THAT? BREAD? Don't make me laugh.

Hi. I'm Chelsea. I have a substance abuse problem.
It's the bread.

It's not like I'm a connisseur of those crazy light rye-sourdough-pastadura only slice on Wednesday loaves, or that I only eat homebaked bread. I like seedy bread. Soy and linseed, or four grain. Wholemeal's fine too. So long as it comes in a square (or has three squared sides) and will fit in the toaster/sandwich press, it's all good.

Which is why hub's purchase of some junky airy fricking CRUSTY white crap (which says a loud, clear HELLO concrete crusts post-toasting) which I can't cut into slices with structural integrity (read, it has AIR BUBBLES) has serious implications for my sanity. As in, goodbye sanity, have a nice vacation, I'll see you in a few months.

Of course, when the MAN handles the bread knife, he manages really nice, un-holey slices (because I already cut up the holey bit) .... until.

Butter.
Now, being something of a condiments nazi (ever tried spreading butter straight from the fridge? On room-temperature bread? No? Well, have a try and let me know how you get on.) I have my own butter. Pantry butter. Which, being pantry butter, is actually spreadable.

Not on this bread. Don't even mention the peanut butter. Having crunchy bits, that slice is tragic. The other sandwich (Promite, kind of like Vegemite but waaaaaay superior) is marginally better. And all the while I'm thinking Why can't you have just bought normal bread? You know, the kind we buy every other time we go to the supermarket? And if you thought "Hey, let's try this out!" then buy ONE loaf of this stuff and one of backup? You know? So if it just happened to be a load of airy white crusty crap it wouldn't be the end of the world?


I know what you're all thinking. Wow. She is so lucky. If that's all she has to worry about....
Actually, I feel the reverse is true. The one thing I might POSSIBLY be able to control about tomorrow is what goes in my mouth. The rest is really incredibly random. Which is why I like lunch to be a small pleasure in my day. I love nothing more than opening up the sandwich press on a small, golden, toasted piece of happiness. Knowing that my lunch will be good, will be under my control regardless of all the other random... well. The world could end tomorrow in an explosion of crumbs. You've been warned.

Sundays in the park...

"How you liking it?"
"Oh yeah, it'd be great if I could see anything,"
says the woman spilling over the edges of her seat
behind my (rather tall, it must be admitted) beloved.
I endure a few more of her snipy, pointed (and loud) comments before casually glancing over my shoulder to put a face to the snark.

(Retrospectively, I should have taken one of the vacant seats to her left post-interval. Then I could have made loud complaints about the crushing claustrophobia her bulk imposed on me. And no, I realise there are plenty of fat people who are not that way by choice. Trust me, he doesn't always love towering over people either. If you would like him to only purchase end-of-row or back-row seats in the future, maybe you should consider seating only dead centre of the row and taking your seat before everyone else so you don't crush them as you attempt to tippy-toe past.) Ahem. Sorry.

Aside from the ranting of the bitter twisted moron behind us who could easily have moved to sit in the vacant seats behind me (much more average stature), Jersey Boys was brilliant. Utterly awesome and great. I don't even like musicals.

The evening of wonderful continued into dinner. "That pho place on Swanston? Chinatown?"
Beloved smiles, considers. "Blue train? Because then I can order anything, like pizza or steak, or..."
"Sure."
I like blue train. Over on Southbank, it's been our favorite after-theatre place for years. So we walk on over. Of course, it's packed. We wait for twenty minutes for a table, we scan the menu and wait for our orders to go through.

"Wouldn't it be funny if we walked all the way over here and waited and I wound up ordering the Singapore noodles?"
He's grinning goofily, hamming it up. He's serious.
"Not so much, no. I'm going to have the tandoori chicken."
He performs another finger scan down the menu.
"Yeah, uh... I think I'll have the steak."
See? Simple. The waitress arrives and I triumphantly order my tandoori. His turn.
"I'll have... The Singapore noodles. And some flatbreads to start."

Argg.

Ode to the haircutter.

In reply to a paragon of English grooming, I feel the need to point out an often-overlooked but crucial difference lurking in the heart of our society. Hairdressers vs. haircutters, people.

You might think it's a meaningless semantic difference, but let me assure you it ain't so.
Hair cutters are a whole different breed to their effeminate cousins, the hairdressers.

Let us all gather to bemoan the hairstyle that fleetingly appeared in the oddly lit salon mirror, coaxed forth with copious blowdrying, straightening and litres of product applied in baffling combination.

Let us bewail the glamor hair that will never, ever appear again, despite your best efforts at home. I blame celebrity culture.

Glossy mags provoke us all to say "OOh, I want the pob!" "Victoria Beckham, you have much to answer for. Not quite as much as Jennifer Aniston, (Friends circa 1995 - who didn't have the haircut? Come on, admit it) but a whole generation of women embraced helmet hair all over again despite the natural desires of their very own keratin.

Enter the haircutter. Be warned, you have to have the strength to utter much harder words than "I want THIS one!" while banging on the celeb of your choice (ooh, poor choice of words).

"Fix it."
And they will. There may not be obvious veins of color, but they aren't above highlights and multi-tonal effects. There may not be the latest, most dramatic Rihanna razored fringe or Ruby Rose blunt, but there will be hair which makes you look like a million dollars. That's right, you. Park your butt in the chair and let the professionals do their job, and your hair will look like the right thing every day. Or maybe I just have a genius, brilliant, worth-his-weight in gold haircutter.

wowee!

Something very exciting has happened.
I have fingernails.
Well, I hear you say, don't we all?
Hopefully. The world would be a much more disgusting place if we all walked about with raw fleshbeds on the tops of our fingers.

It might also be a happier place, as we'd bid an exuberant farewell to all those nail bars so toxic their employees wear gas masks. Mind you, a whole section of society would need to find a new hobby (aka black cash-sucking hole of finite depth and darkness).

As a long-term nailbiter, I've tucked my hands out of sight for years. Of course, violin dictates I must have short nails, but short doesn't describe the malaise I've inflicted on myself at various points in time.

Let's just say I've rarely had recourse to nail clippers and would frequently take myself off to have fake nails applied... before sinking my teeth back in and ripping them back to nothing.

You may or may not understand my excitement at finally having something to file. They're horribly wide, (my mother keeps pointing out my inability to paint them beauty-school style, which would mean painting the centre half of my nail and leaving wide naked stripes either side... it's supposed to slim nails and give the illusion of length, but I think it just makes my fingers look fat(ter)) BUT they're real. And long enough to paint red.

And really, that's all that's important.

Of course, we'll see how long this lasts.

Autumn festival

It's been a busy week. Okay, fortnight. One of those times when my every minute seems so caught up that I haven't stopped to reflect decently.

Three weeks ago the Suzuki community lost one of it's most active members. An amazing pianist and teacher, Nehama Patkin succumbed to a post-operation infection and left not only her studio families and students grieving, but the Australian Suzuki community.

Suffice it to say that she's not only found repute as a pianist but as a teacher and educator of young children; her Federation Square concerts have inculcated and nurtured a love of music in countless families.

She will be missed by many, and yet; what an achievement, to have touched so many people that your work will continue, because to abandon it would be to leave a gaping void.

This week I've been reminded of the privileged position I've been offered by virtue of my industry.

I've been reminded of the duration of these relationships and the legacy I have the potential to leave in lives.

I'm slowly learning that not only the children I teach but their parents will go out and say "Our teacher..."

Too preachy? Maybe. But also real. This is currently the revelation windmilling inside my head.

It's a little daunting. I'm not sure I'm entirely up to the challenge. Good thing I have all these responsible adult people (well, they gave BIRTH to the little ones) to help me.

Tripod. Love.

Melbourne Symphony musicians, take note: professional development component 101 is here!

Yes, located in the upstairs theatre of Melbourne's own Forum, you must catch Tripod's latest creative fury.

Not only will you learn the beauty of developing individual characterisation, but the importance of audience rapport. Your ensemble skills may also benefit from observing these four musicians watch, listen, and work WITH one another, while multi-tasking (yes, this is for those who whine about page-turning and the fine art of pizzicato WITH bow in hand) gains a new dimension; try shadow puppetry while maintaining four-part harmony. Yeah. A GOOD four-part harmony.

Elana Stone is a dream in a red dress; we bought her album your anniversary and I will be grabbing In the Garden of Wild Things when I finish this blog post. Just go and do it, especially if you're a fellow Australian. And if you're not, take note: we have the COOL people, y'all. 

Monkey see, monkey do.

This year I seem to have a clump of students hitting high school. And adolescence. I keep overhearing some parents saying to others;
"Seven days! How do you get your child to practice seve days?"
The answer, of course, has varied for everyone, but one theme has emerged.
"We've always done it."

You reap what you sow.

I don't know that missing a day of practice here and there makes THAT much difference to skill development. Two days, yes. One day, not SO much. When you consider that I will accept (on a practice challenge mission, which is all about achieving a certain number of consecutive days) the occasional day only a single twinkle variation gets played, it's obvious that this is not really about working through the list very day.

It's about establishing consistency. If mum will give in today, she might give in tomorrow, and then - hey, I've won! It's the eternal power struggle that every parent will face, and I've decided that how you deal with it defines the relationship you will have with your child.

There's a big difference between saying "Don't want to practice? Tough, you have to anyway!" and "Don't want to practice? Ok, how come? Let's have a talk about what we can do to make it easier."
Acceptance, validation, application of problem- solving and... affirmation that the practice is still going ahead but may need to have a different structure or level of support.

Of course, being adult and therefore believing ourselves to be in charge (ha! The arrogance!) many of us are inclined to button-push right back. (Isn't it funny- we are so quick to label other people's behaviour as button-pushing but don't look at our responses in the same light?)

So what?

Don't know. I'm certainly in a privileged position to see parents working with their children in many different ways at different levels of ability; some are absolutely inspiring in their patience, empathy and common sense. Big shoes to fill.