a half feet away. Well, this is why it isn't good to strain yourself more than you are physically able: as soon as I set my fallen-asleep-foot down on the ground and stood up, there was a huge CRACK! and I was down. The pain was excruciating, but of course, athletes are able to withstand greater physical pain than most. I sat on the ground, cradling my foot and blubbering like a baby.

Obviously, the next step in attending to an injury is deciding what to do. For this, I needed my dad's opinion, as he is the most left-brained member of our family: He's an accountant. I know that accountants aren't necessarily capable of giving medical advice, but they are able to do very difficult things like math and playing minesweeper, which is good enough for me. Immediately he started asking me questions, with his "very serious" face that makes him even more credible:

"So you heard a 'crack'?"

"Yes."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"Yes."

After this initial examination, he had to do some more thinking, during which time I tried to keep my whimpering down to a minimum. After several "hmm"s and narrowing of eyes, he started again:

"Is the bone sticking out?"

"No."

"But you heard a crack?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well, if the bone's not sticking out, it's probably not broken."

I stared through tearing eyes at the lump the size of a golf ball throbbing on the side of my foot.

"It's probably a sprain."

The thing about being in a family that isn't medically inclined is that nobody really knows what a sprain is, but it always sounds like a pretty good answer, so no one contests it. As far as I can tell, it's when something hurts really bad, but it's not broken. Anyway, the verdict was to not take me to the doctor, with the most heavily weighing arguments being that 1) it was really late, 2) it was really cold outside, and 3) I was already in my pajamas. So with enlightened mind and throbbing foot, I decided that the pain would probably be gone after a good night's rest.

Well, it's a month later and the pain is still there, but it has gotten better: I hardly feel a thing unless I run, jump, lean, go on tiptoe, wear my black shoes, or have Kelly Clarkson lyrics stuck in my head. Maybe this isn't a good thing, but I think it's too late to see a doctor. Besides, it's really cold outside.