Who Scares Ya, Baby?

By Sarah

If you've been calling my home lately and found you're unable to reach me, I apologize. The thing is, I'm in hiding - from my son's piano teacher.

I know what you're thinking: what kind of doofus is scared of her son's piano teacher? Wait. It gets worse. Not only is she a piano teacher, she's 82 years old and lives in a retirement home, so frail and brittle thin that I could blow her over with a feather.  At least, that's the way she looks on the outside. Deep down she's as tough as forged steel and the very thought of crossing her gives me the shakes.

At the beginning of the last school year, for example, when it became clear Sam was as into the piano (which he'd played with only creeping success since age six) as much as he was into pink Barbies, I summoned my courage and approached Mrs. Nice (we'll call her since outside of the piano world she is nice) to say that while it wasn't working out, I had signed a contract and, therefore, would take the piano lessons instead of Sam this year.

"No!" she said.

No?

There was a contractual obligation on Sam's part...yadda, yadda, yadda, she explained, and she would not accept my offer. All I knew, as my eyes glazed over, was that I was in store for another year of nagging Sam to play and me to pay. In the end, he didn't practice, of course. I decided not to give a hoot and let him suffer the consequences. The upshot was a recital last week that he muddled through. Whew! It was over.

Or was it?

Apparently, it wasn't. So while I was at Sam's baseball game happily watching him walk to first after he got hit by a ball (nice job getting hit, Sam!), Mrs. Nice was frantically calling my home, angry that I'd missed a class and that I hadn't had the decency or politeness to call ahead of time. (I always call ahead of time AND we never miss classes. Well, almost never.)

Moreover, we were missing a class so Sam could play ball. I don't know if you're aware of the Sports vs. Arts struggle we parents of school-aged children must battle, but it's out there and it's vicious. A few months before, the ski coach had battled the drama teacher over my daughter's schedule. It was not pretty.

Now I'm really, really scared to call her even though - eep! - we might have another lesson during which - eep! eep! - another game has been scheduled.  That makes me three apologies in arrears.

This is why I'm not answering my phone.

Think I'm a weenie? Look, I have been less frightened of a 6-foot-tall convicted murderer with AIDS who tried to contact me at home after he tied several sheets together and escaped from the New Jersey State Penitentiary in Trenton than I am of Mrs. Nice. Don't ask me why because I don't know.

Charlie says it's Mrs. Nice's age - the same as my mother's - but I say my upbringing is to blame. To be raised in a Germanic steel town like Bethlehem, PA, is to respect the wrath of an older generation. These are people who can hurt you, who don't mind flaying you from head to toe so that all your weakness are exposed and then scalded in hot lemon juice.

Who else scares me? Cops. The other day Charlie and I were out tooling around in my BMW M3 with the top down. We'd just taken it out of the garage (sort of) and were enjoying the lovely spring weather when not one but TWO cop cars (a local and Vermont State Police) raced up behind me, lights flashing. Remembering my old boyfriend's advice (always have your paperwork ready!) didn't help. The registration was one month expired. The inspection one - maybe two - years, too. (Hey! I'd been busy!)

Charlie was ready to tear the guy a new one for not addressing me as Ma'am instead of "Sarah." (I thought he was being friendly. But Charlie pointed out that friendly would be giving me a warning, not an $84 ticket for expired inspection.) Me? I was shaking.

Authority figures. Cops. Elderly piano teachers. Ladies from the bank and utility companies reminding me my payments are overdue. These are my bogeymen.

So who's yours?

Sarah

P.S. Anyone want to make The Call to Mrs. Nice for me? I'll make it worth your while with a free signed copy  of Sweet Love. All you have to do is come up with a good excuse.

Comments

[Peg H]

The truth will set you free but if you can't tell her the truth then maybe this will work...Call a novelty company and find a fake arm cast. Or make one from Plaster of Paris and gauze strips. Tell her, "I'm sorry we didn't call but he broke his arm and we were in the ER for hours." Let him wear the fake cast to his next lesson. Or how about the old sprained ankle and we were in the ER excuse? Ace bandages and crutches are easy to come by.

[Peg H]

Who scares me? I can't think of any person who does except maybe Me, Margie. ;D

[Josh]

Fake injuries = bad karma. Excuse has to be something that you would not mind if it actually happened, or something that DID actually happen, such as leaking oil from your tony BMW M3 that required service. Sure, it didn't happen just now, but it did happen, and the car did need service.

[Janis]

The older I get, the less likely I am to make excuses. My stock replies are, "I'd prefer not to," and "No thank you." When people ask inappropriate questions, I borrow Ann Landers' stock reply, "If you'll forgive me for not answering that question, I'll forgive you for asking it." Then, of course, there's always the ever-popular, "Blow it out your ear."

I think the piano teacher's age has you discombobulated. We've been conditioned to treat our elders with respect, even when they don't show us the same respect. Hey, rude is rude at any age, whether it's an old person who refuses to take no for an answer or a young kid who comments inappropriately on one's physical appearance, "Gee, Lady. You sure are fat."

I'd just say. "He'd rather play ball than play piano," and let it go at that. If you signed the contract, pay the balance due and put it out of your mind.

If all else fails, change your phone number!

[ramona]

Funny blog, Sarah. Cops are there to keep the roads safe. If you would never speed and never have tardy paperwork and never have a convertible, they'd leave you alone.

I am scared of two things.

1. Small elderly ladies driving huge elderly Lincoln Continentals.

2. This hat: http://omg.yahoo.com/sex-and-the-city-premieres-in-london/photos/1851?nc#id=2

[Anna C.]

She doesn't want to teach anyone piano, she wants to control you. Being 82 doesn't give her that right. As Janis says, pay the balance due. Then stop.

[Mary Storyteller]

For scary or difficult people, mail works well. . .
I agree on the bad karma of injury lies. My mother always said that if you lied about getting hurt, you would have it happen, and told us of a woman at work who called in with a broken arm (a foolish lie anyway IMO; you'd be stuck pretending injury for a long time) and then fell and broke her arm. Would I doubt my mother's cautionary tale? Not on your life. She was Mom!! (no matter how much her tall children towered over her).
I think you made a reasonable offer to honor your contract. If you still want to take lessons from her, I'd suggest that you insist on that option, and if she doesn't accept it, then too bad, she gets nothing. OTOH, I'm not sure I'd want to take lessons from someone unpleasant, in which case I'd settle that contract for less than the full price of lessons and walk away. (After all, she can book the time with another victim, oh I mean happy student).
If you would like me to help out one of my famous "hate" letters, filled with polite disdain and veiled insult, I'd be glad to do work up a draft . . . I actually put together a lesson on consumer complaint and compliment letters for my sophomores -- much more fun than the text's generic business letter unit. I told them about getting great service from Toyota's HQ by using the "F" word ("this feels like when I owned my Ford Pinto. . .").
Good luck dealing with this particular Dragon Lady.

[William Simon]

Had to laugh at Janis's list; I've been a believer in "Blow it out" for many years. Sometimes it's "ear", sometimes it a lower anatomy point, depending on how hard they've pushed it. But I've gotten extremely weary of people who DEMAND an explanation, who INSIST that you do something (whether you want to or not), or those who try and SHAME you into it.

When I get a question I don't want to answer, my standard response is "Why do you wish to know?" Said with a smile and friendly tone of voice, it usually stops it cold. If the issue gets pushed, a polite but firm, "I'll discuss this privately" usually works. When all else fails, "Blow it out your [insert anatomy of choice]" always settles the matter for good.

Of course, pulling the BIO trigger does run the risk of getting one labeled "Not nice" or "Not friendly" or "Not too much of a people person". Once one gets over worrying about what other people think, Life gets very easy....:)

[Joyce Tremel]

As the person who answers the phone at a police department, I've found that a lot of elderly people are just plain rude. I filled a whole blog post with these stories not too long ago. Don't give in to them--it'll just make it worse.

And cops are really nothing to be afraid of. They only bug you when you do something that's against the law, like forget to renew your registration. Where I work, the cops are afraid of me. I like it that way.

[Mary Storyteller]

Ok, I vote to have William talk to piano lady!

[Mary Storyteller]

Joyce could call her too -- we could all call! Pretty soon, she'll be the one not answering her phone!

[sarahS]

These are all great ideas....But I think what I'll do is send her flowers with a note explaining that I'm just too chicken to talk to her. However, the last thing a 12.5 year old boy needs to do on these glorious May Mondays after being cooped up inside for six months is sit in a dark apartment and play piano....

[Nancy martin]

Thank heaven for Caller ID, because I'm avoiding calls from the Irish and Classical Theater who want me to buy season tickets. I don't. I will see the occasional play they produce, but I really don't want to see all of them (hey, they're Irish! Not exactly a laugh riot when the curtain opens!) but I have a hard time saying no to the nice lady who calls. I'm a chicken.

Maybe the piano teacher is just broke and needs the money? Pay up, give her a nice parting gift, suggest her name to other parents who want their kids to be well-rounded, and maybe she'll give up?

[sarahS]

Hey, I've paid up. I've paid all the way through!

[Josh]

If you've paid, then why not arrange with your church to give the lessons to some poor family? Could she reasonably object to that? Plus, then you could get a deduction.

[Laura (in PA)]

Hey, what's with the Irish remark? Just because we tend to be a little maudlin. Just give us a few pints or some Bailey's in our coffee, and we're a total laugh riot!

I'm the same way, Sarah, especially with older people. I got so trained to do what I'm told (between my mother, who had lots of practice with 8 kids before me, and the nuns at school), especially with elders, that I just want to hang my head and say, "Yes, Sister". I totally agree with the others here - if you're paid up, say thanks but we won't be coming back, and move on.

Now I just need to get over my irrational hatred of calling for take-out, which my family things is insane.

[Laura (in PA)]

Sorry, my family "thinks" it's insane, although there are many insane things about my family as well.

[ArkansasCyndi]

I use the caller ID to screen for someone calling from church to ask me to: 1) serve on a committee; 2) be a door greeter; 3) buy shares in some youth project; 4) cook and serve for_______ (fill in the blank with your favorite group); 5) etc. I can't seem to say no... although I did tell the pastor no when she asked to me be the head of the education committee.

Ramona - the hat? Saw it last night on tv. Scary!

And I doubt the piano warden would let you donate those lessons to anyone (Per Josh's request). She sounds like a rude person. You do not have to be nice to rude people.

If you don't want to talk to her, send her a note that your son will no longer be taking piano lessons. Thank her for her time and wish her well. You owe her no explanation for what your son is doing other than piano.

[michele]

Sarah, if you've paid, you've fulfilled your contractual obligation. You have no more obligation to her. The law does not allow contracts that amount to indentured servitude. Period, end of sentence, you are free.

Getting up the chutzpah to tell her so is another matter. Look at it this way -- you're doing it for your kid. Why should he have to take piano lessons when he's getting nothing out of it? She's not trying to control you, she's trying to control your kid, and you can't allow that.

I had a fight with an elderly lady recently on behalf of my 8 year-old. We were on a boat, on a week-long nature expedition, and this lady just hated all the kids. They made too much noise, they ran around, they annoyed her, whatever. Mind you, it was Christmas time, and the trip was specifically advertised for families. One afternoon we were all waiting to disembark for an excursion, and my son walked past her to go look into the window of the gift shop (which was across from where she was standing) because he was bored. She lit into him and accused him trying to cut in line, which was obviously not true. He was totally upset by this. I just told him in a loud voice to ignore her, that he was doing nothing wrong, that he should stay where he was, and that she was a mean old lady who was in a bad mood. She never bothered us after that. I felt absolutely no guilt -- she deserved it, and so does your piano teacher.

[Karen in Ohio]

I have a lot of trouble with this whole issue of a contract, especially since you already paid for the year in advance? When I taught kids, the parents paid me monthly, not annually, that's unheard of.

My advice is to turn the tables on her, Sarah. Tell her that her services are no longer needed, and to please send you a refund of the unused portion of her fees. If nothing else, that should shut her up.

[bea]

I hear you. It's hard to deal with these types of things in a small town. And, no matter how thoroughly my rational mind understands that I cannot control what other people think of me, I still worry about it.

I really like Josh's idea, but suggest that you put the burden on Mrs. Nice to offer Sam's unused lessons to some student she deems worthy. If she is nice at heart, as seems possible, this will make her happy.

As for who scares me: The security guard at my office building who is apparently reading "pop guru" crap during the quiet hours, and always wants to discuss deep and meaningless concepts with me while I am leaving the office. He is a "quiet talker," which drives me nuts to start with, but I let my inherent desire to be polite overcome my instinct to run. Or at least I used to. Now I bolt for the exit after signing out.

[Mary Storyteller]

Irish drama -- yep, too dark for me. (Unlike Irish storytellers, whom I adore). When I saw _Beauty Queen of Leenane_ at the Rep, it was a good thing I was not in my usual second-row seat. I'm not sure I could have stayed in my seat for the mother-abuse scene. I don't care how terrible one's mother is, there's no way she deserved . . .
A friend told me that she loved it! and that her bad experiences with her own mother made her appreciate it as I could not. Then the friend who had seen it as I had went to take care of her ailing mother for three weeks. When she came back, her first words to me were, "_Beauty Queen of Leenane_ is a WONDERFUL play!"
I'm with the rest in thinking you don't need an excuse, but if you do, how about, "My son just saw _Sybil_ and now he's afraid of pianos." (My mom just happened to call me when I was watching that movie many years back -- I had to coach myself, "Your mother, not her mother," to be able to speak normally).

[Mary Storyteller]

Lobbying for myself here -- I do think "My son just saw _Sybil_ and now he's afraid of pianos." is worth a book -- well, if I've remembered the right movie . . . .

[Karen in Ohio]

Mary, I took my daughter to see Beauty Queen of Leenane, and we were both nonplussed at the end of it. We were rendered speechless, too, at the ending. Of all the plays we've ever seen together, that is the only play we wished we had not seen. Way too dark, and just plain creepy.

[Me, Margie]

Hi. It's Me, Margie.

This is bullshit.

Gimme her number. She'll never bother you again.