Classical.

I took piano lessons for 10 years as a youngster and youngster adult. Every week my mother would cart my sister and me five whole blocks to Mrs. Emmel's home. She and her husband were virtually consumed by music and "perfect pitch" and "Julliard" were words used freely to illustrate the prowess of her two sons (who I don't recall seeing in the ten years that I invaded her home on a weekly basis). She had a school-marm air about her, a Cloris-Leachman-like presence that brings me ample comfort even today, if only because I can be entirely certain that she would not waste precious practice time reading anything posted on the information superhighway.

Inappropriate piano lesson story #1:

"Good. You'll notice in this next stanza that we have a key change. Do you remember what a key change is called?"

I thought. I considered my options. A-tion, I thought. I know there's an a-tion at the end.

Mrs. Emmel waited impatiently for my response. Had we not just discussed this a few weeks ago? I breathed deeply and thought for a few more seconds.

My consideration had paid off. I was pretty sure I remembered the correct answer.

"Ovulation."

I'm still pretty sure that wasn't right.

Inappropriate piano lesson story #2:

My best friend Karen came with us to lessons that day. My sister took the second lesson, so Karen and I waited for her in the downstairs tv room (although looking back, I'm quite sure these folks didn't even own a television) and looked at New Yorker magazines and other items of interest that were of course of no interest to fourth graders.

Karen was funny. Karen was mischievous. She once did a cartwheel in my basement and knocked a wood cabinet door off its hinges. My mom was so furious she didn't speak to Karen for three weeks. How cool was that? On this particular day, Karen must have been at the height of her hilarity. And I began to laugh harder than I had in years. And of course, given that it was likely the most inappropriate thing that could have happened at that particular moment, I therefore peed more than I had in years.

I couldn't control the flow. It soaked my pants. It soaked Mrs. Emmel's minimalist-inspired couch. Saturating the couch cushions, the flood sought release and began dripping from the cloth to the floor, which of course only made Karen laugh more heartily.

Finally empty, I panicked and did what every girl scout would. I stripped my clothes off and began sopping up urine with every conceivable bit of available fabric. Karen joined the effort and even used her mittens to soak up the pool that had darkened the carpet. We did our best until my sister played her last notes, and I then regrettably redressed myself. First the damp sweater, then the spotted mittens, and finally - shudder - the scarf.

As I left the family room I turned to see that the large dark spot on the couch remained. As did the matching circle on the carpet below. At least it had stopped dripping.

Mrs. Emmel never mentioned my indiscretion, which after years of college experience I'm convinced could not have gone unnoticed. Like a true best friend, Karen never spoke of the incident above a whisper. And like a ten year old without control over her own laundry, she probably wore those same mittens and scarf for at least a few weeks. Trouper.