May the Forks Be With You

Baby Bird Update: No longer ugly!We rejoice!

      I don't really remember the first time I cooked an entire meal, but I'm sure it was magical. Finally there was something I could handle all by myself. It didn't take much skill to follow a recipe or to clean up, and soon I became skilled at both. Somewhere along the line a tradition started, and I was cooking for a group of very appreciative adults. This group can vary from 6 people to as many as 20, but it always includes the core 6. These core six also happen to be my parents. How can I have six parents? Your guess is as good as mine, but one day I looked up to notice that I had 4 extra parents.
     Some people gain extra parents through divorce and then marriage, legally binding them to those extra parents. Mine aren't legally bound (Gary and Arlene were once upon a time but then I hit 18 and should something happen to my parents they were no longer responsible for raising me), they just kind of ended up as extra parents. When I was still in high school I would usually end up going out to eat with my parents, and subsequently this would also include Gary, Arlene, Randy, and Julie. The same goes for going to the movies, or even just going to supper at someone's home, they were all there. Somewhere along the way they all molded into one parental unit and have remained that way ever since.
     Now that you have the still very confusing back-story, it's time to learn how the parental meals go. First I am asked in a roundabout way if I would be interested in making a meal for everyone. I am always extremely flattered that they want me to cook, but it's really funny how someone will bring up the subject of me cooking. It usually goes something like this:
"So Kersti, would you be interested in making supper some night? I could bring something!" And the other parental units usually chime in that they will also bring things, and then comes the next step: selecting the menu. This is my favorite step because there are just so many possibilities. I drag out my favorite cookbooks and look through them, writing down recipes that sound good. Once I've found a main course that will suit the occasion I try to find salads that will accompany the meal tastefully. It doesn't always work, but I try to make it sound fancy at any rate.

Visible Lack of Pain=Smart Brain

    Once the meal is selected and the proper grocery items are purchased it is time to start cooking. I number the menu items from most prep time to least prep time and get to work. I love having one thing cooling in the fridge while I'm working on throwing together another item, I feel so efficient, like some kinda robot. The only thing that is not fun about all this cooking, it that I always forget NOT to stick my face right next to the oven door that I am opening. Somehow I forget, each and every time, that the first blast of air is very very hot. I think I just get so excited about seeing what is cooking in the oven, that my senses leave me completely and I end up with a singed face. Burned face or not, once the cooking is done the real fun begins.
    With all my parents gathered around the table I begin the process of serving them food. Handing my carefully arranged food items to them I watch as they appreciatively spoon cucumber salad onto their plates. Once the food has made it around the table I whisk the plates back into the kitchen and await the parents' reactions. Whenever I cook meals for them I inevitably select a recipe I've never tried, and that always makes me nervous. This time it was the honey mustard chicken, and I was worried my combination of spicy brown mustard and honey would end up tasting awful. Sure they would've faked it if the food was nasty, but my extensive experience with tv sitcoms has heightened my awareness of fake food appreciation(aka: fake tasty face). The chicken ended up being quite tasty, the fruit salad was refreshing, the cucumber salad was just seasoned enough, and the lemon meringue pie was one of my best deserts yet. Yes, I did just compliment my own cooking but I have no regrets. It was a tasty meal and I'm owning up to it, which I'm allowing because it's almost my birthday.
     After the last bite of pie was long gone, it was time to clean up the dishes. Being the anal retentive chef that I am, I had washed all the dishes used during the cooking process as soon as they were empty. No matter how hard I try, there are always more dishes to clean once a meal is eaten. Cleaning up is not nearly as bad as people make it out to be, how bad is splashing around in soapy water? And the feeling of satisfaction once you take a look around a spotless kitchen is unmatched. Yes, I realize I have a sickness...but I'm using it to feed other people so this is making my birthday exception as well.

That's my Star Wars Face...I'm working on it.

     Finally(and to the awesome tunes of the Mamas and the Papas) I had cleaned all the dishes. The parents try to help with things in the kitchen, but I always refuse them. Apparently I really enjoy being independent, or maybe just in control. I think my cooking report card would say: "Does not work well with others." After I had put away the last dish I joined the parents on the porch. We sat outside enjoying the nice weather for a while, but then it got dark out. Julie looked at Randy and they got up and headed to their pickup. Randy came back by himself and kicked Gary out of his chair, telling me to sit there instead. I cautiously sat down and was told by Randy that I must close my eyes. The rest of my parents started laughing as I closed my eyes. It felt as though I was at an Ouija party because he asked me if I felt any different on this night. He also told me to trust him, and that it was going to be okay. Then I felt someone standing by me and Julie placed something in my hand and made me whip it around. The thing was buzzing and when I moved it a "Swoosh" noise came out of it. Randy handed me an envelope and told me to open it, with my eyes still closed. After successfully opening the envelope I was allowed to open my eyes and behold all that was previously unseen by me. I was holding onto a glowing blue light-saber and a Star Wars birthday card that played the theme when I opened it. The card was supposedly from my actually father and mother, and it explained that they were finally okay with the fact that I was born a girl and not the longed for boy to carry on the family name. I was laughing so much that I had a hard time holding on to my light-saber.
     Later on when Gary, Arlene, Randy, and Julie climbed into the pickup to leave I stood at the end of the sidewalk with my light-saber in hand. I turned it on and waved it at them, and was met by a chorus of "May the force be with you!" I can't be too sure, but I may just be the only almost 20 year old who cooks for her six parents and is given a light-saber for her upcoming birthday. It's just a guess, but I may be solo in that category...maybe even Hans Solo(birthday pun exception....deal with it!).

Birthday Pun Exception: WIN!

   

Not All Babies Are Cute

THE HORROR!!!!!

    I'm fairly certain there is a saying that all babies are cute, but I have to wonder if that is supposed to include ALL babies. Today I was outside painting a fence that desperately needed my help, and as I was making my way to the middle of the fence I saw something horrifying and really repulsive. Looking closely at it my suspicions were confirmed and I recoiled in horror. Perched on the top of the fence post was a very small bird's nest filled with some of the ugliest babies I have ever seen. Their pointed little beaks flung themselves wide open like a book, a very scary and extremely ugly book. One of the books at the library that no one has touched in years and it has mildew and water damage, and probably some spit and 80 year old food bits stuck in the cover. That is what I saw, and it creeped me out.

Knowing smirk, right there

    Generally I am a fan of babies. What's not to like? They are a tiny version of something else, and tiny things are usually very cute. Personally I enjoy shopping at stores and coming across tiny things, like the tiny umbrellas you put in drinks to make them look fancy. Some more delightful tiny foods include tiny club crackers(they make me feel like I'm a giant),little smokies(or as I call them teeny weenies), bite-sized cereals, and so many more magical things. I don't know what it is about these tiny objects that capture my affection, but they catch my attention faster than a knowing smirk thrown by Clark Gable at almost any point in "Gone With the Wind". I used to love this Winnie the Pooh treehouse I had because it was stocked with little tiny furniture and tiny little Winnie the Pooh characters. Now a regular sized Winnie the Pooh is adorable, but a tiny one is can't-stand-it enchanting.

They are cute, it's true

     Back to the topic at hand. It is now time to discuss the fact that other species have way cuter babies than humans do. Take puppies for example. Puppies are cuter than babies, and that might be because with puppies you can put them in their kennel when they poop on the floor. With babies you have to clean it up...and you CANNOT put a baby in a kennel, you just have to pretend like it was the most fun in the world and watch as the baby tries to jam the remote in its' mouth...and probably stop it from doing that. Then there are kittens. Those tiny little balls of fluff(unless you get one of those hairless cats...that's your own problem then) are just so cute. Their tiny little mewing noises and kitten shenannigens make you feel all warm and fuzzy. Regular babies also make noises, but they are not always fun to hear and that is a point against human baby cuteness. This hurts me to admit, but even baby skunks and raccoons are cute. Regular sized skunks and raccoons are a huge pain and both of them smell awful. But baby skunks are cute AND they are called kittens...so that's a point for the skunk babies.
      I've been dancing around this subject but the time has come to call out the ugly babies. Now I'm not talking human babies, because all human babies are, in fact, cute. With their tiny little feet, baby hands, and teeny little baby noses you just have to admit that all babies are cute. Some babies are cuter than others, but we don't need to get into that whole mess. Now for the list of ugly babies:

Supposed baby platypus: Not cute

1. Mice babies: regular mice suck, and their babies suck even more because they are hairless and really gross
2. Snake babies: I hate snakes, even the tiny ones. They freak me out with their slithering.
3. Anything that comes out of an egg: Maybe platypus babies are cute, but I kinda doubt it.
4. Woodchuck babies: Stupid woodchucks
5. Possum babies: They have ratlike tails, pointed faces, and beady eyes, at no point will they be cute.
6. Fish babies: According to what I learned from Magic School Bus, baby fish are really freaking looking.
That's it for the list of ugly babies. Now I'm sure I missed a few, so this list is probably more of an ugly baby honorable mention compilation.

Painting the fence can wait

     As for the ugly bird babies I encountered today, I did my best to leave them alone. I painted as quickly as I could around their nest(I am really confused as to why the bird placed her nest on a fence near a very accessible area but that's her deal), and absolutely did not touch anything. Being completely terrified of nature attacking me I kept a broom close should the mother bird decide I was in her way. No worries though, it would've been a gentle swat to her at best, and only in self defense. Luckily, I didn't have to use my broom and I have a report from my dad that the mother robin came back to feed her ugly children. Somewhere down the road there will be several robins flying around who once lived the life of an ugly baby bird, and I look forward to that day very much.

Chemical Warfare...with Wasps

My weapon of choice

    Now that winter has finally given up its death grip, I decided that this afternoon would be best spent on the porch. With some minor pestering by my very friendly dog Alfred, my time on the porch was off to a peaceful start...until I heard a loud buzzing above my head. Quickly looking around myself I saw the culprit, and let out a sigh of distaste. Slamming the door shut behind me in anger I asked my Mom if we had any wasp spray, and I was directed toward our machine shed. Being unreasonably fearful of everything in our yard (we have snakes, and who knows when Diablo will come back from the dead?), I ran across the lawn and walked timidly into the machine shed. Browsing over the cans of toxic chemicals I chose my weapon, a can of Raid hornet and wasp killer, and it was on.

Rubber Gloves=Sheer Awesome

    Most of my day was spent with toxic chemicals. It began with an hour long fling spent with a can of refurnishing polish on my new antique bed frame(it's new to me anyway). I had to wear plastic gloves, but the chemicals kept eating through them so I had to switch over to heavy duty super awesome rubber gloves. Slipping those big black gloves on my hands made me feel like a super hero, or maybe a super villain, these gloves have a lot of potential. They are really difficult to function with, but their coolness makes up for it. After my lovely tryst I thought I was finished, but then I felt the need to take out every wasp who dared to come near my porch. Perched in the corner rocking chair I held the can closely, ignoring the slight drip in the sprayer that caused my hand to burn ever so slightly. The can boasted it could spray up to 22 feet, meaning I didn't have to leave my chair to protect the free world. Aiming carefully I would catch wasps in mid flight, watching them fall to the ground writhing in agony. I felt some pity for them, until I remembered how horrifying it is to walk outside and be dive bombed by a wasp. Holding up the can I glared at the wasp and took my aim, but it was all for naught as I had run out of spray. Dejectedly I gave up my post and moved on to the next chemical.

The closest I'll get to graffiti 

    Our wicker porch furniture was in desperate need of painting. The cats had favored it for a scratching post, as well as a therapy couch because most of the paint was worn away in cat shaped spots. Holding the spray can in my hand I began to shake it up, feeling like a hooligan. I've never vandalized anything with spray paint, so I had to pretend the chairs were some form of public property...I can't decide if that means I have a vivid imagination or a very depressing life. At any rate I spray painted the chairs with the vigor of a rapscallion, when the chemicals let me down again. My can ran out of paint halfway through giving the couch a new life. Feeling abandoned by all the chemicals in my life I told my mom the bad news, and she pointed me back toward the light. I was to go on a journey to replenish my chemicals. With a smile on my face I went to the store and bought not only spray paint, but a can of wasp spray.

A different kind of WASP
(Women Airforce Service Pilots)

     Back at home I finished my paint job and returned to my battle station on the porch. Watching carefully I saw the wasps moving freely about, thinking that I was still out of ammo. One wasp dared to position himself above me, and then I struck. Closing one eye I lifted the can and shot the wasp out of the air. He lay on the porch writhing in pain. Not being completely heartless I decided to put him out of his misery and step on him. (Lest you think I am into animal cruelty I will kindly remind you that these are insects and they could very well harm someone. I have no problem with wasps who live away from places I need to go, but once they move in on me it's war, and also...I just really hate wasps.) Clutching my can close to my side I leaned back in the rocking chair, taking in the warm Spring air. Letting out a deep sigh of contentment I closed my eyes and smiled knowing that I had won the battle.

My Epic Battle with a Vacuum Cleaner

    It started out as an ordinary day, well, except for the fact that it was my first real day of summer vacation. All those months of effort had finally paid off to four glorious months of freedom...mixed in with frenzied money making attempts. I had just returned from a peaceful walk with my faithful companion Alfred, and I was ready to clean out the huge tractor sitting in front of me. Little did I know the horror that awaited me

Naptime...it is good.

   Since my classes got done last Friday I have been recuperating from my very hectic move-out and move-in. The good news is I am finally moved into my house...the downside of that is I am living at home for a month until my job starts so I won't really be enjoying my new room until June. At any rate I had the very accomplished feeling of getting all my stuff placed where it should be, leaving me plenty of time to enjoy the world around me. I partook of the unplanned naptime (3 hours of sheer bliss), no make-up Monday (the first Monday in a very long time), hours spent watching television(more than I care to admit), and of course going for a walk on something other than a treadmill.

9 feet high...It's tall anyway

    With the pleasant memory of my chilly springtime walk fresh in my mind, I sauntered up to clean the tractor so patiently awaiting me. My dad had begun to prepare for Spring planting and asked if I would clean out the cab of his tractor because it had gotten rather dirty over the Winter. He had said I could use the air compressor to just blow out all the dust and bits of corn that were left over, but I decided to do him one better and vacuum out the tractor cab. Now, tractors are very large things, and the cab of this tractor has to be a good 9 feet off the ground. I thought that the shop-vac would have a long enough reach, after all, it had an extension for it that seemed to be never ending. Coupling this amazing extension with an equally awesome long extension cord, I figured there would be no problem reaching the dusty nooks and crannies of the tractor cab...but oh were there problems.

Why must it hate me?

    Initially, the vacuum extension did a good job picking up chunks of dust and old corn...but it couldn't quite reach behind the seat to all the dust along the back window. I pulled on the vacuum extension hoping it would stretch just a little further, instead, it decided to come out of the vacuum and leave me with a screaming vacuum. I hurriedly turned off the vacuum and reattached the extension. Moving the shop-vac closer to the tractor cab I tried again, only to pull out the extension a second time. Spotting another one of the vacuum attachments I connected that to the extension and tried yet again, this time the vacuum angrily tipped over and shouted vacuum profanities at me from its position in the dirt. Hopping out of the cab I picked up the howling vacuum, turned it off, and dragged it up the tractor steps. It was protesting my every movement and pinned me up against the door on my way into the cab. Yanking on the vacuum I managed to get the extension hose underneath the body of the vacuum. This was bad news because the cab was so tiny I had difficulty making any maneuvers, let alone a hostile attack on a stubborn vacuum. Mustering all my strength I lifted up the vacuum and managed to pull the extension free. Breathing a sigh of relief I turned on the vacuum and all hell broke loose.

We've all been there

     From the second I turned on the vacuum to the moment I turned it off it was absolute chaos. Dust began to swirl around the cabin as I moved the hose toward the remaining piles of corn and dust. Thinking I was going to survive I let down my guard...a most deadly mistake. The vacuum began to wrestle with me and I fought back with everything I had. Instead of me conquering the machine, it conquer me and grabbed hold of my ponytail. I eventually freed my hair from the unrelenting machine and ripped off the vacuum extension. I'd had quite enough of its shenanigans and I was ready to show it who was boss. Throwing the extension on the ground I turned back into the cab and made it sparkle. Well...it didn't really sparkle, but it did look a lot less gross. I hoisted the vacuum onto my hip and climbed down the ladder. Angrily I dragged it back into the shed and threw it on the floor, dusting off my hands in triumph. Looking over my shoulder I gave it an icy glare, and I swear that vacuum glared right back because it knew that I had won this round.

Finals=NO-tivation

She knows the pain of finals

    My hands are sweating, my stomach is flipping around tying itself in knots, I can't eat any food, I don't get much sleep, and I look like I fell out the wrong side of an elephant. Looking in the mirror I grimace, as my hair is sporting a rat's nest peppered with highlighters and bits of notebook paper. I squint at my shirt, noticing that it is not a shirt at all, but an old towel strategically draped over my body. In my state of confusion I completely miss the fact that I am sporting two old hats as shoes, and paper clips as earrings. There is only one reason that I would ever look like this, and one reason only...finals.

My finals diet

    I had never truly encountered a final until my freshman year of college, and that was a stressful time indeed. Pepto Bismol replaced all real food, and my sleep schedule turned into something only Buddy the Elf could function off of, a full 45 minutes. Between handing in projects, taking tests, and getting ready to leave my body started to self destruct. The second final I encountered was even worse because I had to add moving out of my dorm to the list of things to spaz me out. I made at least 8 trips to my car, one time just carrying my fish and the next time an armful of pillows. My organizational skills flew out the window as I started throwing my plates into the suitcase jammed with shoes. There was no time to think, I had to somehow cram my life into my silver Impala and hit the road before the world exploded in my face. It took two weeks for me to stop dreaming about missing a final or failing a class.

Of course Norman Walter has a hat!

    This year is a little different, but that same old feeling keeps creeping up over me until it swallows me alive and suddenly I open my eyes to discover I'm riding down main street in a shopping cart being pushed by an old man named Norman Walter, who won't stop asking me to help him find his courage. After finally pointing Norman Walter toward the setting sun (everyone knows that is where courage comes from), I eventually find my way back to the dorm where my studies await me. I would study...but that's not really possible right now and I have a very legitimate excuse why it's impossible, I DON'T WANT TO STUDY. My projects are finished, I've put in my class time, and I've done all the homework...so why should I study? To get good grades...yes I know. But it's much more fun to pack up all your things in the most concise way possible and then smile because you rock at real life Tetris. It's also more fun to meet in groups of people and talk about why none of you want to study.

You Shall Not Pass!

     To be fair I have prepared for my finals...it's just the whole sit and study for a long time thing that I haven't done much of, because there are so many other things out there to see and do. The only problem with that is, I don't do any of those things. I usually end up watching television and yelling at the microwave for not producing a plate full of cookies when I put in a cup of water. Obviously the microwave is the one to blame for my lack of motivation, or maybe I feel kind of lost because in three days I'm supposed to be able to say goodbye to a whole semester and pack up my entire life.Whatever the cause of my extreme NO-tiveation is I know that no matter what, Norman Walter will be waiting for me somewhere off in the sunset, should I fail my finals. 

Pianist is Not a Dirty Word

     I started lessons when I was in second grade as a wide eyed 6 year old, and I couldn't wait to play the piano. Making my way up the deck stairs I went to the sliding glass door and opened it. A quaint little kitchen met my eyes and I placed my coat on the hook and sat down at the kitchen table to wait my turn. Finally the plunking stopped, and another student walked past me as Mrs.Sperry ushered me into her piano room.
    She was the cutest old lady and she always had on a nice button up shirt and nice pants. Her hair was permed and dyed and her huge glasses covered most of her cheerful face. That woman had the patience of a saint, as I was not the most enthusiastic of students. I was horribly disappointed that I could not play as well as my sisters (who were already at the intermediate level), and I was stuck with the stupid songs that made you play one hand at a time.

DIE THEORY DIE!!!

     Then there were the Alfred books, I hated those books. First of all, if you're name is spelled A-L-F-R-E-D, it should be pronounced like the man's name, not like E-R-F-E-R-D. This was extremely confusing and frustrating to me, as was the theory book. Each time I got to the next set of Alfred books(there were different levels and each level was a different color), I would hope and pray that I wouldn't have to do the theory book; and I was always let down. These theory books were supposed to help me get better at understanding my music and how to play it, but they were just a pain to sit down and do. I would sit there at the piano for what seemed like hours, erasing and rewriting just to get my theory homework done.
     Once a year we would have our piano recital, and that was the most nerve-wracking time my young constitution had ever handled. It was ether sink or swim with your piece, and I definitely had some duds in my day. I clearly recall royally messing up "Walk in a Rainbow", and that was a black day in my piano playing history. The recital was held at Mrs. Sperry's church, and the students would sit in the front two pew rows according to age. The youngest students went first and it slowly went up to the oldest students. Mrs. Sperry was a very smart woman because then the younger students wouldn't have to pay as much attention, and the audience wouldn't be disappointed after hearing some amazing piano solo and then have to listen to a dull version of "Hot Cross Buns". My mom would always make my sisters and I dress up for the recital and then we would have to take a picture with Mrs. Sperry sitting on the piano bench and all of us circled around her.

Rockin Out with ABBA

     As I got older the lessons were more fun, but then a new challenge entered my pianist career, accompanying. Both of my sisters had, at some point, accompanied the high school choir and since there were no volunteers in sight I told the director I would be willing to accompany. Little did I know how terrifying it is to play for a choir, and to have to watch a director the whole time. Our director took her music very seriously and she wanted me to do a good job, and that meant one on one practices with her.These practices would run me through the mill, and she would still expect more of me. Somehow I made it through, although once during a concert the director stopped the whole song because I messed up the accompanying. At the end of my high school career I was pro at accompanying because I had accompanied the choir for six years, and a singing group for two. My senior year went out with a bang as I nearly set the piano on fire accompanying an ABBA medley.

Juries Make Me Feel: Sad

      My freshman year of college I would accompany my choir during practices because any excuse not to sing was a blessing. I hated that choir and playing for it was the only fun thing about it. The lessons my former director gave me served me well and I was in my college director's good graces for my accompanying skills. Somehow people taking voice lessons found out that I played the piano and asked me to accompany them for  their finals. Each student had to sing two songs for a panel of judges to grade them on their semester's work...so no pressure on me. That was grueling work because each voice lesson teacher would want me to come in during their student's lesson time so they could tell me exactly how I should play the song. Now imagine this stress 5 times over and you have what happened to me at the end of my first semester. Luckily, my former training and current practicing served me well and all five of my singers lived through the juries.

Says it all

     I still have to play for those damn juries, but the most wonderful thing about being an accompanist is the fact you get to charge people for your work. At the end of juries it is a most excellent thing to have the money in your pocket and a satisfied grin as you recycle the copied sheet music. Looking back on those years with Mrs. Sperry and my choir director I have to smile. There were more than a few tears shed over frustration and anger, but it all worked out in the end. Then of course there is the joy I have in my heart when I am able to tell people that I am  pianist, and it is not a dirty word.

When God Closes A Door...

Rocking that...bowl cut?

    One of my favorite movies of all time is The Sound of Music, for so very many reasons. Julie Andrews is super awesome and pretty even with her rather interesting haircut, Christopher Plummer looks like an absolute fox in his fitted suit, Rolf is also very nice looking, there are puppets, there is singing outside amidst the hills, and of course a huge wedding with an awesome organ song. It's also extremely quotable and applicable to everyday life such as the quote: "Whenever God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window." Maria says this as she is leaving the abbey to go be the governess to 7 children, but today it happened to me.
      I was happily on my way to practice organ in the music building, minding my own business. Thoughts of rainbows and sunshine were prancing through my brain as it was finally nice outside, even after the sun went down. The bright fluorescents of the music building shimmered on the polished floor as I made my way past the practice rooms. I stopped outside the organ practice room and slowly bent toward the door to make sure no one else was practicing. Hearing no jubilant sounds of organ music I placed my hand on the doorknob and turned...to my surprise the door did not yield to my will. It also did not yield to my will the next three times I tried it, even though I pushed my weight against it and heaved a few sighs. I bent my head in sadness and slowly made my way to a different practice room to work on my voice lesson songs.

I feel her pain

     This is the first time I have ever found the door to the organ practice room locked, and there is a good reason for that. Posted on the door is a sign that says "DO NOT LOCK THIS DOOR" it also says some more things about not leaving the door open, but mostly we need to focus on the DO NOT LOCK THE DOOR part. I understand someone locking the door if they are illiterate, I mean come on, they can't read the sign no matter how big the letters are but I'm assuming the person who locked the door was fully literate. This assumption being made, now it is time to figure out why the door was locked.
    Some Theories on Why the Door Was Locked
1. Some person was inconsiderate and locked it to be mean
2.The administration has had enough of our organ antics and shut us down
3.Albanian dwarfs need it to conduct experiments with
4.The animals living in the organ needed to be replaced because they went out of tune
5.The Anti-Organist Alliance (AOA) received funding to replace the lock and throw away the key
6.Someone has started living in the practice room and it was bedtime
7.It is a known entrance to Narnia and Mr. Tumnis is sick of everyone teasing him about his scarf
8.Someone accidentally melted the organ through shear mind power...and doesn't want to reveal themselves
9.Artists are painting a mural of Norman Rockwell and need absolute concentration
10.French mimes are slowly silencing the world and had to start with an organ
11.Misconstruing the term "organ donor" someone brought it to a hospital
12.The organ finally made its escape and is now headed home to Germany(or wherever it was from)

    Now not all these theories are viable, I mean, who would be so inconsiderate as to lock the door just to be mean? I think I've got it narrowed down to the AOA or Mr. Tumnis, but one can never be sure when organ door vandilization is at stake. Perhaps I shall never know why the door was locked, or who locked it, what I do know that somewhere there is an open window and it has now become my life's goal to find it. I have high hopes for this window, and I'm assuming Julie Andrews will be the one to lead me there.

The view from the window Julie will lead me to