I must admit, I'm a little disappointed in myself for not actually writing some sort of incredible memoir or novel. I suppose you could call this a memoir of sorts, just because I'm writing about the day to day of my life, just in the present tense rather than the past tense. That was my intention in the first place - to write about current events as they happen on a daily basis, but it's the typical excuse time after time: life gets in the way. One day I'm in a great mood, ready to be out and about experiencing life with my friends, other days I need to be in my current state - pajamas and glasses, sitting with a cup of sweet tea and my laptop on my bed. It's days like these where I can sit and not worry about what I look like, what I'm wearing, or what I'm saying. Until people show up at my house that I don't know.
Ever since my mother married my step father he has had a private business of teaching music lessons to kids (and some adults). It used to be the things he knew well - flute, sax, clarinet, and other woodwinds. He taught at a school, yes, but he seemed to enjoy this more. He would hop from district to district, and when no one needed a band teacher he was hired as an orchestra teacher - as in an orchestra full of string instruments. Suddenly he was selling bassoons for violas, renting cellos, and somehow obtaining a massive upright bass so he could teach himself how to teach others. Not getting any better, he continued to teach. When that position was let go, he got hired somewhere else. Refusing to not stay busy, he pieced together a drumset and began to listen to learning tapes, buying books on how to play the drums. His demographic widened - now he can teach a lot of instruments, which is so much better! My mother shook her head, and I just watched her not care.
More people started calling, more lessons were being given. Kids wanting to play the trumpet (another instrument that was not native to this house), the violin, the piano, you name it. And Len just kept accepting students.
Here I am, on a Thursday afternoon, in my room wearing Michael's hoodie (I like to think of it as a gift, not a service to him for taking it off of his hands) and pink boxers with yellow polka dots. My glasses are on and my hair is pulled into a bun of some sort. I've been wearing this all day, and the likelihood of me
Ever since my mother married my step father he has had a private business of teaching music lessons to kids (and some adults). It used to be the things he knew well - flute, sax, clarinet, and other woodwinds. He taught at a school, yes, but he seemed to enjoy this more. He would hop from district to district, and when no one needed a band teacher he was hired as an orchestra teacher - as in an orchestra full of string instruments. Suddenly he was selling bassoons for violas, renting cellos, and somehow obtaining a massive upright bass so he could teach himself how to teach others. Not getting any better, he continued to teach. When that position was let go, he got hired somewhere else. Refusing to not stay busy, he pieced together a drumset and began to listen to learning tapes, buying books on how to play the drums. His demographic widened - now he can teach a lot of instruments, which is so much better! My mother shook her head, and I just watched her not care.
More people started calling, more lessons were being given. Kids wanting to play the trumpet (another instrument that was not native to this house), the violin, the piano, you name it. And Len just kept accepting students.
Here I am, on a Thursday afternoon, in my room wearing Michael's hoodie (I like to think of it as a gift, not a service to him for taking it off of his hands) and pink boxers with yellow polka dots. My glasses are on and my hair is pulled into a bun of some sort. I've been wearing this all day, and the likelihood of me
