Dear Diary,

Today has been fairly productive. This time I went to bed before 4am and woke up before 2pm. This is quite an accomplishment for me. I must admit, I have gotten rather addicted to Gaia's new mmorpg called ZOMG. I know, I know. It sounds like total kid stuff. It is. It's the candy version of WOW or Final Fantasy. Yes. I am a childish dork. Somehow the contrast to my constant focus on performance standards, technique, repertoire, genres, form, harmonic progression, chordal analysis, compositional technique, rhythmic patterns, and the ilk is extremely appealing. I think that's part of the reason I blog so much. Meh.

Anyway, as I was saying, today was productive. I went with my church choir to sing some Christmas music downtown at the city market. My home is such an artsy place that's so appreciative of music, theater, and visual arts. We performed/worshiped [we sang both sacred and secular songs] just across the road from an awesome art gallery. My dad, who's an art teacher, and brother popped by and we all went in the gallery to look around before the concert. It was awesome. I just love art. I love to stare at it, read about it, think about it, let it fill me.

The very first pieces I came across used bits of actual sheet music; so I got up close and started singing the songs. They were all popular love songs. The colors that particular artist used got me all fired up- really strong blues and greens and nice, thick, bold black outlines.

The next artist's section had a wonderfully ancient, abused looking journal hanging on the wall by his pieces with a worn out pen. By it, there was an explanation, along with his artist's statement [riddled with grammatical errors that made me wince.] The idea, however, was quite lovely. He was collecting visitor's dreams to include in his art pieces. I was completely fascinated. So I took the pen, and scribbled down one of my very disturbing nightmares that haunt and follow me like memories for years on end. I chose a fairly short one on cannibalism. I wonder what kind of piece it will live in some day.



Another artist's pieces really captured my attention; they used mixed media to reflect americana ideals. The rusted, twisted, grotesque caricatures were just so compelling. I was enraptured.

The final piece that caught my attention was a rather large ink and canvas drawing with anime style faces, but they seemed tesselated somehow. They filled every single space of the canvas, even upon the sides. I also remember there was a painting right to the left of it that had a wonderfully thick, shiny, transparent laquor over it that made me want to touch it. However, the colors and shapes were unappealing to me, and it was literally too far over my head to touch. Too bad I can't show you pictures, but that would probably be an infringement on the artists' rights- and I know for a fact that our local artists are already poor enough as it is, despite the massive amount of talent and ingenuity they possess.

Well, the concert turned out rather nicely. I was ecstatic that my father and brother came because my family is Catholic and doesn't really like the fact that I am now "Protestant". I got to introduce them to the woman who took me to the ER on Sunday when I had kidney stones; she staid with me the whole time and helped me a ton because she's a pharmacist and knew all the doctors. That chic also has an amazing voice; it's crazy. Well she sang some solos, and I sang a solo in a really cute song called "Parade of the Wooden Soldiers." The solo was written for a child, but since I am small and look extremely young, the choir director figured I could do it. It was so much fun! I put my hair in two braids just for the occasion. The wonderful news, though, is that my family really liked the music. I just know that will be a testimony in their hearts that not all Protestants are evil. Maybe one day they will understands and accept me again. Who knows?

All I know is I have GOT to sing. Every piece of my DNA was made to sing my soul out for Christ, and God called me to this particular church, not because it's Catholic or Protestant, or black or white, or rich or poor, but because He knew that this place would put me to proper use and help me fulfill my purpose.

I suppose this entry is long enough.



Farewell,

Dear Diary,

I'm going to use this post to unload my pithy, superficial, inconsequential teenage anxt, which is funny because it's been quite some time since I was actually classified as a teen. They are an odd species, though, aren't they?

• With their: zomg r u 4 srs? no wei. k thx baiz. lolz. rofl. ttyl.
• And their: h3ll0 do u th1nk 1 am cut3?
• And their: hAHa haAH. omg. u r 4 WeirD. DOn'T u thINk ANymoRE?
• And their: emo kid! preppy kid! band nerd! choir nerd! goth chic! noob. sheez.
• And, my ultimate pet peeve, their: zomg Miley Cirus is so awesome *high pitched squeal* and i'm totally going to marry ALL the jonas brothers AND Edward Cullen even though he's a fictional character who is the SPAWN OF SATAN. And OH, EM, GEE, i'm totally gonna have Hugh Jackman's babies even though he's old enough to be my friggin grandfather. Jay Kay.

American teens are weird. But I rant. This post is going to be all of the anxt, none of the teen.




I live in an apartment all by myself with two male cats. One is fixed, and the other pees all over everything, but there's nothing I can do about it now because I spend all my money on bills and the doctor. And I'm a teacher so I'm poor. But at least I have a job. Praise God for that.

Today I visited my family, which can be anything from a wonderful experience to the worst torture in my life, depending on my mother's mood. On the one hand it was wonderful because I got free food, some much needed clothes [also for free which is great because I HATE shopping], and other random items. The downside was listening to my mother's Spanglish insults, bashing my appearance, my apartment, telling me to throw away my cats and cut my hair. I tell her that both of my cats were rescued from the street and it would be unethical, at best, to just toss them aside; I also remind her I'm growing out my hair for Locks of Love and will be getting it cut to donate in the summer. She hesitates for a millisecond, nods, and then begins the argument from the very beginning, as though my justifications and explications had never even happened. Talking with her always goes a little something like this:

Anyway, driving home was great because I got to see the wonderful full moon all the way home. I was half tempted to drive out to the beach tonight and just stare at it. However, I decided it would be too cold, and being a single female all alone out there in the dark with drunks coming in and out would probably not be the best idea. Then I thought of calling him and seeing if he wanted to go with me, but I was afraid it would be perceived as too romantic, and I didn't want that to chase him off. I did text him on the way home, though, and he called me back because he hates texting. He told me he wanted to hang out with me and work on some more music, but he's been working at the ports and will be going out of town in a few weeks with family for the holidays, and I'm working like a dog all next week... so there probably won't be a time for us to meet up again until next year. Ha, sounds so far away, doesn't it? By then our band should be meeting back up and working on our pieces, so it shouldn't be too bad. He said he'd call me tomorrow; we'll see if that holds true. From my experience, men have a different sense of time than women, and oftentimes don't find a priority in calling people back or keeping their promises, i.e. overcommitting themselves. Or maybe it's just a regional thing. Who knows?

At any rate, the beach would have been nice. Especially tonight.

Maybe next time. Or next year. Or next decade. Oy vei. The drunks in my neighborhood have settled down their obnoxious yelling, so it must be time for bed.

Sincerely,

Dear Diary,

Drat my impulse to randomly change layouts. I'm liking it, but not too sure it's fully settled into place yet.

In other news, I'm sticking my icons/avatars here so I can find them later. Go me.

I definitely want to make more interesting ones later on. I suppose I should post an entry describing why this site is called 'Frosty Puppies.' The story is actually quite wonderful. It goes a little like this:

Once upon a time in a land that has no mass because it's digital, I decided to give birth to my umpteenth blog. When the doctors came up to me asking for the name, the first two words that popped into my head were 'Frosty Puppies' and thus, a legend was born.

Holy moly, it's going to be fun when I have kids of my own. They better hope I'm not hungry or loopy from pain meds still, or they might end up getting named Pancake Split, or Thorny Ketchup.

Anywho, today I noticed that one of my students at school has really been working hard at the piano; unlike the others, she's dedicated, hard working, and actually interested in things like technique and form. When I was talking to her in a lesson, she reminded me so much of myself at that age- not having an instrument to practice on, having a private teacher who was insufficient for her needs. I also sensed a subtle change in her from the beginning of the year; it seems as if she had woken up.

Then, almost instantaneously, and half unwillingly, I remembered a conversation I had with her about a month ago. It was during a lesson, and I remarked how impressed I was with her ability to learn quickly, and lectured [or preached to] her about how God gave her those talents to develop those skills and use them in service of Him. I explained to her that because she learned so quickly, she had a responsibility to do the best she could with it; she had a choice to spend the next four years goofing off like her peers inevitably will do, or she can focus on her purpose. I just know this kid is going to do great things over the course of her high school career, and I'm really excited about it.

As for her peers, the conversations tend to go more like this:

Girl: Ms. S, you look sad. Will you smile? I want you to smile. Please smile.
Me: [extremely hoarsely] Hello. [cough, hack, cough]
Girl: Are you sick?
Me: [pause, shooting her a blank stare]Are you blond?
Girl: [grabs a strand of her hair and looks at it] I-I-I think so...
Me: Your answer is my answer.
Girl: Huh?
Boy: Oh my gosh. Are you kidding me?
Another Girl: Well maybe she could've dyed her hair or something.
Girl: Huh? What? No. My mom doesn't let me dye my hair. And I wouldn't want to. But she never answered my question.
Me: Who?
Girl: You.
Me: Yes I did. I said your answer was my answer.
Girl: What?
Boy: Ok. Look. Listen to me. You're obviously blond, right?
Girl: Right.
Boy: So that means it's obvious that Ms. S is sick.
Girl: Huh, wait what?
Me: [Doubled over laughing my head off but still sore from coughing for days and kidney stones] Hahaha....ow....hahaha...ow
Girl: Are you ok?
Boy: You're unintentionally hurting her!
Girl: I don't get it. When I tried to make her smile, she refused to smile. And now that I'm not doing anything, she won't stop laughing at me. And I don't get it. She laughs just when I'm being me.
Another Girl: That's the point.
Girl: Huh? I don't get it.
Boy: It's the blond. Blame the hair.
Girl: Huh? What? No. I have highlights.
Boy's Twin: Listen to me. I'm not making fun of you. Who's your favorite twin now?
Boy: Yep, it's definitely the hair.
Girl: [grabbing strands of her hair, referring to the color] These aren't even real. They're fake.
Another Girl: Uhhh... that's not the best way to start a sentence.
Me: [doubled over laughing again] ahahaha....ow....hahaha.....owww
Girl: I don't get it. Why are y'all laughing at me? They're fake.
Boy's Twin: Girl, no. This is the good twin speaking. Stop while you're ahead.
Another Girl: Well, no. In this case, it's stop while you're still behind.
Girl: Well I still don't get it. Whatever.

And that, dear diary, is called the future. As much as I regret to inform you of this, I teach the best and the brightest teenagers in my district- and the majority have some kind of funky quirk like that. Like the kid with an outstanding I.Q., wonderfully creative ideas, extremely precocious personality who ended up licking battery acid because she thought she spilled some soda. Or the kid who's on honor roll and works for the school newspaper and decided it would be a good idea to jump over a fence and break his arm in the process of retrieving a football from his neighbor's yard the week before a piano recital. Or the kid who, in his junior year of high school, finally realized that the word "fifth" is spelled with two f's.

Yeah. My sentiments exactly.

Adios amigos,
~Clementine

Dear Diary,

This isn't going to work. I think we need some space. Really, it's not you, it's me. I need some time to think, alone. I will be back in a few days. Don't do anything too wild while I'm gone.

Love,
Lenore

Dear Diary,

The ER looked lovely this morning, all decked out for the holidays. The morphine was pleasant.

Kidney stones are le suck.

~Gretchen