There are two things worth mentioning tonight. I was driving to a piano recital to hear my choir director perform. At a stoplight on a VERY busy road, I started fooling with a fingernail that was shaggy. The day was gray and wet. I glanced up to see if the light had changed and since it hadn't, I looked down at my hands again and what do you suppose? Surprise, surprise, great blue spots appeared on both hands. Irregular blue spots the size of nickels, for crying out loud. This did not amuse KEM, in fact, if frightened her to the core. So, I stared at my hands thinking it was an optical illusion, but just more blue spots appeared. The only thing left to do was to look away because I am a big chicken and the idea of my eyes checking out was hardly appealing. But curiosity kills the cat, so after a moment I looked down again trusting I was merely losing it, but there they were again, multiple blue spots scattered across the backs of my hands. They just appeared, one after the next and my fervent prayer was, Go away, you horrible evil ink spots. By now the light had changed and I decided to move ahead rather than collapse in terror, head hanging over the steering wheel, blue spotted hands dangling limply, on about the busiest road in central east Florida.

I am pleased to report that the blue spots have not returned to haunt me . . . not yet anyway. I report all this because maybe one of you, my blogging friends, will tell me what it was/what to do. My first guess was something I looked at when I glanced up caused me to "see" things, you know, your eyes can play tricks. Then I thought it was some migraine manifestation, just a new form that I had not had the pleasure to make the acquaintance yet. Then I figured I have a brain tumor and days to live, well, that's a stretch, but I'm not one to shy away from dramatics. I do think I will call the eye doc as my eyes are having a hard year. I'm sure he'll give his old age speech, but still, better safe than sorry.

Well, then we met friends for a Florida Orchestra concert, I'm telling you, this has been a musical weekend unlike any other. The soloist for Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto was Markus Groh. He was the substitute because the scheduled world famous soloist Mikhail Rudy canceled due to tendinitis, isn't that sad? Those opening series of bombastic luscious gorgeous chords . . . if that's all I had heard, I would have floated home and been delirously happy forevermore. The performance was stunning, I'm not exaggerating, my gusher status notwithstanding. Of course, I sat there mesmerized that anyone at all could memorize tens of thousands of notes and execute them so superbly, flawlessly, exquisitely (calling all words into play), all at humanly impossible speed. Yes, it was the end all (word for the night). At the end the audience leapt to its feet and we thundered for curtain call after curtain call and were rewarded with Mr. Groh (he looked 25, but maybe he must be older) sitting back down at the piano and saying the director told him he should play something. It was very cute with his German accent. He charmed us with a delicate Franz Liszt piece. Ahhhh. He wore a long ponytail looped up, always interesting combined with tux tails.

BTW, I had a bad hair day, a VERY bad hair day. I became desperate and piled goop into my hair, positively saturated my head, various assortments of goop that have long lain dormant in bottles and tubes on back of shelf, in and of itself frightening to the Nth degree. Do you know what it means to go from bad to worse? With every fresh application of product, I looked worse than before. But that didn't stop me. I felt like a man doing the comb over the bald spot, you know, you're fighting for your life. But no matter how I arranged my hair, it cooperated not but was rather hideous with a capital H. Finally, I simply ran out of time and options. I was forced to walk out the door for the concert in a slight depression. I tried to find the hat Christa made me, in hopes if I slammed that down on my head it would tame the shame, but there was no use. I had to march onward with poofy hair and no one looks worse with poof than yours truly . . . no one. You'd think with all the gels and such that my hair would look plastered, really, I don't know what it looked like, but vastly unattractive comes to mind.

So, it was misting and all, very damp. I was pleased that when we got home tonight and I was forced to look in the mirror to remove my contact lenses, that my hair had vastly, just short of miraculously, improved. It even looked kinda smart. What's with those taters? Maybe it was the Wild Applause Shakedown. I don't know, but I'm not asking questions.

Okay, best be gittin'.

KEM of the Intriguing Day, bad, good, ugly and less ugly . . . exactly in that order

PS I'm annoyed that spellcheck has never heard of regular words like poofy. But only slightly annoyed.

Okay, so tonight I can only offer you a very valuable piece of advice. If you EVER are within striking distance of an Annie Moses Band concert, do yourself an incredible favor and get thyself into thy car and drive to the concert. And get there early. You will thank me.

That's where I was tonight. This is a Christian family of six children, all consummate musicians, who perform music to the glory of God. They sing and play a variety of stringed instruments in a style they have pegged Chamber Pop (a style of their own invention, I take it, but doesn't it sound enticing?). Ages 12 - 26, the three eldest having attended Julliard. Go to http://www.anniemosesband.com/ and check out some of their music. You can also Google them and see little video clips, which of course doesn't do them the same justice as seeing them live. I had never heard of them until my sister informed me -- her children attended an AMB camp a few summers ago. She tried to tell me how great they were, but I couldn't completely grasp it. Well, tonight I grasped it . . . completely. Apparently I am behind the times because LOTS of people have heard of this band and the place was packed, 2,000+, full house. They have been featured on PBS and will be again in March. So, of course, they are getting the exposure and they have been touring for 8 years, the younger sibs growing into the group.

Well, if I go on and on, it can't be helped. My mother trained my sister and me to marvel gladly and well at genius, and Annie Moses Band is nothing but a bunch of genius, plain and simple. Remember how I said a few days ago that I delight in experiencing mega talent, to see how interestingly God has done certain things? Wellll, this fits that bill . . . BIG TIME. And this is fun music played by fun young people who have what you might call charisma . . . BIG TIME.

One little tidbit. Seated across the aisle from us was a family of six children, ages 1 - 12. How 'bout that? We were all there an hour before the concert started and these children, the younger ones, had severe cases of ants in their pants. KEM, not one to sit mum when interesting things are happening about, found out that these children were taking viola and cello and what-have- you lessons. These kids were rapt once the concert started. After the concert I was standing around the CD sale table, snooping things out, of course, and I saw the mother of these small six children taking their pictures with the Annie Moses family. Well, really, it all sounds very inspirational to me.

Okay, I've done my good deed for the day. If you forget you ever heard of the AMB, don't blame KEM.

On this very happy note, I shall now go indulge in Monks' Raisin Bread with cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top. I needed to send a loaf of Monks' to CDW, as she was so curious, never having heard of it until my blog. Of course, I wanted to send her Monks' White Bread so she could experience manna in the wilderness, as I did as a child, by toasting it and buttering and honeying it. But, alas, I cannot find Monks' White Bread. So I told her she should have to pretend that Monks' Raisin Bread was fancy manna, reserved for the Sabbath. I hope that wasn't too sacrilegious. Well, she got her bread in the mail and as it turns out, we were both eating raisin bread at the same exact time. I was eating it one afternoon because I had bought her a loaf from two weeks ago, but couldn't get my little act together to fix up her box and mail it. So, I didn't want to send stale bread, horrors, no, so I had to break open that bread for myself and buy her a fresh loaf. Well, I was eating my toasted raisin bread with butter the other day and no sooner had I finished than I read CDW'S email that she had just gotten her bread and eaten it as an afternoon snack with her boys, toasted with butter AND cinnamon and sugar. Well. Isn't that just like clever little CDW? Always a step ahead of KEM. So, today I already had Monks' Raisin Bread with cinnamon and sugar, two slices, and now I am going for two more because the first two were so rushed before the AMB concert. What good is it, I ask, to rush cinnamon toast? Monks' slices are smallish.

Delighted,
KEM

Because of bad sad soggy head, I cannot blog tonight. In fact, I'm about to take to Advil PM, go to bed and hope for happy head tomorrow.

The other day a friend mentioned that her mother had never raised her voice in all my friend's born days. Wow. Then someone else said one of my family members also never raised his voice. In fact, he never would have even considered saying anything as rude as, Hurry up. Wow.

Then I remembered that my best friend growing up, her mother, in all the millions of hours I spent in that home, NEVER raised her voice . . . EVER. Wow. Not even when my friend stopped the tub, turned on the faucet full blast and then walked out of the bathroom and left the situation to its own devices . . . which well you can imagine. I was there. The mother discovered the flood and merely advised us to not do that again. Her voice had only the slightest speck of annoyance . . . no, I wouldn't even call it that. More like defeat. Gentle whipped defeat, but nothing more. No, resignation. Yes, that was it, temporary resignation.

KEM is sorry to report that she has failed to reach such heights of human decorum and self-control. Oh, dear, not even close to these human marvels of sainthood.

Unmarvelous KEM

Violent headache has descended. Was it the cauliflower soup or sleep deprivation (self-imposed)? Or yesterday's rancid blueberry crisp, which KEM kept eating, knowing better. It was like the spoon was on auto pilot.

Oh, and tonight, Monday night, I was all set to watch the second installment of ice skater Johnny Weir's reality TV show. Kept checking in on the station to be sure it hadn't started because I wasn't sure exactly what time it started. Eventually, it occurred to me that maybe I wouldn't get to see the show tonight since tonight is not Monday night after all, it is actually Wednesday night.

Something . . . take me away.

KEM

After just listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with soloist Andrea Bocelli sing The Lord's Prayer, I would feel more than silly to try to blog tonight. There is something so magnificent when the best humans have to offer is lifted to the throne of God -- that He created us with gifts and then accepts our praise. All glory to God. And thank you Jesus for offering Your life to pay for our sins. And thank you Holy Spirit for indwelling believers.

KEM

During the night while my noise machine was playing rain, it rained real rain. So I had to get up and turn off the machine so I could hear the rain outside. This machine's sounds are amazingly life-like. Mike says that's because they stuck a microphone under the waterfall, or what have you. Doesn't if just kill you how men are so cut and dry? Well, still, real rain is preferable to recorded rain, just as real live music is preferable to notes jumping off a disc. I have issues with that because sometimes my choir director uses a canned accompaniment . . . WHAT??? . . . instead of . . . who? . . . ME?!?!? But I've gotten over it/myself. If the accompaniment is too dinky, I have to admit, in certain cases, the canned accompaniment adds something. Plus, I think some members of the choir enjoy singing to tapes, seems like the soloists do. Plus, sometimes I'm glad for a week off from practicing. Plus, I think the director likes to direct to the big sound. So, I've totally relaxed my standards on this point, good for me.

Mike got brownie points a couple years ago because he and my choir director were discussing and the talk came up about taped accompaniments. I forgot what all was said, but the end result was Mike responding to a question with, Why would I use a tape when I have Kathy? It's funny how a small utterance sometimes can give you that big lift.

Oh, and talking about piano (and this was not at all what I was going to blog about tonight, but KEM goes with the flow, she is learning to be a flowing girl), here's something that amused me. (I love Sweet Tulsa because it doesn't take much to amuse her these days, she's low maintenance, too, just a terrific person.) Well, this wasn't too terribly much, but it amused me. A few months ago I was practicing before the choir arrived to warm up on Sunday morning. These adorable siblings, two girls ages 3 & 4 and a boy age 2, well, they were in the room and came over to stare at me playing the piano. There they stood, stuck to the carpet, not moving, eyes riveted. It was only slightly unnerving. Eventually two wandered off and the 3 year old said, I wish I could play the piano like you. Now, her mother and grandparents are very musically inclined. So I said, Well, one day you will have to have some piano lessons, would you like that? Yes, she would like that, and off she cantered.

Fast-forward to about a month ago and there I was practicing again and these same children came around. This time just the 3 year old stood and watched me play, the others scampered right off. When I got up to leave (the choir wasn't singing that Sunday, I was practicing by myself to accompany the oboist), the little girl said, with adorable little girl squeaky vocal inflections, You're pretty good at the piano. Well, that brought my house down, I couldn't keep from hysterics the rest of the morning. Laughing is the best thing for nerves, too. Years ago I had to play for a school choir at a concert and I felt nervous. But the beginning band played before the choir, and I'm here to tell you, there is nothing like a beginning band to turn ice into warm water in two ticks of the metronome. No offense to beginning musicians anywhere, but it was priceless, and a gift, really, as far as my playing was concerned. When I was a kid I took up clarinet one summer at music day camp. I huffed and puffed with all my might and could barely get a wretched shrill squeak here and there. Really, all I was good for was blowing people out of the building. My mother and sister were duly entertained that summer, and that was the sum total of my band experience. I can't whistle either, which amazes Mike, he can't believe it. Well, I can't believe people who don't eat (and love) their vegetables.

Oh, the above story reminds me of an incident my older lady friend at church just told me. She helps in the Bible club AWANA. She was asked the other night to assist with some younger children whom she doesn't normally work with. So she came up behind a little boy sitting at a table, and standing in back of his chair she placed her hand next to his workbook. He didn't look up at her, just looked at her hand. His question was, staring at the hand, Are you an old person?

Really, it's so cool that little kids don't have the propriety filter. I find it titilatingly refreshing that they speak what comes to mind, which is usually the hard cold truth, but so forgiven because of the cuteness factor. 'Cause when you grow up you have to act proper and dignified . . . (stuffy and boring, JK), cute hardly counts. Well, I do find it to be work to always be on my toes, trying not to offend. It's draining to be thinking one thing but having to say another. Well, I'm right, aren't I? I do pray all the time that God will give me lovely thoughts from the get-go, so I can be an honest woman, but it seems my initial mental impulses are not necessarily generous, usually needing a kindness tweak. For Pete's sake, I need hosing out.

Today when I took my friend shopping, she sat in the car in the parking lot and proceeded to tell me that the pork tenderloin I picked out for her last week, per her request, was not . . . ahem . . . pork tenderloin. It was turkey tenderloin. Well, I guess it was tenderloin, does a turkey have a tender loin?, it sure looked exactly like its pork loin companion, all packaged in a little clear plastic tube thingy, all sitting there together, waiting for an unsuspecting customer . . . me. I looked at her because, after all, I am her helper because her eyesight is poor. It's up to me to READ THE LABELS, for crying out loud. But she said it was delicious and tender and moist and she loved it, but today she was going to try again for the pork. We just cracked up. I'm glad I wasn't fired, whew.

Okay, my warm tapioca puddin' is calling, KEM, KEM.

KEM, the pretty good pianist

Wounds (emotional) that are not transformed are transmitted. Who said that? Whoever did, it's true.

My noise machine is GREAT! Mike likes the waterfalls button and I like the rain button. Tonight I will picture myself as a little lamb, all curled up in the palm of God's hand, with His other hand cupping over me. That's my coziest best picture of God and me. It can be raining all around, and I'll be safe.

Mike falls asleep in .02 seconds, so he can have his waterfalls and then I'll jump up and get my rain and then go tuck into God's hands. When I forewarned Mike that this would happen, changing the tune, he said, Well, when I get up in the morning before you, I'll change it back. Like a lot of good that will do him, he goes straight downstairs in the morning. But I guess that makes him feel satisfied :--,

This is my 150th blog. Gittin' there.

KEM