45 x 365 #61 : Hazel

My first description: physical (impeccably dressed, hair and makeup always done) which seems shallow. But you're not shallow, just quiet. Because you're a gifted artist I know you have wonderfully interesting, compassionate stories living in your paintings. My job is to look, listen and learn.

The Year of the Primrose

Several summers ago we got some evening primroses to put in our garden. In a sense, they are the opposite of morning glories. Morning glories bloom at first light, and evening primroses bloom just as the sun sets. I have never been awake early enough to see a morning glory bloom, but that first summer, having heard about them, I wanted to see an evening primrose in action.

That first night we went outside and crouched down in front of the primrose patch until our legs fell asleep. Then we knelt until our knees hurt. After awhile we were laying down, stretched out on our stomachs, with our chins propped up on our hands. The grass was cool and fresh, staining our elbows and knees and the toes of our tennis shoes as our legs kicked back in forth like the second hand of a clock, marking the passage of time.

Not knowing what we were looking for, but knowing what we wanted to see, we stared and we stared and we stared.

Every little movement brought a flurry of conversation. "It moved! Did you see that? I think it's about to open? Do you think it was the wind?" It was boring and fascinating and utterly spellbinding all at the same time. I think all of us wanted to go back inside, but none of us dared. We didn't want to miss it. After an hour had passed, we all figured we had invested too much time to leave. So we watched some more.

Without knowing any technical jargon, the flower petals are held tightly by some small thin leaves. As the petals begin to relax and loosen from their tightly coiled beginnings, these small thin leaves begin to split slowly from bottom to top. When all the leaves have come apart, the flower springs open, much like you might see if you were watching time-lapsed photography.

As we watched these plants it was amazing to see them move and twist, without benefit of wind or animal or human intervention. It was one of those moments that physically confirmed an intellectual fact. Yes, a plant is a living object, but here was an opportunity to see it live? Everyone knows seeing is believing, but I have to tell you, it's a little spooky when you're talking about a plant.

And yes, there were copious "Feed me, Seymour" lines tossed around for good measure.

When the first blossom sprung open, we practically jumped with surprise (a bit difficult when you're laying on your stomach), and then oohed and ahhed as if it were a magic trick. Then we watched the next one and the next one and the one after that. It wasn't until the last bud bloomed that evening that we picked ourselves up, brushed off the grass and started itching the 97 mosquito bites we acquired that evening. But they were worth it. Every single one.

Evening primrose watching became a nightly ritual. When people came over to the house we'd drag them outside, saying "You have to see these flowers!" We explained how they opened. We showed them move without the wind. We came armed with bug spray and lawn chairs for our guests and we sat outside in the warm summer evenings staring at the garden bed as if it were a drive-in movie screen.

Over the years we've gotten better at timing the evening primroses so we only need to stay outside 5-10 minutes before they burst into a beautiful (if brief) existence outside their green bars. But I'll never forget that first summer of waiting and wonderment.

To know that something is going to happen, and yet not know how it might or what it might look like, or when it might be or why it even happens can both frustrating and exciting. For myself, I'm declaring 2008 to be My Year of the Primrose. I don't know what exactly I'm looking for, or when or how it will happen, but this year is for me. And you can be darn sure that I'll be watching and waiting -- probably bored at times, but still excited -- for that magic to happen. It's all inside of me. It's time to set me free.

Happy 2008.

45 x 365 #60: Scott S.

You thought you were such hot stuff and acted all tough and swore like a sailor. How on earth third graders think they are anything more than dweeby eight-year olds is beyond me. Now you sell carpeting. I guess the dweebiness caught up with you.

Laughing All the WayHEY!

There's something wonderfully refreshing about spending time with little littles. Today we hung out with NephewsanTuna and his family. Littlest Tuna, being all of two, is of the absolutely hysterical age I love. He is of the age where -- as long as he's not your kid -- you try to get him to do anything you can that will amuse you. Littlest Tuna and I had a piratey kind of afternoon, where everytime he looked at me we'd both go a-squintin' and a-rrrrrrrghin' until we started laughing. I got him to say "Shiver me timbers" and "Ahoy Matey" but sadly, when I tried to get him to sing "O First Matey" (the pirate version of "O Christmas Tree") he looked at me and said, "no" and started singing O Christmas Tree that much louder because obviously I don't know what I'm talking about.

Little Littles are great because they are often very agreeable. Over and over we'd ask Littlest Tuna a question, and no matter what the question was, the answer was a highly agreeable "Uh huh!" Would you like to open presents? "Uh Huh!" Would you like to sit over here? "Uh Huh!" Would you like to tap dance with a hippo? "Uh Huh!" I said he had mastered the agreeable "Uh Huh" skill early in life, as that was generally used by bored adults every 180 seconds when trapped in a deadly conversation.

But I know he's paying attention (mostly) to what is being asked, because there were hysterical moments when you'd ask him a question fully expecting the highly agreeable "Uh Huh!" and instead you'd get the equally highly agreeable, "Why, No!" May I sit by you? "Why, No!" Would you like to come over here and take a picture? "Why, No!" And it's so darn polite, you can't get upset about it. It's a skill I'd like to cultivate.

At one point, as the various adults were debating the merits and the importance of the Patriots-Giants game last night and whether or not it was THE GAME of great historical importance, Littlest Tuna sat playing with his trucks ignoring everybody while simultaneously giving his non-stop opinion as he sing-songed over and over "THE game! THE game! THE game! THE game!"

But really, he was one amazingly behaved little goober. There were no meltdowns, and he was stellar (in a very piratey way (guilty!!)) at dinner. He said what he meant, and he meant what he said, and he sang a mean chorus of "Jingle Bells" just about any time he was asked.

Is that about as good as it gets?
"Uh Huh!"

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1. Memorable :: Unforgettable

2. Resolution :: New Years

3. Goal :: Score

4. 2008 :: Let's hope it's a good one

5. Sensational :: Fantastic

6. Popular Demand :: Back by...

7. Old :: New

8. Music :: I got it in me

9. Intense :: Focused

10. 2007 :: So long, farewell

About as I would have expected. Thanks for a great 2007, LunaNina.com -- here's to more mutterings in 2008.

One Word Sarcomical Sunday

I'll pretend like I saw this on Sunday, and then I'll backdate this so nobody will know. Except all of you.

The rules are simple yet difficult:

1. Change the italicized word.
2. Insert your own answer
3. The answer must be one word and one word only. Uno. One-o. No cheating!

Your last meal:Burrito
Something on your desk/work area:Remote
Your New Year's Eve plans:Driving
The smallest gift you received this year:Earrings
The largest gift you received this year:Hugs
Something you wish you hadn't eaten so much of during the holidays:Chocolate
On your feet:Socks
Your hair:Clean
How many other countries you've traveled to:Eight?
One country you dream of visiting:Egypt
A hobby you'd like to take up/revisit this year:Weaving
A hobby of yours that died (aww, buh-bye) this past year:Ornamenting
A publication you subscribe to (print):None!
The most embarrassing subscription in your feed reader (if you have one):X17 Online
One of your favorite stores to window shop dreamily in:Bookstore
One of your favorite online stores to window shop dreamily on:MaryJanes
A color you love to wear:Blue
Your bed pillow:Warm
The color of your kitchen counter:Replaceable
What you plan to do when you get up from the computer:Sleep

45 x 365 #59: John H.

How many Saturday nights did we spend together having calculator wars, racing to close out and handicapping the Oscars when the money was deposited for the night? Of all the blue coats I worked with, you were the most normal. Then again, consider the competition.

Weekend Therapy

Today was all about the fiber arts and pumping up the economy by supporting the independent store owner.

At home there is a bit of a "local" revival, from local farmer's markets to restaurants to shops. There is something undeniably wonderful about going to the usual haunts where the shop owners know your name. Whether it's once a week or once a year, every time you walk in, catching up on family and life is just as important as buying lunch or a basket full of therapy. Having this personal connection -- even on a professional basis -- is a win-win situation. As a consumer I want to visit these shops, I want to support the owners. I want to see them succeed.

I need my therapy.

So, no big box stores for me today. We drove past strip mall after strip mall after strip mall and found the little out-of-the-way places where we walked in and were greeted with, "My MICHIGAN Friends!"

It's good to be home, especially when you're on vacation.

45 x 365 #58: Mike McS.

Your office cube was prime real estate: in a corner with windows. You were very quiet, but hardworking, I thought. Just yesterday I found out that you taught literature at the University for several years. I’m saddened because I learned that by reading your obituary.

Corporate Conglomerate Bowl 2007

Tonight I watched TunaU play in the Corporate Conglomerate Bowl. We thought it was the Citrus Bowl, but evidently fruit are out this year, and now its name is the Champs Sports Bowl. This is also highly ironic, because neither team was a Champ of anything, and once this bowl game was over, only one team *cough*cough*TunaU*cough*cough* managed to keep their non-champ streak alive. Unless they are now the champ at not being a champ...

Yes, as usual, TunaU pulled their traditional 3rd quarter impression of a souffle -- they fell flat. Sure, they tried to rise up again, but they just didn't have anything left to give, so try as they might, they (predictably) lost. Again.

I wondered though...is it better to live with predictability or enjoy the wild ride of what's next? Each has its own drawbacks and charms. While there is a certain comfort in knowing what comes next, there is also an undeniable excitement in not knowing what lies around the next corner.

The problem of predictability lies solely at the feet of the result. If it's going to be a happy ending or a good surprise, we're all for it. But if there is a bear waiting to eat you around that next corner, you might wish you had that day's script ahead of time so you could call for a rewrite.

The best course of action seems to be to plan for the worst and hope for the best. That way, when surprises are thrown your way, you can be somewhat prepared. Best to bring a rolled up newspaper to smack on the nose of that bear. And in the case of TunaU, smile and say, "There's always next year."

Where, if they make it, they'll most likely fall apart again.
Predictably.

Friday's Feast

It's the East-Coast-No-There-Really-ISN'T-Anything-To-Eat-Besides-Christmas-Cookies version of the Friday Feast. What's for eats, and more importantly, does it have sprinkles?

Appetizer: Name Two Things You Would Like to Accomplish in 2008
January 1st, 2008
December 31st, 2008

Soup: With Which Cartoon Character do you Share Personality Traits?
Lucy. Smart, loudmouth, and a sucker hopeless romantic for the musicians.

Salad: What time of day (or night) were you born?
I believe family lore says approximately 7am.

Main Course: Tell Us Something Special About Your Hometown
The weather never changes. It is always 67 degrees with a 40% chance of rain.
(Shamelessly stolen from Waiting for Guffman)

Dessert: If you could receive a letter from anyone in the world, who would you want to get one from?
As long as there isn't a bill inside, it says something pleasant, and it's read to me by the sender while I am served breakfast in bed or sitting by a roaring fire, I'm not picky. Wait. Maybe that was picky...

45 x 365 #57: Ted M.

Your tenor voice was so loud I was afraid of it. It didn’t take long for you to sing it right out of your body and damage it permanently. I felt sorry because you loved music so much. To this day you’re a cautionary tale.

With All Due Respect

Because I'm on vacation and not sitting at my computer for nine hours straight, I didn't hear about the assassination of former Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto the instant it came across the wires. However, this afternoon we finally had an opportunity to watch the news and get a few more details on this tragic event.

Tonight I was trolling the blogs and catching up on important things (comics) and less important things (everything else). While I was reading guilty-pleasure blogs (OK, who am I kidding? They're all guilty pleasure blogs) I thought I should jump over to my collection of political blogs to see what they had to say about the current international situation.

I guess I must be a bit naive, because it really surprised me to read the analysis. What surprised me wasn't the analysis of the reaction of the Pakistani people or Pakistani government or the Muslim community or women all over the world. What surprised me was to read the analysis and grading of the sound bites offered up by our current slate of 2008 Presidential hopefuls.

Because you know, it's all about us.

And it wasn't just the bloggers who offered up their opinions. The Washington Post stampeded online with its own take on how the news was going to affect the primaries and how the various candidates were positioning themselves based on this tragedy. To their credit, The WaPo reminded its readers that this article was posted on their political blog, and tragedy or not, their focus is politics. The WaPo continued, saying this event would certainly have repercussions in the US political arena, so dammit they were going to talk about it whether anybody liked it or not.

Still, I have to wonder if it would have been that much of an imposition to wait oh, say, even a scant twenty-four hours before attempting to connect dots that are over 7000 miles apart. The waters of analysis are murky enough as it is without attempting an instantaneous political GPS recalculating procedure of both major US political parties and their presidential candidates based on two sentences.

In this age of instant gratification and 24-hour news cycles that frankly, run out of things to say after 45 minutes, it's difficult not to overdo the incessant analysis of everything and everybody everywhere all the time. But just once I'd like to see us (as a people us and as a country US) hold off on the temptation to pick apart and over-analyze every tragedy the instant it occurs. Will it have ramifications? Of course it will. But there will be more appropriate times and places to crank up the rhetoric for the nightly news cycle.

Today it should be enough to say first and foremost, she was a human being. Today it should be enough to say another light in this world was extinguished far too soon. That and that alone should give us more than enough fodder to stop and quietly reflect on the loss we all have suffered.

With all due respect, today, all due respect should be enough.

45 x 365 #56: Judy

You play everywhere, everyday, for everyone. Even though that doesn’t say anything about you the person -- funny, kind, sensitive, extremely opinionated, intelligent and witty -- in reality, it comes through in every note you play. That's the difference between an accompanist and a musician.

The Day After

It's officially the day after Christmas. I know this because 1. the calendar told me so, 2. Santa ate all the cookies, 3. the stockings are no longer hung by the chimney with care (ok, I don't have a chimney, so technically they never were), and, 4. we're in Maryland.

We are officially in Maryland. I know this because 1. I saw the signs saying "Mason-Dixon Line" and "Welcome to Maryland", 2. I started in with the "y'all", 3. It was drizzling and people were driving like the rain was sent by the love child of The Four Horsemen and Nostradamus, and, 4. Everybody loves to drive 90 mph and then slam on their brakes. Over and over and over again.

But we're here, and it's great, and all that driving and slamming breaks and hurry up so you can slow down stuff doesn't matter. We made our best time of the trip on the Washington DC beltway. If you know anything about Satan's highway, you know just how insane that sounds. We made our worst time....30 minutes from home, where we sat on the highway and didn't move for upwards of an hour. So, it's a Topsy-turvy world out there.

The annual day-after-Christmas drive is something The Tuna Clan actually looks forward to. What's so appealing about an all-day date in your car? It's forced rest. There are no concerts. There are no commitments. There are no plans, except to get to where we're going in one piece. The day after Christmas is a major symbolic turning point. It means we made it through the fall, and through the miserable month wonderful festive month of December.

It's good to be on the other side of December 25th, y'all.

45 x 365 #55 : Lucy S.

I sang for your Master Class when I was in graduate school. I should have been more impressed with all your twentieth-century work and commissions, but I actually found it so much more interesting that you got to pick the cover colors for International Editions.

Wrapping it Up

Nothing much to report on the holiday front. Once my overly incensed (as in "full of incense" not "full of anger") brain managed to clear out the smoke and accompanying whiff, things were a little less fuzzy. I'm not sure when my church turned into smells-and-bells central, but the (caution: Techno-Speak ahead!) incense-guy was whipping the incense thing around like he had the starring role in the Will Rogers Follies. Yippee-Kay-Yay!

Either that, or his moves were inspired by several yo-yo tricks.

45 x 365 #54: Hope

To describe you is to describe pure wonder, excitement, love and joy. You give smiles and hugs to everyone as if these were the only things necessary for survival. You're the essence of happiness and light. What better person to write about on Christmas Eve?

In-Between

I'm in-between two churches:
Service Early. Service Late.

I'm in-between my dinner:
wanting cheesecake on my plate.

I'm in-between the baking.
Oven needs a well-earned rest.

I'm in-between the wrapping
putting patience to the test.

I'm in-between so many things
I know I have to do.

I'm in-between the laundry
and the searching for my shoe.

I'm in-between the dishes
and the sweeping of my floor

I'm in-between the cleaning
and the messes made galore.

I'm in-between, this Christmas Eve,
of things done and things not

I'm in-between the rock it seems
and that strange hard-place spot.

I'm in-between a realist
and doing what I should.

I'm in-between an optimist
and doing all I could.

I'm in-between that "Publish Post"
and wanting more to write.

But I think that I shall finish up
and wish to all, goodnight.

45 x 365 #53: Bob T.

During our senior year our student assistantship was spent every day setting up chairs before rehearsal. We sang together, played together and generally hung out. We were even graduation partners, and spent the entire ceremony sitting in the front row wondering who these people were.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1. Health :: Well-being

2. Tacky :: Tasteless

3. Heels :: Feet

4. Yay! :: Hooray!

5. Model :: Fashion

6. Gather :: Ye Rosebuds while ye may

7. Best Gift Ever :: Unasked for ones from the heart

8. Clients :: Business

9. Stomp :: Out Loud

10. Clothing :: Apparel

There really isn't much to say here. From poetry by Robert Herrick who reminded Virgins that life was one big ticking clock to STOMP with their rhythmic broomsticks and trashcans and clapping, I think the best thing to say on this two day before Christmas Sunday is #7 is where it's at.

But I still like the brooms.

45 x 365 #52: KJW

It's not that you're deaf. It's not that you're dumb. It's not that you're blind. I know what it's not, but the problem is I don't know what it is. All I want to do is shake you and make you understand what you're missing.

List Checking 101

I have no logical explanation, but my marathon shopping session today? Went fine.

The stores were crowded, but not overly so. My fellow shoppers were pleasant. The store employees were downright cheerful and pleasant. And I think I left every single store saying, "Well, THAT wasn't too bad." I kept waiting for the holiday horror to kick in, but it never did. The closest I came to panic was leaving my master shopping list in a store, which I ran back and retrieved 5 minutes later. Meltdown avoided.

I'm also pleased and proud and frankly relieved to report that I did not walk inside a mall. The closest I came was hitting several stores in an emporium where each has its own outside entrance. But we parked the car once and then walked the enormous square and got everything accomplished. Then we headed to a bunch of quirky local, independent shops and had a great time.

So, with TWO ENTIRE DAYS until the Big Lebowski, I think I just may have time to cook, wrap, and maybe...just maybe...sleep. Of course, there are still three church services, twenty seven anthems, eighty nine hymns, one solo, two duets and a partridge in a pear tree I have to squeeze in there too, but at this point it doesn't seem like much, and I almost don't know what to do with myself.

Almost.

45 x 365 #51: The Boy

Describing you, I could talk about goat camp, mad cows or off-kilter chickens. But more important, you are my modern-day Solomon. You have open mind and you listen carefully, filter judiciously, ask pointedly, counsel wisely and still care passionately about the wellbeing of your friends.

72 Hours and Counting

With exhaustion at an all-time high, the last of the performances over (with the exception of a vocal marathon on Christmas Eve) the only thing that stands in the way of anything that even vaguely resembles a vacation is a butt-load of Christmas shopping. JOY!

I spent the morning compiling a comprehensive list of giftees, gifters, ideas and that ever famuous column: where the heck am I going to go to get this stuff? Although tomorrow I'll be racing around with the other losers procrastinators discriminating shoppers, I'm hoping my shopping list will give me a leg up on the rest of humanity.

Until then, I'd better hit it and git it. My dogs are barking.
And I don't even HAVE any dogs.

45 x 365 #50: Mrs. T.

You were always a little weird, but so was your entire family. We knew you had really gone off the deep end when you walked into our house unannounced, opened our refrigerator and wanted to know what was for supper. Unsurprisingly, you ended up institutionalized.

Setting the Stage (Parenthetically)

I'm sitting at my computer (customary)
drinking a glass of white wine (elegant)
eating potato chips (trashy)
and chasing it down with an occasional sip of Diet Coke (thirsty)

One cat is running around like a lunatic (annoying)
while the other is currently on my desk behind my screen (endearing annoying)
my cell phone is charging next to me (prepared)
and my iPod is charging by my bed (super prepared)
as if I've tucked in all my electronic children for the night (nerd central)

I'm trying to decide what to write (customary)
because it is nearly 11:30 pm (deadline)
and I haven't missed a post since October 25th (amazing)
and I'm not about to miss one now (dedicated)

I thought I might write about wine (trendy)
how I buy wine totally based on the picture on the label (gullible)
and don't really know good wine from bad (ignorant)
and suddenly it occurs to me that it's a lot writing about men (epiphany)
Trendy, Gullible and Ignorant (Law offices of)

I thought I might write about Christmas (obligatory)
but tonight I'm not really feeling it (honest)
and although I'm not anti-Christmas at the moment (improvement)
I think I'll save it for another day (procrastinator)
because it doesn't go with my wine and potato chips and Diet Coke (practical)

I thought I might write about Facebook (obsession)
and the friends I have found (Kumbahyah)
and the fun I've had wasting time ("research")
finding more (social electronic crack)

I thought I might write about my unfolded laundry (boring)
or my unwashed dishes (boring)
or my unmatched socks (boring)
or my constant search for the second shoe (boring)
But I don't think so tonight (thankful)

I think I'll just write (finally)
about sitting at my computer (customary)
drinking a glass of wine (elegant)
eating potato chips (trashy)
chasing it down with a Diet Coke (thirsty)
and feeling totally and entirely and utterly content (redundant)
with myself and my surroundings

(Peace)

45 x 365 #49: Caroline

You have the fierce determination of a tiger and the beauty of a butterfly. If your moral fiber and strength could be collected and sprinkled over humanity, the world would be a confident, spectacular place. Who wouldn't give all they have to see you well?

Super Duper Secret Santa

I'm going to do my best to explain this.

So at work -- my newish half time cubicle work -- my unit engaged in a sort of "Secret Santa" activity. I say "sort of" because it really wasn't a traditional Secret Santa at all. It wasn't one of those draw a name and leave little gifts anonymously until the end when all the Santas are revealed and everyone stands in a circle singing "Wahoo-Doray" and eats Roast Beast. I'm calling it a "Secret Santa" because it's December (hence, the Santa) and because it was a secret. To somebody.

I walked in this morning and the party table (yes, there is a party table) had a tablecloth on it, and candles and a holiday centerpiece, and at 8am, was already loaded with food. And I looked at this table and thought to myself, "Self? I think our unit is having a party."

And funny thing. I knew nothing about it.

That was the secret part.

But sadly it wasn't a secret like "Surprise and welcome to the section" secret. It was a secret like "We're having a party and nobody remembered to tell you" secret.

To make matters even more incomprehensible, later that morning my boss came into my cube and told me she had heard that the party coordinator had neglected to include me on the planning emails. And then...AND THEN she said, "but I told her it was OK because you probably had real work to do today anyway." And she smiled and left.

What on earth do you say to that? I was so dumbfounded, I was ... dumbfounded. I couldn't decide if they were the most insensitive people on the entire planet, or just utterly clueless. I really couldn't choose, so I shook my head, cranked my iPod and waited for a speedy end to my shift.

I'm almost afraid to see what happens on Valentine's Day.

45 x 365 #48: Beth T.

In high school you were one of the most awkward, painfully shy and socially outcast people I knew. Twenty years later we met again at your mother's funeral. You were smart, self-assured, intelligent and fascinating to talk to. It was nice getting reacquainted as grownups.

Free Willy

Warning: this post is all about certain body parts I am quite certain I do not possess, no matter what my Spam and Junk folders say.

The spammers have been getting increasingly creative with their pleas for me to buy stuff for a medical condition I do not nor will not ever have. I'm used to the everyday drivel, but some of the emails have had a bit more holiday cheer, as it were. I almost feel badly that someone is wasting their mad writing and advertising skills on the wrong demographic. Be that as it may, some of the latest include:

Real New Year Present for Your Willy!
Did it make a list? If not, it's out of luck.

Get super-size for your Willy!
Would it like fries with that?

Promote your little soldier of love in a new year!
Will it get a raise too? Oh, wait... Never mind.

Chicks like when you have a big instrument.
Like a euphonium?

45 x 365 #47: Juan Valdez

You were a pain; when you showed up I faked trips to the bathroom or emergency phone calls. But when I got trapped, I nodded and "uh-huhed" my way through your feeble attempts to pick a fight about music and politics. Too bad for you.

Just Another Manic Sunday

Sunday morning we awoke to the doom that had been foretold: snow. Now, despite what you might hear on the weather channel (OH MY GOD, TELL ME BOB, HOW MANY LAYERS OF CLOTHES ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW? ARE YOU STAYING WARM??) it wasn't that big of a deal. When it was said and done, we had seven inches of snow. White powder-puffy snow. No sleet. No ice. Just snow.

Luckily, it was manageable snow, because, being a weekend like every other weekend lately, The Tunas had places to go and songs to sing. TeenTuna was required to be at church for psalm-duty (Baby G does not observe snow days) and then was to be picked up shortly thereafter so she could travel to symphony dress rehearsal. When dress rehearsal was completed, she was to be picked up, taken home, have food lovingly shoved down her gullet, tossed in her performance clothes and dragged back again within the hour for the performance. Post-concert was a family birthday party for the lovely niece Tuna. It sounds like insanity, but as I said, this is fairly typical fare for that batshit crazy most joyous holiday season.

Truth be told, this weekend had previously had the potential for being even crazier. A few weeks earlier TeenTuna had been asked to sing that National Anthem for the MSU Lady Spartans Basketball Game. We were going to attempt to squeeze that in (National Anthem at noon) and try to be just a wee bit late for the dress rehearsal. Sadly, that wasn't going to work, and although TeenTuna was disappointed, she understood she had a previous commitment. Her friend, Stretch, was pegged to sing the anthem instead.

We left early for church and made it down with no real troubles, due in large part to the fact that most sane people were staying indoors and not driving around. When we got to church, it had been decided that attendance would most likely be lousy and so all choirs would join together and sing what was originally slated to be the High School anthem. But a funny thing, that. Adult choristers kept showing up, and soon we had a fairly respectable roster. Those in attendance insisted that the adults sing the anthem that had been rehearsed (and rehearsed and rehearsed). But then the question came as to what to do about the High School Choir, because its members stood at two: my 13-year old daughter and my friend's 15-year old son, and one of them had to leave early for symphony dress rehearsal.

• First it was strongly inferred that no way were the adults NOT going to sing the anthem they had rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed.
• Next it was suggested that the high school anthem was only two-parts anyway, and since there were two people, why not?
• Then it was reminded that somebody had to leave early, but if she could be done by 10:45, by all means, go ahead.
• Finally it was decided that they would sing it as a duet for the prelude.

So when church started, these two teenagers sang. There weren't as many people there as usual, but the message was powerful. I thought it was very much like the way Advent should be. Not loud and bombastic. No throngs of people. The morning was cold and dark and the empty church made it a little lonely. And then there were these two voices, free and easy and clear, singing about hope and expectation for the entire world. That was church. They were church. And their song was the message.

Later that afternoon when I picked up TeenTuna from her dress rehearsal I told her how special I thought it was. Looking at her I said, "What you did this morning was WAY better than singing the National Anthem at the basketball game."

She looked and me and smiled and said, "Way, WAY better."

45 x 365 #46: Sue L.

Years ago we worked together, and now once again we're cube mates. I think you knew I wasn't happy being back but you let me be mad. Every once in awhile we chat about music. Although I'd probably never admit it, I feel better. Thanks.

Two by Two Minus One

I am not too proud to admit I would make a very, very lousy Noah. I simply cannot seem to find two matching anythings. I have a large plastic bin down by my washing machine that holds an army of lonely socks and I'm forever looking for that second shoe that left my second foot in the same approximate place as the first. This morning, as I pulled myself together for an early morning session with the snow blower, I couldn't find my mittens. The mittens I had just worn the day before. But this time it wasn't just one mitten, it was both. They were nowhere to be seen.

I'm not too proud to admit that as I stood in the kitchen pondering my lack of winter hand wear and options, I wondered -- quite seriously -- just how ridiculous I would look in oven mitts?

Although the option was appealing, I fell victim to peer pressure. After all, what would TeenTuna have said if she caught me outside running the snowblower with oven mitts on? Sure, it's the season to "don we now our gay apparel" but I really don't think this is what they had in mind. Ultimately I decided I had better buck up and find another pair. Which I finally did. And they matched.

Maybe tomorrow I'll go for broke and look for a shoe.
Take that, Noah.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1. Interview :: Job

2. Army :: Navy

3. Unwrap :: Open

4. Evolve :: Improve

5. Bus :: Stop

6. The real thing :: Coke

7. Streak :: Nekkid!

8. Gorge :: Eat and Eat and Eat and Eat

9. Spicy :: Meatball

10. Course :: Class

I don't remember this specific commercial, but I sure remember the song. Frankly, I'm not surprised the ad doesn't look familiar, because it looks as if it were constructed from Senior Pictures.





I remember this commercial though. Mama Mia, That's-a-Spicy Meatball!

45 x 365 #45: Norris

Between your writing, your photography and your breadth of knowledge about damn near everything, people liked to call you a true Renaissance man. But I don't think even that does you justice, because NOBODY who lived in the Renaissance could quote "The Vatican Rag" verbatim.

Weekend Update

Yes tonight here in Michigan the warnings are for snow, snow, snow, more snow, snow mixed with snow and DESPAIR (with a 95% chance of snow). Granted we've had these weather warnings on a near weekly basis for the past several weeks, and each time we've gotten nothing, nothing, nothing, more nothing, nothing mixed with night and ENNUI (with a 95% chance of nothing). At the moment it really is snowing, which only proves the whole broken clock being right twice a day adage. I'd be more worried, scared and upset about snow if first of all, I didn't live in a state where Canada is truly our neighbor to the SOUTH, and secondly, if it wasn't December, which, believe it or not, is the traditional month for snow (with a 95% chance of presents). So yeah. Whatever. It's snowing. Have a parade.

Concert number I've lost count is in the completed column. All went well, although as we were reminded that many of our pieces were about Mary (Mama G) and we all had some Mary inside of us, I turned to my friend and asked, "So how's that virginity thing going for you?" Since we both have teen-aged children, we agreed it had been awhile, and probably we'd need more makeup to be convincing. Personally, I'm not sure there is enough concealer in the world...

Tomorrow TeenTuna is up again with another symphony concert. This one will be televised on and around Christmas Day. GramTuna and I will be up in the cheap seats, hoping they sing fast and that the cameras do NOT focus on us during the sing along portion of the concert because we are not those people who smile and clap joyously (in some entirely unrelated tempo) to the music. No, I can confidently say we would never be hired for Up With People. Up Yours, People, maybe.

So that's our current life in a nutshell. Snow, Singing, Virgins, and Up Yours, People.
It must be the holiday season once again.

45 x 365 #44: Nim

The real reason was a car accident. But we were the kids and you were the teacher. You know we couldn't help but give you that nickname behind your back. But it was better than in front of your bashed up destroyed nose though, right?

Pencils Down

With no time left on the clock, Fall Semester officially came to a close today at 5pm. The students have packed up and taken off for the month and my sleepy little town has now officially become sleepy again, if just for a little while.

When the students are here, for better and for worse, this is a different place. There is a kind of buzz and excitement from faces younger than mine. There is optimism that can be downright infectious and an innocence that you might like to tweak on the cheeks because its simplicity is downright adorable and betrays that all-grown-up persona so wonderfully. But on the reverse side of the coin, there is that grating sense of entitlement that seems to seep from the pores and cellphones and laptops and BlackBerrys of students who feel as if things are owed to them. There is the know-it-all attitude from those who really don't, and the all-encompassing cloud of pessimism that should be reserved for an older relative ... on that side of the family.

Students live and move in herds which can be disconcerting to those not used to their daily migratory patterns. Over the years bar night has gradually moved up, and now Thursday is the new Friday, and Thursday night bar night is when students must go out and see what there is to see. They go to class together, eat lunch together, and hang out at coffee bars until all hours of the night, drinking and noshing as if they were at very expensive troughs partaking of the sweet caffeinated nectar of the Gods.

For those of us who consider this place a permanent residence, we do our best to coexist. Some go out of their way to introduce themselves to the opposing team. Others simply grumble behind their back. We put up with increased traffic, neighborhood noise and longer lines everywhere we go. Intellectually we know it's a part of university life, but emotionally there is always a small part that just can't wait to see them leave.

Once the last car filled to the brim with dirty laundry has left campus, those of us left tend to look at each other with a deer-in-the-headlights kind of stare and just sit and slump for a minute. There is satisfaction at the finish line of a semester, but unlike the students, we cannot go home and have someone feed us, give us shelter and bring us clean, folded socks in the morning. This is precious time, and as tempting as it would be to sit around and engage in high-stakes thumb twiddling, semester break is the time clean up, catch up and regroup before January.

So Godspeed, students. Have a wonderful break. The town won't be the same without you. But pardon us for a day or two while we think that's a really good thing.

Catch you in 2008. Clean socks and all.

45 x 365 #43: Hadji

You were nice enough, but very, very quiet. There were days when it seemed like I never saw you. I didn't know you were a troublemaker until you just HAD to go and give that box of crayons at Christmas. I never saw you again.

Ohm

I was IMing with TheGenius today in regards to a comic I had sent him, since I thought he, if anyone would a. get it, and b. think it was funny.


click to enlarge

I didn't have the comic in front of me at the time, and let's face it, I don't generally deal with these kinds of topics in my daily existence ever. Sadly my lack of knowledge quickly became painfully obvious.

GreenTuna: Olm
TheGenius: ?
GreenTuna: It's just so painfully obvious that I so often don't have the slightest idea what I'm talking about
TheGenius: Yes, I guess that's true. Olm.
TheGenius: Ohm is a unit of electrical resistance, named after some guy.
GreenTuna: Seems to me that if you were naming "electrical resistance" it would be named something along the lines of OHMYGODDON'TTOUCHTHATOUCH! and not something so zen as "Ohm"
TheGenius: I guess where physics is concerned, respecting and honoring old dead smart people is higher priority than the safety of stupid people.
TheGenius: Wow, that was quotable.
TheGenius: (if I do say so myself)
GreenTuna: HA
GreenTuna: I think i'll make a cross stitch sampler of that and hang it on my wall
GreenTuna: Right next to AVOID DEATH

He's Come About the Reaping

It's been another banner year for warning labels -- those harbingers of doom and prophets of common sense.

Here is the winner, and honestly, how could you not LOVE this picture? The message is simple, instructional and contains strong moral advice.

I'm waiting for the cross stitch sampler to come out any day. I'll hang it up next to all the other "good words to live by (caps-lock bold OR ELSE)" messages lovingly crafted in pretty pastels.

Too bad all of life isn't this simple. Maybe all it needs is a good slogan.

On My Journey Home

Today was number two.
But this one was no gig.

Rise, O Fathers, Rise
Let's go meet 'em in the skies
We will hear the angels singing
in that morning.

As the end of the year gets closer, I've mentally started to tally up life's wins and losses for the 2007 season and make some sort of sense of it all. If truth be told, I think I've been doing this subconsciously for the past few months. It's been that kind of year.

Rise, O Mothers, Rise
Let's go meet 'em in the skies
We will hear the angels singing
in that morning

Oh, I really do believe
that just before the end of time
we will hear the angels singing
in that morning

And after all this time... Surprisingly, I have few answers. It's been that kind of year too. But this doesn't mean I just spent the last twelve months passively spinning my wheels and getting nowhere. To the contrary.

No time to tarry here
No time to wait for you
No time to tarry here
For I'm on my journey home.

It's not so much that over the past year I gained answers to life's big questions. What I think I gained out of 2007 is recognizing that I'm on a journey. Home. To myself. And in that realization lies a huge lesson: Answers cannot necessarily be found when, where and how I would like them to be. And although sometimes a lack of answers makes the journey that much scarier and difficult, in the end, it is OK.

It's one thing to understand that answers are not always forthcoming. It's quite another to travel down a road someone else told you to take and never question the direction in which you're headed. There's a fine line between acceptance and perseverance, and without the latter, life ceases to be a journey and becomes something closer to a big game of Simon Says.

Brothers, oh fare ye well,
Sisters, oh fare ye well,
For I'm on my journey home.

It's difficult to understand (and even more so to accept) that in essence, this journey is a solitary venture. That doesn't mean that there aren't plenty of times when you happily and thankfully share your journey with others. Hopefully the path you walk will be crowded with loving, supportive fellow travelers for a good long time. But you can't drag others along if they don't want to go, and you can't walk in the opposite direction just because you want some company. Ultimately, the path you are meant to take, the pace you are meant to move, the wisdom you are meant to discover and the ultimate destination are yours and yours alone.

No time to tarry here
No time to wait for you
No time to tarry here
For I'm on my journey home.

It was a lot to learn in one year.
It's been hard. And sometimes it's been lonely.
But it's never been alone. There's always that singing.

Oh, I really do believe
that just before the end of time
we will hear the angels singing
in that morning

45 x 365 #42: R.M.

I swore we were on the same path, but you keep stopping. I never minded slowing down to wait, but fear of movement isn't an option for me. All I can do now is point, say "I'll be thataway," and hope you catch up.

45 x 365 #41 : Theo

Your name "Theo" was quickly changed to "B.O." by my brother. You were cute and lovable until the inner ear infection changed your personality. Still, there was a quirky charm in the way your head always tilted to the side and you walked into walls.

Pretty Words

There are days when I'm certain the phrase "it's not what you say, it's what you do" should be tattooed on my forehead. It seems so simple but maybe its my unlucky draw, but somehow it feels like I find myself constantly faced with people who have a real disconnect between words and deeds.

For some, pretty words are enough. But I find more often than not, pretty words obscure the mess. Pretty words hide the pattern of behavior. Pretty words are like The Emperor's New Clothes. Sure, they sound good, but really, there's nothing there.

I don't need pretty, I need meaningful.
I don't need hollow, I need resonant.
Say what you mean and mean what you say.
And then, just do it.

45 x 365 #40 : Doug A.

How should I describe you? Do I talk about your music composition skills with your wonderful sweeping melodies and lush harmonies that melt heartstrings? Or do I describe your steely calm, yet highly effective legal prowess? I can't choose, but I'm very grateful for both.

The Ties that Bind

The lesson is -- oftentimes you never know how or when or why you touch people and make an impact on their lives.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here, so let me back up.
Today I went to a funeral.

Most times when I tell people "I have a funeral" I instantly get a very touching, "I so sorry" response, and then I totally ruin their lovely sentiment and make them squirm even more by saying, "no problem, it's a gig."

Today was no different. Today I had a gig. A funereal gig, but a gig nonetheless.

But this one was chock full of interesting dynamics. It was for a woman who left the Episcopal church in 2003 following the election and consecration of an openly gay Bishop from New Hampshire. At that time many people left the Episcopal Church, and several from my area formed an Anglican church that leans hard to the right, both politically and biblically. It's a lot less groovy, loving New Testament and a lot more Leviticus, if you know what I mean.

The Episcopal rift was (and continues to be) a time of fairly substantial upheaval. Lines were drawn in the sand, and whose side you were on was of critical importance. Some took a "good riddance approach" and others were devastated by the loss of friends within the Episcopal community. Some were called "haters" while others were considered to be brave and faithful upholders of the word. Problem was, who was a hater and who was an upholder was entirely dependent on which side you were on to begin with.

As is the case with many complex issues, I found myself in somewhat in the middle. Don't get me wrong, I have strong convictions on this subject. But from an intellectual standpoint, I could understand why people left the Episcopal Church, even if I disagreed with that decision with every moral fiber of my being.

As the church was filling up for the funeral, I made a mental checklist of people I knew who were attendees. Some I hadn't seen in several years. I wondered about them. How would they feel? How would I feel? And in the grand scheme of things, did it really matter anymore?

It was somewhat remarkable that I was asked to sing this funeral, because I only had the vaguest of recollections of this person from years past. However, in her own planning, she had specifically written down my name, telling those in charge that I was to sing if I was available. I felt a little humbled. Although she obviously knew me and my singing, I had to look up her picture in an old church directory, because I just couldn't place a face with a name.

What was even more remarkable though, was what I was asked to sing. The song that was selected was the wonderfully touching and yes, weepy pseudo theme song written years and years ago by a member of our church. Our Episcopal church. The one we all used to attend, until some chose to leave. But that's what was requested, and by golly that's what was going to be sung.

I've sung this particular song several times, often for funerals. And I'm here to tell you, having to sing these wonderfully touching words to such a sweeping, poignant melody isn't easy. In fact, it's generally considered an amazing accomplishment to make it all the way through without choking up.

I stood to sing to the people assembled and looked out over the crowd of people. They had left our church, but looking at the piece of music I had in my hand, I wondered if they had really left at all. This song -- this theme song, as it were, of our church -- had obviously touched people and made a lasting impression. And why not? The text asked for love, care, guidance, pity and mercy. It wasn't us versus them. It was just us. Help us. Watch over us. Love us. Heal us.

That's the way I sang it. Not as a weepy, let's yank at the heartstrings sort of piece, but as a song that asked for comfort and care and healing. And in all honesty, this sanctuary held a group of people that had so much more in common than not. Although many continue to focus on issues that divide us, I was grateful that this song in particular touched so many so long ago. To this day it continues to be something on which we all agree, and that is the first step towards healing.

Until that time when we can stand together and sing as one, I'm happy to be the voice in the wilderness. Given enough time, I bet others will want to join in as well. Music and singing is just that way.

Keep Me, Oh Lord as the apple of your eye,
Shelter me under the shadow of your wing.
My journey's long, be with me to the end.
I need your love, Lord. Pour it on me.

45 x 365 #39 : Mr. Blom

Bald head and big bug eyes, you said you were from Mars. But really, you taught a widely diverse group of middle school kids to think critically, write convincingly, speak intelligently, read voraciously and always strive to be better and smarter than the day before.

The Long Non-Winding Road

Twice a week I commute an hour in each direction to teach. On general principles, I love to drive, but practically speaking, I hate this road. The highway is straight and flat, the landscape consists of fields and a few scattered houses, and the law enforcement officials are hiding behind every shrub, between every bridge support, and tucked inside every ditch possible, due to the fact that there is a 20-mile stretch where the speed limit is a painfully restrictive 55 mph.

So that's four hours of thankless driving each and every week.
I hate it and all its deadly dullness.
But honestly? It's where I get my best thinking done.

I'm grateful nobody is in the car with me. I talk to myself, I sing out loud, I argue with invisible people. I have entire conversations with myself or other drivers or animals by the side of the road. I'm not crazy, I'm just bored with a lot on my mind. So I use the boring drive to my advantage and spend this time listening, learning and working through the issues of my life.

My roadside chats are not all that unusual if you think about it. People talk about the path to enlightenment and the road to self-discovery. If you swing with Bible stories, Saul -- now Paul -- experienced a profound and life-changing religious conversion on the road to Emmaus. So who's to say that these conversations with myself are anything out of the ordinary?

Sometimes, forced thinking time is no blessing. Thinking begets over thinking, which leads to over-over thinking, and then you quickly wish for any sort of distraction because too much unoccupied time is no gift when you'd rather not face your thoughts.

But in my overbooked world, I've learned to be grateful for whatever thinking time I have, whether I think I want to or not. Life is a long road. Best to make good use of it.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1. Master :: Perfect

2. Tour :: de France

3. Input :: Data

4. Downtown :: That song

5. Pricey :: Expensive

6. Acceptable :: Usually means it really isn't...

7. Terrace :: Patio

8. Sunday :: Day of rest? HA!

9. Payoff :: Result

10. Jack and Jill :: Went up the Hill

The far more interesting thing this week would have been a complete transcription of my train of thought in regards to Item the first. It went something like this:

MASTER? Oh HELL no. Nobody is my master. OK .... "And Commander"... Wait. Isn't that that Russell Crowe Movie? GAWD, I HATE Russell Crowe Movies. OK. Master. Master. Perfect. Wait. People will think it is perfect the adjective instead of perfect the noun. Then they'll think I'm stupid. Master. Master. Nobody is my master. I could put that. Or Hell no. There HAS to be something to go with Master. Maybe "bite me." No....ok, I'll go with "perfect" and spend an entire paragraph explaining myself. Yeah, that works. Hey...who sang that "Downtown song" anyway? Petula Clark, that's who.

45 x 365 #38 : Ann S.

Our daughters were born two days apart, and although I've only known you a short while I feel as if we are kindred spirits. Our kids are crazy musical, we are single-parenting machines, and we both need maid service for the inside of our cars.

A Cheater AND a Stealer

I've decided that not only am I going to cheat at Holidailies, I'm going to steal while I'm doing it. But you might forgive me, if you had the chance to look at my calendar of crazy today. And while one rehearsal and three separate performances might not sound like much, add two tall beers to the top of the list, and you'll understand why I'm only a half-step away from drooling all over my keyboard. So yes, here are the first sentences of every post over the past year. Let's see just how weird this is....

I have taken down the enormous calendar that chronicled our lives in 2006 and have put up the new calendar for 2007. Last Tuesday, in the midst of my not-posting, TinyTuna was performed in the 10th annual 7th-8th grade choir EXTRAVAGANZA which is a very CAPS LOCK, leaned over and bold sort of event. TinyTuna: I'm hungry. GreenTuna: Make a snack. As you can see (Notice the bold) I would like to be called TeenTuna and I absolutely WON'T be called Fred. So anyway, well, sorry I've been AWOL. It's a Friday afternoon don't want to start anything new at work edition of Friday's Feast. The beach towels are washed and put away, the mail has been read, filed or shredded, the refrigerator experiments have been released into the wild while new food items were purchased to take their place, and the various pets have been held and petted and cuddled and loved A LOT. Another 12 days and honestly, it's more of the same. Reading time is precious and scarce in my world. Good God, I don't even know what to make of this. I ran across the x365 writing exercise about six weeks ago, and thought it was wonderful and inspiring and intimidating all at the same time. Tonight we stampeded into the holiday season with the first holiday concert featuring holiday decorations and songs and sleigh bells and trumpeters (that sounded as if they had had far too much grog at the neighboring taverns).

I Got the Music in Me

Opera is a funny, funny thing.

Everyone has their own preconceived notions of what opera is and how many hours of life it will suck out of you before its over. It's loud, it's boring, it's contrived, it's in a foreign language. You name it, opera has heard it all. And to be fair, all of it can be true. Sometimes.

• Opera is the place where women can wear pants and assume a male character that happens to be written for the female voice. Which, long ago, would have been performed by a male singer (impersonating a female singer who is dressed up like a male) in a female range -- sometimes made possible by mad skills, other times by illegal do-it-yourself medical procedures.
  
• Opera is the place where you can are about to die from some life-sapping disease, but before you go, you'll sing a gangbuster six-minute aria, complete with full ornamentation on the repeat.
  
• Opera is the place where a three-hundred pound singer can actually suffer from consumption. Except that in this case, consumption doesn't mean what you think it does.
• Opera is the place where staging often revolves around stationary pieces of furniture. As in -- stand by the chair and don't move...just sing.
• Opera is the place where, if there is to be any dancers, then somebody better go out and hire some, because we don't do both.
• Opera is the original grand spectacle. Sure, landing a helicopter on stage for Miss Saigon might be impressive, but people, Aida has ELEPHANTS!

While there is a certain undeniable and almost perverse fun in what I call pulling up your Opera boots and buying into the whole facade of this particular musical genre, increasingly I find it's less about the voice and more about the story. Don't get me wrong -- the voice is critically important. But I'm assuming at this point whomever is opera-tizing can sing, and quite well at that. Vocally, there are always money moments to be had, and as any singer knows, you had better be able to cover that check when it comes due.

At some point, though, bellowing for bellowing's sake becomes an empty affair. The power of the story isn't found in really, really loud notes, or really, really high notes. The power of the story comes from within.

Tonight I found myself tonight taking off my Opera boots. I was a poor peasant woman who wore brown, brown and brown. I was frustrated with my lot in life. I was worried. I was harried. I was impatient. I was jealous. In short -- I was human. And when music was layered over this real human existence, there was no need for Opera boots. So I let myself be worried and harried and impatient and jealous. I let myself be human, which meant not all the notes were really, really loud, or really, really high, or really, really pretty. Life isn't always a highly polished, beautiful spinning bel canto sort of affair. Why should the singing be any different?

The result was far more interesting and rewarding to me as a singer. I chose to let the story have top billing and dictate how the singing should go. My costume tonight may have been Rhapsody on a theme of drab, but musically, the palate was a vibrant rainbow, full of every emotion and sound I could muster. No, there were no Opera boots tonight. Just a handy pair of slip-on sandals by the door for those money moments.

It was just right.

45 x 365 #37 : Ethel

You are forever the teacher and I the student. You gave me tools for success, sharp criticism that was deserved, the will to learn, and the unabashed love of music. Tonight you heard me sing and were proud of me. There was no greater compliment.

Friday's Feast

It's the mid-morning I'm tired of working already version of Friday's Feast. What's for grub?

Appetizer: What was the last game you purchased?
Hungry Hungry Gas Tank. $2.95 / gallon.
Other than that, I really don't remember. It would probably be some electronic Harry Potter and the Order of the GameBoy thing for TeenTuna.

Soup: Name something in which you don't believe:
The status quo.
Settling.
Doing what is expected instead of what is right.
Mince Pie.

Salad: If you could choose a celebrity to be your boss, who would you pick?
Patrick Stewart playing Jean-Luc Picard. He could tell me "Make it so" and I wouldn't tell him to shove it where the Holodeck don't shine.

Main Course: What was a lesson you had to learn the hard way?
There are so, so, so many to choose from! Maybe the lesson that one arm that finds itself under a toboggan with three kids on it ends up in a cast for the next six weeks. Or the lesson that says klutzy people on a skateboard shouldn't learn on a driveway unless they enjoy cement burns up and down both legs. Or the lesson about baseball bats and faces.....

Dessert: Describe your idea of the perfect relaxation room
The one that overlooks the ocean.

Say WHAT?

Christmas Elf Name
My Christmas Elf Name is


Get your Christmas Elf Name at JokesUnlimited.com

No, it's not.
Beaker Smickleifigus sounds like a horticultural disease.


My elf name is Herbie.
I want to be a Dentist.

45 x 365 #36: Margaret K.

You are funny, tiny, brave and scared. I know sometimes it's overwhelming, and believe me, I understand. But you learned to take a big breath, sing out, fake it when you can't make it and have a good time. Opera is a lot like life.

One More Time

On Friday I will be singing the role of "The Mother" in the Christmas Opera, Amahl and the Night Visitors. For anyone counting, this will be the fourth time I get to sing high notes, steal gold, and try to sleep on a bench that mysteriously gets narrower with each successive production.

I sang my first Amahl when I was all of sixteen years old. My poor crippled son? My little brother. My recollection was that he was quite good, but in all honesty I cannot remember my performance at all. I suppose it was alright, in a very sixteen-year old kind of way. The three kings were all adults, and I was rather in awe of all of them. Still, I remember they were funny.

My second Amahl was a professional production with singers brought in from throughout the state. I was about 26 years old and sang much better than I did ten years earlier. Although the singers were hot-hot-hot (in a talented, not hubba-hubba kind of way), my recollection was that the orchestra was weak. And by weak, I mean awful. So it goes, though, because finding musicians at Christmastime is on par with finding a decent Mother's Day card to buy ... on Mother's Day. It just doesn't happen, and you are often stuck with whatever you can get.

My third Amahl was about four years ago. This time my little crippled son was sung by TeenTuna, who was TINY back then. I can remember going out to the woods to find tree parts to make a crutch. The artist formerly known as TinyTuna was nothing short of amazing, and memorized the entire opera in one week. And by memorized, I mean she knew all the parts, and wouldn't hesitate to correct you when you were wrong. Her biggest difficulty? Remembering to limp on the same foot. An hour worth of notes, no problem. Physical consistency? Another story.

My fourth Amahl is tomorrow. My crippled son is being sung by a wonderful sixth grade girl from Africa. She is tiny is size but has enormous heart and passion. I've watched her work so hard, and learn and grow and gain in confidence from day to day to day. Although I have to work a little harder to keep my role fresh and interesting and not sing the role on automatic pilot, it's been moving to watch her take her first major musical steps. This role involves A LOT of notes, and that's not an easy task for grownups, much less sixth graders. But the real amazement is watching her take on the character of Amahl, a character who possesses qualities of selflessness and bravery, and always sees the hope and joy in life, even when others would only see despair. This describes my Amahl perfectly. She is an amazing young lady, very brave and full of joy. I'm so very proud of her.

I can't wait for tomorrow.

45 x 365 #35: Bea

All music students feared you and loathed your class. I didn't have to take it because I could already play "Happy Birthday" on the piano with two hands and full chords in every possible key. Was this skill applicable to my career? Not so much.

An Open Letter to the Brethren of the FOCK

Dear Fellow Office Cubical Keepers,

I know I am new to your clan, and the travel to this barren and frankly depressing wasteland has been difficult for me. I come from a kingdom with four walls and a door, and I come from a people who respect peace and privacy, decorum and taste. Your clan lives under the glare of bright grocery store lighting. I come from the land of eternal sunset and ambient lighting for the darkest days. Your world knows no day and no night for there are no windows anywhere nearby. I watched the birds in the trees and the multiple car accidents that happen nearby on the curve. It was good times.

But I am trying to make the transition and make my cubicle a part-time home. I am also trying to get some work done, and herein lies my problem.

I think maybe nobody has let the Brethren of the FOCK in on an important fact: Cubicle walls do not go to the ceiling. Cubicle walls have no doors. And despite their best efforts, cubicles are NOT sound-proof. This isn't the Cone of Silence, people. It is a flimsy wall covered in cheap blue fabric that is maybe six-feet tall. But look at the top of the wall. You'll see several feet of NOT WALL extending from the top of the cube to the ceiling. Combine the NOT WALL with the NOT DOOR and you've got NO PRIVACY.

No matter how badly I want it.

And so, my dear Brethren of the FOCK --

• I don't want to know about your vacation and the hotels where you stayed.
• I don't care to know about the holiday shopping spree your ex made at the local pawn shop.
• I don't need to know about your busted water pump at home,
• or your broken-down car,
• or the donuts,
• or the flowers that you dragged in from home and spent 45 minutes arranging,
• and NO FOR THE LAST TIME I DIDN'T BRING IN THE DELICIOUS PECAN SANDY COOKIES AND NO I DONT KNOW WHO DID.

It's not that I'm anti-social. I say hello and greet my fellow Brethren of the FOCK. But whereas none of these conversations included me -- and I'm entirely fine with that -- I heard every single one of them with shocking clarity, whether I wanted to or not. And believe me, the preference here would have been or not. Don't want to know, don't care to know, don't need to know. Maybe I'm the only one, but I actually have work to do. So please, I'm begging you: keep the details of your life to yourself. Because what I cannot block out with my iPod (which I lovingly call my weapon of mass musical destruction) becomes fair game for the Internets.

And some of that is some FOCKed up fodder.

Thanks lots!
And NO -- I don't want any cheese.

GreenTuna

45 x 365 #34: Hobie

You have many nicknames: tall guy, big guy, big tall guy, but they describe your height, not your heart. You might be plain country folk on the outside, but you can charm all ages with a soft darlin', a cold beer, or a tractor ride.

Diva Dynamics

Today marked the last week of teaching for Fall Semester. Finals are next week, and in the music world that means juries. Juries are our version of final exams, and it's where you sing for your supper, or play for your grade, or pay the piper, depending on which analogy you prefer and how much you've practiced over the past thirteen weeks.

I've dutifully had the jury talk with every new student, laying out step by step what to do and what to expect. I even take the time to present possible alternate scenarios, on the off-chance that a faculty member might want to shake things up a bit. I tell every student "we WANT you to do a good job....we are on YOUR side..." but I'm not sure they believe it sometimes.

One of my new students asked me today, "just how HARD are juries?" I looked at him a bit confused, and asked, "what do you mean by HARD?" I said, "Their degree of difficulty is directly proportional to how much you've worked over the semester." My student nodded his head. "I've just heard all these horror stories about juries and how HARD they are."

I was crushed. Hard? We practically hold their hand and ask if they would like a warm washcloth to make it all better. We want them to succeed. We WILL them to succeed. We're not always successful, but every single time we'd rather see students do well than make a big mess all over the place.

We talked about stage performances, juries and students. I explained right now the stress level was pretty high, what with last week of class and rehearsal/performance-palooza at hand. My student nodded and said he understood, adding, "At this time of year it's pretty stressful, and I heard that if students don't sing well, you YELL."

What?

For the record, I have never raised my voice to these children, and I explained that very fact to the student asking me these questions. I did admit, however, that if a student wasn't working anywhere near their personal level of expectation, I had no problem whatsoever letting them know that and offering very pointed and specific opinions of what needed to be done immediately. But the message was always delivered in a quiet steady voice of doom, not a booming voice of hysteria.

I was a little disappointed that anyone would think I had raised my voice to them, but secretly pleased that my powers of intimidation were not only being noticed, but feared.

THAT is the sign of a true teacher...and a true Diva.

45 x 365 #33: Eric

You are great for an emotional pick-me-up. You're always telling me how awesome my car is, and when it is getting repaired, you never treat me like a dumb female. Who else would play show and tell with my shredded clutch and compliment my artistry?

Point, Countercomic Point

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
I love my daily comics. Some days they greet me with the sidesplitting funny, and other days it's the quiet wry nudge. I even enjoy the horrible comics just to point and laugh at their horribleness. The punch lines that are so unfunny they need to be punched. The dotted paths that meander over the neighborhood and through the house under tables and over sofas on Sunday mornings. See? Stuff like this cracks me up. It's history. It's pop culture. Somewhere in my brain I like to think it is very smart and you might have to know something to get it.



I'm starting to collect more and more online comic sites. Cartoons like this are a little subject-specific, and although I don't live attend the Anglican church in England, I know EXACTLY where this comic is coming from. Thanks, Cartoon Blog.



Click to enlarge

Leave it to an online comic like Cat and Girl to use words like oligarchy, meritocracy and BRATZ and still manage to keep the funny. You'll never see anything like this in Garfield or Beetle Bailey, that's for sure.




I could go on and on about all the comics I follow today, and the great sadness I've had to endure when I've lost a friend (Calvin and Hobbes, and The Far Side, come back!). But comics are a double-edged sword, and some days you have to deal with something like THIS below that drives me over the edge.



I. Don't. Get. It. And not to brag, but with advanced degrees in music and a lifetime spent in the field, for me not to understand Frank and Earnest (which exists on a 1st grade level of humor difficulty), well, it's downright embarrassing.

So tell me...please. What's the joke?

ADD-Tourette's

Have you heard of this disease? I think I may have discovered it. Luckily I don't have it, although I am inflicted with it on a weekly basis. Although it's neither infectious nor deadly, it does contain a high level of irritants that seem to be impossible to eliminate.

Traditionally, ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder) refers to those who have difficulty staying on task and paying attention to other people. However, those displaying symptoms of ADD-Tourette's have difficulty when people do not pay attention to THEM, and attempt to change this by spouting out inappropriate, private, and plain old unwanted pieces of information. This is accomplished by listening to the conversations of others and pouncing on a single word which serves as the pivot point for the incoming TMI bomb. It goes something like this:

Person #1: Last night we watched TV and finished up the cake.
Person #2: Was it good?
Person #1: The TV or the cake?
Person #2: The cake.

ADD-Tourette's: I LOVE CAKE.
ADD-Tourette's: I HAVE IT FOR MY BIRTHDAY.
ADD-Tourette's: MY BIRTHDAY WAS IN MARCH
ADD-Tourette's: I'M COMING UP ON BEING OLD.

Person #1: We're all "coming up" on being old.

ADD-Tourette's: BUT I'M NOT EVEN MENOPAUSAL
Person #1: !!
ADD-Tourette's: MY MOM WASN'T MENOPAUSAL AT MY AGE
Person #2: !?!!?#*!

Persons who suffer from ADD-Tourette's are unaware of the disease and the irritants they spread. They compulsively share far-too-private or far-too-trivial nuggets of information about family members, medical issues, marriages, past relationships, pet poop, cell-phone plans and what they did back in college 30 years ago.

ADD-Tourette's can cause heart attack, stroke, coma or deafness. If none of those work, feign a stove burner left on at home as a final recourse. However, the best plan of action is to find another sufferer of the disease and let the two of them have it. They'll talk for hours and you'll be free from hearing the details of the visit to the Gastroenterologist. If you're very lucky, not only will you gain a bit of peace and quiet, you might also get a piece of cake.

45 x 365 #32: Dr. C.

Five foot nothing and no-nonsense, after two days of labor you asked if I was upset about the cesarean. I told you I had had all the joy possible out of this experience and to GET IT OUT NOW. That was a real bonding moment.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1. Music :: Life

2. Insanity :: Life

3. Curtain :: Raise

4. Nickname :: Greentuna

5. Container :: They always fall on my head

6. Roast :: Beast

7. Thong :: Ehh

8. Purple :: Those Red Hat Ladies

9. Holidays :: Are closer than they appear in the mirror

10. Christmas Tree :: Oh


So, yeah. Obviously right now it's the holiday musical curtain raising insanity we call life. Complete with roast beast and Oh Christmas trees tied down to the tops of cars as if they were an 8-point buck. Containers (Tupperware-esque) like Raindrops keep falling on my head, and if I should ever lose it and go postal, most likely it was because I suffered an aerial attack one too many times by a 2-quart round. I'm not even going to discuss thongs except to say, "Dear World -- I don't want to see yours" and yeah, at lunch today, a large group of purple clad red hat (or red feather headband) wearers came and sat nearby, talking loudly the whole while about how they are NOT senile. OK, then.