I am in love. My heart is bursting. I have never felt so fulfilled and happy and confident in my choice. Yes. I bought a banjo. And I had my first lesson today. And I’m in love with this instrument. Desperately in love. If this banjo had a carnal form, I would never need to post another depressing, lonely, I’m going to be an old maid until my dying day blog ever again. Unfortunately for my dear readers, the banjo is but an inanimate object. Expect more self-pity. You bastards.
Back to my banjo. I LOVE her. I love her! She’s a Savannah banjo with mother of pearl inlays and her neck is black, but slowly fades like a sunset into a rich chestnut brown toward the resonator. The tuners are pearl and planetary (the best kind of tuner there is) and both Bill (the guy who sold it to me) and Chris (my banjo instructor) played her and said they envied my ownership of my Savannah. I finally have an enviable partner! And she’s all mine! I had to buy her, but still. Anyway. I’ve been futzing around on her and I can play G (which is just an open strum), C, F, D, D7 and Em. And G7. My first lesson was great, although I think that Chris should give me some slack about hand positioning because my hands are so small. He wants to be able to fit a pencil in between my hand and the neck (this is on my left hand, obviously) and, dag nabit, it’s just not possible. I have dwarf hands. I had thought that they would be perfect for banjo. Apparently this instrument demands more room than I anticipated. Also, the right hand positioning is very strict, not lazy like guitar. This is good, though. I haven’t had structure in awhile.
God I’m in love. I’m in love!
Now I just need a job. To pay for the credit card bill and now for the lessons ($70 a pop, ouch).
But! My banjo has brought me more joy in this sense, too! Today I applied to be a Program Coordinator (amazingly, despite the dull title, most of the job involves editing work and project management, bingo) at some hospital in Santa Barbara. Basically I would be writing the “You’re having a baby!” or “HIV: Be Positive About Your Results!” or “So you’re going to die. . .” pamphlets. Could be fun. I realized that I would much rather commute north than south, even if it means dealing with SB traffic. I hate Los Angeles. I refuse to even give it my carbon monoxide since that would still make me an important part of the atmosphere which LA strives to create. Toxic and disgusting. I digress. So I applied to this job, got an email back saying that I should register online for further consideration. All sounds good. But then I had a flashback. A flashback to yesterday when I bought my darling. Caught in a euphoric wonderland, I got hopelessly lost after leaving the music shop. In Santa Barbara, with all those blasted one way streets. I finally ended up passing this hospital and, after turning my wild banjo music down, politely asked a plump Latina nurse in pink scrubs how in God’s name I got back on the freeway. Judging from stories from my mom’s experience, this woman was probably delirious, had just worked a 12 hour shift and was ready to go home, consume some calories, and then sleep for the rest of the day. But she directed me quite nicely and I was on my way.
And here is the connection. The very moment (that smitten moment when my dearest sweetheart was lying in my backseat, awaiting my fingers to caress her limber strings) that I asked for directions, I had no idea that I might have been asking not only on my literal journey, but also for life direction, career direction. For that hospital is, in fact, the very same hospital who is currently considering my application for employment. So I’m hoping that whomever is reading my impeccably written cover letter and resume, is as pleasant and helpful as that Latina nurse. And, most importantly, will hire me so I don’t have to get any more disapproving looks from my step-mother, who clearly doesn’t consider buying a $630 banjo and paying for lessons twice a month the responsible thing to do when one has no job.
But what care I for money when I am in love?