Recently in I fell down Category

After a lifetime of contusions, bruises, rashes, scratches, cuts, abrasions, sprains, bumps and boo-boo's, I've actually BROKEN SOMETHING. Yup, I have an oblique fracture of the fifth meta-tarsal. If the X-rays would scan, I'd show you (yes, I had copies made - 'CAUSE HOW COOL). And what's more, the physician, who was an expert in sports medicine, who just happened to be doing his one night of the week at the InstaCare, called me a "Stud."

I think perhaps that should be a synonym for "Really Stupid." In the first place, this injury occurred last Tuesday evening, right before I went in to teach my Tuesday night musical theatre class at the Barlow Arts Conservatory. I will talk about the Conservatory soon at which time I will praise and commend it at length. And I may even mention my upcoming guest appearance in the Annual Super-Duper Barlow Arts Conservatory recital in which I will be playing Miss Hannigan.

Anyhoo, I had donned my ballet slippers, as one wears dance shoes on the expensive dance floor; it's the respectful thing to do. Besides, it places me in ridiculous Amazonian contrast to the wee tiny ballerinas in their pink slippers and matching ensembles. From the tiled lobby to the dance floor there is a difference of an inch or two between which there is a lovely sloped threshold. It was upon this threshold that, during a moment of "warm-up" - OKAY - horseplay, I fancied that I'd toss a lil' jeté into my day. At this point I - and beware of this fancy medical vernacular - royally smushed my foot to bits (pronated it to pieces?). It wasn't one of my weak ankles, as usual (which is why I own more than one ankle brace). It was my left foot itself.

The best part is that I just started that class and walked on my foot for at least half the time. I somehow managed to avoid the most strikingly painful moves. But when I removed my slipper (which ended up acting like a compressive device of sorts) I knew I'd done a doozy. I worked in health care long enough to learn my "R.I.C.E." - Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation - so I iced, rested and elevated for a couple of days, limped on the thing to tour some potential short course venues, and then rested it some more... And OHHH the cool and migrating bruises.

Today, I taught my Monday musical theatre class in a grandly gimpy fashion. Then the ballet Moms scared me. They regaled me with tales of injuries of dancers who thought their breaks were just sprains, and then weeks later... Long story short (yes, too late as usual), I decided that I'd best get my foot checked out, especially since I am only insured until June 1st. Therefore, after x-rays and examination, I was deemed a stud for walking on a substantial break for almost a week. And were I an actual DANCER who had any excuse to be doing fancy-schmancy moves, I could take great comfort in the fact that this is one of the most common "dance" injuries. But I'm there as the VOCAL expert. So just call me Stupid Super Stud in my "Walking Boot." Oh - and Clinton and Stacy would NOT approve of this footwear (particularly the fact that I own clunky enough shoes to match the height and chunkiness of the medical boot. Oh well.

*In Junior High it is extremely likely that I cracked my tail-bone (dancing in the garage with a bucket - SHUT UP), but one cannot do anything about that, so I never had it verified. I did sit funny for a few years...

That should probably be a category all on it's own.

Did a bunch of this and that this week. Including, yes, a fair portion of self-abuse. I twisted my right ankle last weekend (not too badly).

I got an EXTRA helping of bruises as I climbed over my mountains o' crap (DETRITUS!) looking for a stereo that I knew was there and the speakers. Turns out that the speaker was packed in one box, one speaker was packed in the humidifier box (I'd found the humidifier earlier and it was in something else's box). The last speaker was the sneakiest component. I KNEW I'd seen it...SOMEWHERE. And boy howdy (that's an expression - or it should be), I often wish I had a Sherpa to guide my through the piles of "SOMEWHERE." Of course it was in the last place I looked (sheesh - what a ridiculous saying).

When my right ankle was feeling pretty much normal, I twisted the left one and hit my knee. This was one of my special "falling up the stairs" tricks. I'm so cool.

Oh, but, I've left the best for last. Last night, as I was maneuvering through my boxes and piles and such in the "pizza vomit carpet" storage room, I invented a spectacularly painful move. You see, you have to step/leap with a very wide stance (I'm uselessly limber, remember) over the big box of Tupperware. This puts you RIGHT ON the old doctor's scale (you'd have to ask Charles how we managed to obtain that vintage piece). It does work - rather well, surprisingly - so if one is feeling saucy or daring or self-punishing (?) one can weigh one's self that very moment.

Whether or not you've taken the time to determine your mass, you are now close to the tool box. This was what I wanted (not that I remember WHAT I WANTED FROM IT'S DEPTHS).

So I was back standing on the scale, and I went to take the giant step over the Tupperware box onto the tiny space of somewhat bare floor right in front of the door. Somehow, I lost my balance (everyone simultaneously in amazement - well, in my dreams). I did a lovely firm biff of my right shin on the edge of the Giant Tupperware Box of Death, and somehow that just threw me off my feet and forward. As there is not very much BLANK FLOOR SPACE, this means that I hit the door with my face. Yes, my FACE. At least I was wearing contacts; I just got my glasses fixed from the electronics flinging head-smashing debacle. Specifically, I hit my left cheek. HARD. Today it's puffy and red. I don't know if that's because I prevented actual bruising when I iced it, or my self-abuse if sub-consciously designed to make me look as hideous as possible. Hard to say.

My Powerbook is sick - VERY ill. It happened last night so suddenly; one minute my baby was perfect (as usual) and then - BLACK SCREEN. A spontaneously black screen on any computer is very disconcerting, needless to say. I won't go elaborate on all the things I attempted to get it going again (switching batteries and power sources, etc., etc.).

I will say that Kate Logic™ (remember - like standard logic but with half the fat) dictated that since the screen was black (I could still hear a slight noise when I booted up that indicated SOME sort of processing - but no comforting boot-up "bong" - like that has anything to do with the keyboard), I removed all the keys and cleaned out as much cat hair and as many lint balls as I could. I got several bloody wounds in the course of this endeavor (what a surprise). This did not fix it. Even my life-blood did not fix it. The LIFE-BLOOD from MY VERY BODY.

It looks like the image above, incidentally, except with a few lil' dings and scars and such. Oh - and it doesn’t have the posh Intel Core 2 Duo processor in it like the newer models. This does not mean I love it any less.

And just so you know, I have NOT dropped it recently. The Guru's reply the that statement was, "Recently??"

Speaking of the Guru, he has taken my precious baby home with him to try and fix it (because I cannot imagine that he has anything better to do). Bless him (again and again).

When I ponder this serious problem, I wonder if it has something to do with Murphy's Law or Karma or wretched irony. Why? Because just the other day I was thinking, "I haven't backed up my computer in a long time!" See?

Please, people around the World who may read this blog (even if it's just two or five or nine of you), pray or meditate or send positive energy to my beloved Mac (whichever method floats you boat). I love it so (too much, no doubt - though I DO love my Kitten Children more)!

This entry was typed with much resentment towards Windows on a wretched PC.

I’ve already managed to make the “side-bar” the “bottom bar” and since there is already supposed to be a “footer” this mucks up EVERYTHING. Ugh.

This is riveting stuff, I assure you:

I was carrying my laptop under one arm, my cell phone under the other, and my big cup of water with the lid and the super-cool straw (all Tupperware®, of course) in my left hand (Janet would call that "my BaBa" - evidently you're never too old).

I did not fall down the stairs. I did not fall up the stairs.

I reached the end of the downstairs hall (in a hurry?) where there are two doors - one to the right and one to the left. Then I did a fantastically spectacular gymnastic maneuver towards the floor -perhaps the ceiling? (well, the wall, really). Let us say I tripped over something. It's possible - the Kitten Childrens' scratching post is to the left. Their food mat is there, too. Air? VERY HEAVY AIR???

I hit my right knee on one edge of the right-hand door frame on my way down, flung everything up in the air -WHEEEEE - (including, remember, a large cup of water, which, despite having a lid, has a VERY LARGE HOLE FOR THE SUPER-COOL STRAW). Then I hit the right side of my head on the other side of the right-handed doorway. This bent the right ear-piece of my glasses (and hurt my ginormous head, I must say).

I spent one split second thinking, "WHAT THE...????" Didn't even have time for proper sailor language. Then I RAN to get towels from the right-handed bedroom closet to dry off my two most beloved (well, I'd put my iPod in that ranking, too, but that was safely ensconced elsewhere) pieces of electronic equipment.

My phone still seems to work; that's good. I shut down my laptop as fast as possible, dried it off and took the battery out (luckily it wasn't wet inside there...). Now it is sitting on a very soft pillow in a dim, quiet room with the door closed while it is recuperating. I'm hoping for the best. It didn't smoke or sparkle and still had normal screen images as I shut it down; I'm taking that as a good sign. Everyone please think healing thoughts for my beloved PowerBook.

In - what - two or three years Grettir managed to only put the tiniest dent on one side (which I couldn't find for two weeks after I had the thing and then I had to wonder if I'd done it myself). I've made a lovely scratchy mark on the right side top already (yes, I'm right-handed - talk about your dominant sides) and another not far from that one.

I suppose what I'm saying is I'M TALENTED LIKE THAT.

Oh - and I did some sort of damage turning off the main water source to the house, but you mustn't tell my Dad. First of all, I turned the water off (I'm so happy to have the valve IN MY ROOM) being snotty (for a good cause?). Secondly, my Dad takes that joke about engineers being "glorified plumbers" seriously. SERIOUSLY. He should not plumb, for the most part, I assure you. Secretly I will blame him for that faucet being in bad shape because he has turned it soooo hard that part of the knob has actually broken off.

Being a brilliant scientist he does not think the water in the house is off if you can turn on a faucet and ANY water comes out. My Mom and Shirleen and I have all tried to explain the logic of BLEED OFF - the idea that there is still water in the pipes that HAS TO COME OUT even AFTER you've turned the main valve off. He has never believed us. A MAN told him that one day and I swear he shouted, "EUREKA - what a brilliant thought? It never, EVER, EVER would have occurred to me!!! Why didn't someone tell me that before?" As though he'd never heard such an amazing concept before. Argh.

I did learn something very important because of Labor Day. Well, I suppose it's completely coincidental that I got "schooled" because of Labor Day (which I'm feeling too pissy to spell the cool "Labour" way), but then I can pretend it was part of a celebration.

As I need to take my glasses to be bent back into shape (I learned the lesson about trying to do that yourself a LONG time ago - during an era when every single time I set my glasses on the bad I assured myself I'd remember they were there and then I sat on them about forty-seven percent of the time - maybe even forty-nine percent. It's the early-onset senility...) I took them off and had a nap. After taking some ibuprofen. I'm tellin' you, that's what you do.

And when I awoke, the magical shoemaker elves, as they didn't have their normal duties today - it being Labor Day and all, had FIXED MY GLASSES. And as it was a holiday, they stuck around (instead of following their normal proclivities to mysteriously disappear leaving being many gorgeous pairs of Italian shoes in MY SIZE) to play some board games (they cheat, but they are so cute it's just funny). I made some great hummus and we all had a snack and it was just the BEST TIME EVER.

And then I woke up with Kitten Child clear under the covers near my RIGHT FOOT - sooo very cute, but not an expensive Italian, custom-made shoe. Oh, leave me alone; I can dream (I wish I dreamt such nice things).

I went to put my contacts in. This is still a slightly tenuous process, as I've mentioned. Let me preface my next adventure by explaining that a day or so after I first got the contacts, they were bugging me a little (because of STICKING MY FINGER IN MY EYE ONE TOO MANY TIMES) and I called the optometrist to ask how I could tell if I'd put a contact in wrong-side out. The reply was a slightly impatient, "Well, can you SEE?" to which I answered in the affirmative (good thing, too, as I was driving at the time - conscientiously using my Bluetooth® headset). "Then they are in right." I felt like I'd called and basically been told, "Duh, duh, duh - DUH DUH DUH, Dummy! Have a nice day."

My eyes were a little sleepy/irritated, so I wasn't entirely surprised when the right contact bothered me after I put it in. I put the left one in, and it was a little better. I took the right one out, my eye was still a little buggy, so I just put the contact back in. After five or ten minutes of blinking and wandering around closing one eye and then the other evaluating whether or not I could see (I could) I thought I'd better check the damn thing again.

Okay - BRILLIANT PEOPLE FROM THE OPTOMETRIST'S OFFICE - it was inside-out and I could still see (when I wasn't blinking tears away or just blinking for FUN).

I believe it was the great Michelangelo - or perhaps one of the other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (not to be confused with Teenage Mutant Kitten Children) - who said something about you should learn all your life or there is always something to learn in and/or from your life or life = LEARN, LEARN LEARN. Who knows, as it was originally penned in Italian (possibly Latin, if he was trying to be posh).

Okay. Truth? I've seen so many resin-cast-to-look-like-old-engraved-stone replicas sporting this motto in my Mother's vast catalog collection that I would be unfair of me to say that I could not find the quote:

Yeah - he was being grandiloquent. And if you'd like to know what it means, please refer to the title of this post. I was very clever and put it right out there so that people might think that I was writing about a substantive topic. I'm guessing everyone knew better.

Ah - so what is it that I'm still learning? Apparently EVERYTHING. Indeed, is it not the life aspiration of most people to try all new things when they are in their late thirties? Come on!!! There may be some of you who would forewarn me that this is leading me down a slippery slope and that I am in great danger of pitching headlong into danger and/or oblivion. I would answer, "That's immaterial." (Why am I quoting myself while writing in the first person? Why am I asking myself rhetorical questions?) As most people know, I am perfectly capable of toppling over, stumbling, falling on my substantial ASSets and/or taking a header WITHOUT any sort of impediment in sight. What's more, I mean ON THE FLAT, DRY GROUND.

• I decide that my underwear doesn't have to be white, black or beige/nude, and I end up with a very large hole in my pants strategically displaying my choice that very day to wear the knickers that say, "Wish on This!" across that back. You think I'm kidding?


• I decide to dye my hair for the very first time... just search through my blog an you find five thousand entries about what that started (like this one).


• Then we have my eyebrows. Never had I plucked them or waxed them. Having started, I have yet one more thing to "maintain." (Here's one of THOSE entries.)

I believe it was dear Pamela who suggested perhaps I go back and embrace my "hippy" proclivities (something to that effect). Unfortunately, it's simply TOO LATE. Vanity is involved, now; jeopardy has been attached (who watches too many re-runs of Law and Order (all flavours)? Pas moi!). How else would I end up with major chemical burns because of INVISIBLE PEACH FUZZ?

By the way, just because it takes me more than 450 words to get to my point does not indicate that I do not have one. To get down to the heart of the matter - the crux, the pitch, the gist, the nitty-gritty (dirt band - sorry), the thrust, the substance - the purpose of this entry is to discuss my eyes.

My eyes are hazel, incidentally. That is neither here nor there, but I've always described them as "khaki with an amber ring around the iris." No, it's not poetic (especially if you pronounce "khaki" the British and/or Canadian way - that is to say, "CAR-KEY"). Also, they seem different colours depending on what hue I've donned. I have "mood" eyes.

ALRIGHT! The point is I had taken my "mood eyes" for a long-overdue eye appointment. Luckily my prescription has not changed THAT much in the interim (and it's long - embarrassingly long) because the last time I changed prescriptions I had also waited too long and I got new glasses RIGHT before a big trip, and the glasses made me dizzy for two or three days. This truly enhanced my motion sickness plight.

I do have a slight astigmatism now. It makes me feel more urbane (grant me these tiny delusions, please - I ask for so little). Wow. I just realized I'd have to look at my prescription to realize in which eye it is...

SOOO, in the spirit of Ancora Imparo I also was fitted with my very first contact lenses. I was excited at the prospect of seeing my eyes looking all deceptively naked and such. And I dreamt oh-so-fancifully about a ridiculously handsome stranger being able to now "fall INTO" my eyes - unimpeded by anti-glare lenses for the myopic. To be sure, I am not rich, but my fantasy life can be.

Sometimes I feel self-conscious because I am a neophyte at certain things at the ripe old age of - well, any state of "maturity" that can be prefaced with "the ripe old age" should be self-explanatory. In other words, I figured that I'd have a little difficulty putting the lenses in and when you see thirteen-year-olds pop them in and out blind and lubricate them with saliva (at least I know THAT'S stupid) and all that, I thought I'd feel "impaired."

Impaired ended up being an understatement. A VAST, GINORMOUS (just recently made it into the dictionary - so there!) understatement. The doctor was extremely kind and helpful, but I was unquestionably handicapped at successfully getting contact lenses ONTO MY EYEBALLS. He finally had to do it for me, taught me how to remove them, and then let me try again. Seventeen hours later (SLIGHT exaggeration), I was successful. Of course my eyes were practically swollen shut and so blood-shot that it looked like I'd been on a three-day (maybe week-long) bender.

Here's my problem: I blink. Excessively. This is why many a photograph (for which I deign to pose) catches me with my eyes closed. Also, I'm fairly light-sensitive, therefore I blink to excess in the sun. My eyes are vulnerable, delicate...creatures.

Don't mistake me, some people have difficulty touching their eyes; this is indubitably not my problem. You know that expression, "It's better than a poke in the eye?" I often disagree. A poke in the eye is NUTHIN'. Given the choice, I'd oft choose a poke in the eye over the alternative. Yes, I can touch my eyes - I'll poke myself in the eye right now if someone asked. There are those who claim I have ELBOWED others in the eye (for the record, I was ASLEEP - and that whole incident is the definition of the phrase "alleged assault" - no cooberating witnesses, no physical evidence).

No, I'm just Blinky McBlinkster. Sometimes I get the lense in right off the bat, sometimes I practically push my eyeball clear back into my skull, pull my finger back, and see that the contact is still ON MY HAND. That's when the sailor language comes in.

This made it rather difficult on the occasion that three of the four children we were babysitting watched me put my lenses in one day - fascinated by the process despite the fact that BOTH their parents wear contacts - perhaps it's because I let them touch them (the CONTACTS - not my eyes - though they'd have probably done less damage) - never fear, I re-sterilized the things. But I had to keep it CLEAN - my "potty" mouth, that is.

I AM learning. But if you see me with bloodshot eyes it's no doubt my doing - DIRECTLY AND PHYSICIALLY.

There is also an “eye-opening” aspect to this whole affair. (ugh.) Most of it has to do with luggage. I like to joke that I always carry too much luggage (and that's not just when I travel, that's a day-to-day crack I like to make because I embarrass myself by carrying fifty-two or three bags everywhere I go (yeah, yeah - but it's no fun if I don't embellish a LITTLE)).

This little quip hit me very profoundly yesterday (I'd started to notice, but OH, THE DENIAL) as I sat down to have my stylist trim my hair. See, when you TAKE OFF YOUR GLASSES for this procedure you are granted a fortuitous amount of "airbrushed" effect on your reflection. With contacts, you must STARE IN THE LOOKING GLASS WITH CORRECTED SIGHT. That's when you know, deep down in your heart, that the "luggage" joke can rightly be applied to the immense bags under your eyes.

Having been blissfully unaware of and not requiring (I THOUGHT) "under-eye concealer" all these years, it's disturbing that I'm contemplating it now. Maintenance is a bitch.

Just because one determines they have designed a medical strategy that incorporates Universal Precautions and therefore have designated it as a "sterile surgical" procedure does not mean that it should be performed.

In my bathroom.

By me.

On my own face.

I am not a doctor, nor have I ever played one on TV. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever played a physician on stage either - a man, a pirate, severally mentally insane individuals (type-casting), and a myriad of other lively characters - but no doctor.

I did have a Fisher-Price® doctor's kit, but I don't know where it is, and the one they sell now looks like cheap knock-off crap.

Yesterday. Right ankle. WAS NOT MY FAULT - there was a rug and I was discarding a doggy "pee pad" (which the poor geriatric dog had partially MISSED - thus there was a PUDDLE, too) and all factors colluded against me to twist one of my weak ankles and cause me to collapse to the floor (fortuitously AWAY from the urine). It was the more common "inversion injury":

I don't expect sympathy at this point. Oh no. I just thought that I'd take this opportunity to selflessly educate others through my pain.

For the second time in a few short months, I recognized that I did retain a few USEFUL facts from the myriad quizzes I took while working in health care (even though I resented them as I worked in an office setting and they were primarily about clinical issues - you know - don't stand in a puddle of blood* and whatnot). I wrote the following comment on Terry's site when I was noting that symptoms for heart attack are often VERY DIFFERENT in men and women:

Realizing I learned SOMETHING from the stupid certification tests they made us take when I worked for a hospital that I bitched about because I did “office work” and didn’t want to know what the “gray area” meant in case of a catastrophic disaster (DON’T GO THERE, THEY MEANS THEY ARE JUST GOING TO LET YOU DIE).

What came back to me upon this special occasion was the mnemonic device/acronym "R.I.C.E." to be used in the treatment of sprains or strains. And what is "R.I.C.E.", one may ask (other than the staple food of myriad countries)? I will impart this wisdom forthwith.

If you strain or sprain a limb (and you KNOW it's a sprain or strain because there are no bones sticking out of your flesh or a number of other clues that you can look up YOURSELF that might denote something OTHER than a sprain), do the following:

• R - Rest the affected limb. No swing dancing. No line dancing. No Lamabada: The forbidden dance.


• I - Apply Ice to the area. You can use a cold pack (one that comes with a cover - MY favourite - or improvise with a towel so you don't inadvertently play "Antarctica") or a bag of frozen peas.

  Okay - pardonnez-moi - but what is it with the whole "pea" thing? They always say frozen peas. I understand that they are often handy - right there in your own home, and because they are small and spherical the bag is flexible and can conform to your injury. And they ARE my favourite vegetable. But what about CORN (or, as some people call it, "Maize")? Are we being all "anti-starch" even for EXTERNAL applications?

  Don't leave ice on the sprain for more than thirty minutes (or less) at a time. Like I said, don't accidentally play "Arctic frostbite." You can continue periodic use of ice for seventy-two hours.



• C - Compression wraps or bandages can help support the injury and prevent further swelling. Be careful not to cut off your blood supply to the extremity. You don't want to unintentionally play "amputee." Compression wraps - and afterwards even a brace of some sort (I'd leave Popsicle sticks out of this one) - can be helpful for three days or longer (especially the brace).


• E - Elevate the injured area. This also helps reduce or prevent swelling.

  I must confess that I initially forgot what the "e" stood for (Exorcism? Eroticism? Ebonics?). But I remembered all by myself. My Parents are very proud. They didn't assist me with my Kolege edjukation for NUTHIN. And they know how important a degree in music is when it comes to first aid.

If you take the aforementioned steps as soon as possible after the injury you will heal faster. Post haste, I say! Over-the-counter pain relievers can be comforting (and stronger pain relievers MIND-BOGGLING). Avoid any medication that makes you want to dance or undulate or writhe uncontrollably. Oh - and rent crutches and milk it for all it's worth, Baby!

Now you cannot say I never told you SOMETHING educational. And no, I'm not a doctor, nor have I ever played one on TV. Well, this one time I did play a woman in an "industrial" film who was exceedingly concerned about the fact that her friend's child seemed to be running a temperature. I believe one of my lines was, "Shouldn't we call a doctor???!!!!" Ah, the leaning in closer to her and the furrowed brow and the perfect emphasis on the word "doctor" - not too much, not too little - OOOHHHHHH the pathos. And it was all ME.

*I kid you not - someone said this to us at an orientation session during a "safety" lecture (I think he even further clarified that it was worse to stand in a puddle of blood while touching electronic equipment). He was a nurse. Admittedly, I NEVER - not even once - stood in a puddle of blood while I worked in health care.

[The furious, cacophonous racket and din of Kate constructing her Brilliant Time Machine.]*

[The whizzing, whirring of the Brilliant Time Machine in use.]

[Kate arrives fortuitously into an earlier portion of the day.]

[The phone rings: Monkey to Maaaaan!!!! Monkey to Man.....] "'Allo, Msr. Pants," says Kate. [Now she listens intently, not "riffing" or interrupting with any garrulous non-sequiturs.]

The Departed? I'd love to! I'll meet you there. Ciao!

*For those "not in the know," if it's in these brackets - [ ] - they are stage directions.

I just thought give you an update on my first day teaching music hour for Leif's Kindergarten class (from which he was ABSENT today - Janet claims strep throat, but I think she just wants him to have as little of my influence as possible). As I'd mentioned in the comments to the previous entry, I couldn't "WAIT to terrify a bunch of five-year-olds with slightly tenuous control of their bladders."

Fortuitously, several friends came through with some excellent suggestions. Zina suggested:

You should tell the kids that that's what happens to you when you do drugs.

Yes, INDEED. Though I'm not sure I'd know how to explain dangerous TOPICAL chemicals, such as thioglycolate, to that age group (even though I also ended up with the more (theoretically) sophisticated first-grade class as well - only TEN kids - private school ROCKS).

Just wear a neckerchief over the lower half of your face and sing cowboy songs or "She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain" or something like that. Use the little sand-paper blocks for the train sounds, and dowels to make the horsey clip-clop noises and let them gallop around the room. And ALWAYS pass out some sort of sweets at the end. The point is to draw as much attention away from your grossly, appallingly disfigured visage as possible.

...I'm afraid that if you don't create a major distraction the entire class will spend all of "music time" staring at your big ol' sores with their mouths hanging open and glazed, half-horrified/ half-fascinated looks on their faces.

NOTE: I have expurgated her self-deprecating remarks (here, anyway) because she has not SEEN my current facial situation, and she has the visage of an angel, damn it.

Here's an irony: I'd actually considered (okay - WISHFULLY imagined) using some kind of stereotypical "far east" face veil. You know - those mysterious ones that obscure the bottom of your face. AND, as in the movies, you must make bedroom eyes while wearing one and cast ostensibly bashful sidelong glances (surreptitiously imbued with unadulterated LUST and SEX) at attractive males. Oh - and you have to wear "harem" pants.

While I do have zils, I do NOT have a face veil nor harem pants. Moreover, I don't know any old Turkish music (circa the Ottoman Empire). Okay - I don't know any NEW Turkish music either. Nor do I have any ancient Persian songs in my repertoire.

I do, however, own a bandanna, as well as an instrument that makes a train whistle sound, claves, AND sandpaper and wooden blocks and I can ACTUALLY REMEMBER THE LYRICS to She's Comin' Around the Mountain. I can also gallop. So why didn't this much more LOGICAL option occur to me?

Well, it's because, as I recently explained to someone, "Kate Logic" has half the fat of "regular" logic. And logic "lite" (I'm not especially fond of that spelling/term, but it seemed apropos here) has all the TASTE of "regular" logic, but substitutions have been made in the ingredients for the sake of the health-conscious. OR, the product has been whipped and whipped so that it contains many tiny air pockets, therefore rendering a serving lower in calories. "Kate Logic" is like that, too.

But, getting back to the music class, playing "cowgirl" today would have been a rather inappropriate choice, as it turns out that today was "Native American" day. They'd been learning all about Native American culture and history, and when I arrived they were all decked out in headbands, "leather" vests made of brown grocery sacks, and strings of beads. Their endeavor to be multicultural and P.C. might have made "Kate the Cowgirl" seem insensitive.

In the end, I started the class by introducing myself, and then promptly acknowledging that that they were probably curious about my face, as I would have been, and that I'd had an allergic reaction to some cream I'd used and it had made sores on my face. I added that it was NOT contagious, no one could "catch it" from me.

Their response was less than "Ho Hum," it was non-existent; they couldn't have cared less. Instead, someone immediately wanted to know if I could do magic tricks (alas, not in my skill set) and said something to the effect of "wouldn't it be cool if I could make something disappear." (OOOOH! Like my HIDEOUS FACIAL LESIONS or my PERSONAL DEBT or my DEBILITATING DEPRESSION or - even better - WARFARE, POVERTY AND DISEASE THROUGHOUT THE WORLD? Of course he meant like a coin or a rhythm shaker...) And they ALL were desperate to know what was in the egg shakers I'd brought. For those who have not seen me perform with breathtaking skill utilizing my vast rhythm egg collection, they usually look something like this:

I made them patiently wait to find out. You'd have thought their little lives depended on knowing about those silly eggs. Ah - that age before you are jaded, cynical and world-weary; I long for the time in my life when simple pleasures were enjoyed so effortlessly.

Oh - P.S. We had a great deal of fun. The children were delightful.