Batter up...

I had one of those days that was a justification for all that I am and all that I have become.

Back story:

A woman saw me on the front page of the paper with regard to my free massages for chemo patients. She read that I had been a piano teacher for twenty years and (basically) wanted to pick my brain about my method. She called me this morning to meet me for breakfast. She was twenty minutes late. I am punctual to the point of OCD. Frankly, she just told me by her tardiness that my time wasn't important and as a consequence neither was I. Strike one.

Then, she didn't want to order yet because she wasn't ready. Bossy, bitchy, controlling stranger. I have hypoglycemia, and I was dizzy and starving... she doesn't give me that option. I ordered without her. Strike two.

She proceeded to bring out reeeedunculously complicated music from her briefcase telling me that this was the kind of stuff she played in her sleep. I told her, "great, but what is your niche as a teacher... this?" She told me she wasn't sure, but that she could teach anyone. I told her that finding her niche was important so she could know what she was trying to convey. She went on and on about the importance of theory. I told her that my mojo was to allow the kid to find their joy in music and all the while sneak that theory in the back door... so they could stand what they were doing for five minutes. I told her that that was far more important to me. She looked at me as if I was a visitor from the twenty-third rock from the sun. Third strike, but not "out" yet.

I talked to her about my book. I told her that a man outside my marriage paid attention to me for two minutes and that I needed an f-in bib, and so I made up a story about him. She looked appalled. Then, she asked if we could hold hands and pray before lunch. Strike four.

We both ordered omelets. I got two extra ingredients in the omelet and so she wanted separate checks because of this disparity. Ding, ding, ding. Strike five.

As I was walking out of the restaurant she felt the need to talk about her left-brained approach to music, but mostly wanted to take advantage of the fact that a) she needs students and b) I (still) have a huge following for piano (like the pied piper) even though I now write and do massages. She asked me if I would recommend her as a teacher. She had no idea with whom she was dealing. I am honest. I am fierce. I am fearless. I am a woman who has cancer. I tell it like it is. My answer?

"Probably not. Strike six, you're out." She never realized that she had been playing outfield in my little baseball game.

Oy gevalt.