If I had a whole lot more time and ambition, my December 31st post would be a long, involved recap of 2008, with links to previous posts and some sort of lovely "thanks for the memories" sort of soundtrack to accompany the bittersweet memories. But, I'm low on time and the ambition meter is on zero, so, in the interim, let's just say that stuff happened, good and bad, and move on.
If I were a typical blogger, I might do a long meme that summarized my year. But believe it or not, I find those things MORE time consuming and anguishing that recapping my year freestyle. "Best moment of 2008?" "Funniest story of 2008?" That requires plowing through the archives, people. I can't even remember what I did yesterday. And then I have to weigh my selections to choose which one was better than the other ones and this entire "pick a favorite" stuff never works for me, so I'm not going to do that either.
If I were like most people, I'd be writing out a list of resolutions and then heading off somewhere to drink myself into a stupor and top off the evening by throwing up in the bushes. But anyone who knows me knows that December is NOT my best resolution time. It's too busy and I'm too tired. As a result my resolutions would be less hopeful self-help gems, and would be more guilt-ridden admissions of hopelessness. So I'm not walking through that landmine. As for drinking and the after-party festivities, 1. I'm getting too old for that nonsense, and, 2. Baby, it's cold outside so it's best to keep what's inside (of me) on the inside.
I prefer to think of New Year's like birthdays: I'm just grateful to make it to the next one. About the only things I know for sure is that this particular new year means a new president and for the next several weeks I'll have a hard time remembering which year to write on checks. So ready or not, here comes 2009. Hold on tight and stay seated until the ride comes to a complete stop. As for me, if I were to stick my toes in the resolution pool, I might try to remember to occasionally let go, put both arms in the air and have some fun.
Today TeenTuna paid an arm and a leg and ventured into Washington DC. We took our lives into our hands drove to BFE the closest Metro Station and headed with the rest of the free world to the National Mall.
We wanted to go to The Sea of Humanity Museum of American History. There was a ridiculously long line to get in the door because we had to pass through metal detectors and have our bags searched. Once inside it was insane insane. There were roped off queues leading to exhibits that we couldn't see. We decided it wasn't worth my sanity the time to wait in line to see the ruby slippers or the inaugural gowns of the first ladies. Even the exhibits we did slow down to a rapid walking speed see were so crowded there wasn't much of an opportunity to read anything or get within spitting distance to care ponder its significance. We topped off the Museum of I'm pretty sure the lines at Cedar Point are shorter than this line to see the Star Spangled Banner American History by escaping going outside and enjoying the beautiful weather.
After that questionably educational experience, we hopped back on the Metro and made our way over to Pentagon City to prop up the economy window shop. The place is freaking huge and what it so freakishly unbelievable is that in this unbelievably huge complex mall which encompasses four stories, there isn't a single bookstore. But we dragged ourselves walked around and found a couple of nice things for TeenTuna, who was both ecstatic non-nonchalantly pleased and appreciative.
Finally we decided to amputate our feet head home because we were like the walking dead tired. We hopped a Metro, made it back to the car and headed home. The last day of a long LONG week away. Tomorrow? Please God, give me a 24-hour break in the weather department Home.
Tomorrow is the big Christmas family gathering, Maryland style. Although we never have perfect attendance, the invitation is open to whomever can make the trek, and honestly we do quite well.
This year our family gathering will span 91 years. The youngest is three years old, and the eldest is 94 years young. Four generations will be represented in one gathering, which is pretty amazing. Because I fall exactly in the middle of the pack, I like to think it gives me an interesting, evenhanded perspective on both ends of the spectrum.
The great grandchildren will be represented by the youngest nephew who is three. He talks non-stop and wants to explore everything. Today he gave me permission to play with him about 2000 times (You may play with me now! You may play with me now!) and faked taking a nap when I was sitting in his room with him so he wouldn't be alone. He still can't tell a knock-knock joke, but has a devious smile and killer-long eyelashes, and I'm oh so glad that I am not the one who has to discipline him.
The other great grandchild is TeenTuna, who is just that: a teenager. A teenager with EVERYTHING that goes with it. She is bright, witty, insightful, thoughtful, funny, sometimes a little too flippant for her own good, a tad bit argumentative (if it makes her feel better, you could say she loves a good debate. ABOUT EVERYTHING) and occasionally downright Satanic. She has a devious smile, a beautiful voice and an infectious laugh, so even when I have to discipline her, I know we'll get past it sooner rather than later, because we all prefer the happy to the angst-filled teenage drama.
The youngest grandchildren are a couple of cousins are in their 20s. They make me feel old only because somehow my mind has them frozen in time as 8-year old kids. One of them is over six feet tall, and I just don't know how that happened. It will be nice to spend some time catching up, because I don't see them often. It's funny. Even though they have their own lives and careers, I will always remember them as skinny, sand-covered boys, surf-fishing in the Atlantic Ocean with their Uncle.
Several of us grandchildren are in the middle of the pack in terms of age. We are the adult parents of the kids, but in all honesty, get us together, and we're kids too. We laugh. We joke. We tease. We goof around. Nothing has changed except that we're allowed to drink a beer while we do it. To the kids, we are the adults. To the adults, we're the kids. To us? Well, I keep waiting to feel like a grownup, but I'm just as happy knowing intellectually that I'm a grownup and leaving it at that. I'd rather joke and laugh tease as long as I possibly can.
The next generation are the children who all look FAR YOUNGER THAN THEIR ACTUAL AGE. To me, they will always be the grownups. They are my parents, aunts and uncles. They taught me to ride bikes, went with me to Disneyland, introduced me to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, lived in exotic places and were the parents...just like my parents.
The matriarch of the gathering is 94 years young. She will look amazing and will be more put together than I could ever hope to be. She may not have much to say, but her life will speak volumes in stories and lives of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We are teachers and builders and nurses and writers and artists. We love the outdoors and swimming and the ocean. We all have devious smiles, wicked senses of humor and a soft soul that loves art, music, good food and lively discussion. We have a tender place in our hearts for kids and animals. And lastly, although we each belong to our own generation, I can say without hesitation that every single adult would be more than happy to sit at the kids table, and every single kid could more than hold their own with the adults.
So to answer the question, how old am I? Anywhere and everywhere between 3 and 93. And how old do I feel? I think the answer is: Just right.
Today has been spent in the company of my three year old nephew. Of course, there have been other people around as well, but when you have a three year old in your presence, everything and everyone else basically flies out the window as you are endlessly entertained by an unintentionally funny mini Shecky Green.
Being three means you have WAY too many words that need to be said IMMEDIATELY and a mouth that just cannot seem to say them fast enough. It's as if there is a huge bottleneck at the point of phonation, so while we wait for all systems to sync up, there are a huge number of "AND.... AND.... AND... AND...." with lots of heavy breathing. Because you know, it's incredibly hard work to get all those thoughts out. It's like driving down the highway in 2nd gear. You'll get there, but boy howdy, you sure have to pedal hard.
One very important thing I learned today was that the magic word isn't what you might think it is. Or should be. The magic word isn't abracadabra. The magic word isn't please. The magic word, is in fact, "Uno Dos." Why? No idea. But this stayed constant throughout the day. Because it amused me no end, I constantly prompted for "the magic word." If things didn't work, it's because he didn't say the magic word. If he wanted something, he had to say the magic word. Uno, Dos. Live it. Love it.
Today I learned three year old are able to identify makes of cars. We were driving down the road, and from the middle of the back seat he yelled, "A CORVETTE! THAT GOES FAST!" Yes it was, and yes it does. Scary.
Now, as I have all sorts of conversations with my nephew, I love to ask open-ended questions that encourage him to take the conversation, well, anywhere he wants it to go. I don't generally ask yes or no questions. I want to hear what he has to say. After the 25 introductory "AND.... AND.... ANDs...." We were in the car today talking about books, and I asked him what were his favorite bedtime books He looked at me quite simply and said, "Why don't we go home and you and I can find out?" TeenTuna informed me I was just schooled by a three year old. Uhhhh, yep.
Other lessons learned today: If you drive too far you get put in a timeout, T-Rex's ate other dinosaurs, hippos live in the water, I wanted to eat one particular container of strawberry yogurt for breakfast, Santa comes when you are asleep, three year olds won't recite the entire pledge of allegiance until you put your hand over your heart (and even then, the word "allegiance" comes out awfully weird), the song "The 12 days of Christmas" is impossible for a three year old to sing, and the explanation for what a patridge was was so bizarre, I cannot even recount it, and last, but perhaps most importantly:
Three year olds repeat every single thing you say, over and over and over again, which, by the by, makes teaching a knock-knock joke an impossibility.
So, whatever you say, you had better make sure it's something good. Otherwise, it's all you'll hear the rest of the day. "Blah. Blah. Blah!"
Today's blog post is brought to you by rain, which was all I saw today, in a variety of formats.
1. Freezing Say no, no, no to Michigan! Oh how fun it is to ride 20 mph on the freeway. On the plus side, driving slowly makes it much easier to count the cars and trucks in the ditch. We ran out of fingers and toes early in that exercise. The final total: one hell of a lot, and thankfully not a single one of them was me.
2. Incessant Thanks Ohio. It just never stopped. Oh, it would slow occasionally, but that was just to take a breath before it started in again.
3. Torrential Just the thing to make the Pennsylvania turnpike more interesting. A three hour downpour on a pitch black highways chock full of construction, UPS trucks that are obviously behind and determined to make up time, and what else was there? Oh yeah. MOUNTAINS.
4. Just around the corner Maryland was a tease. It would be dry and then it would start up again and then dry up once more. By now, I simply was not amused. It stopped for the last half-hour or so, which was pleasant, but wouldn't you know it? It started again just as we were unpacking the car.
What will tomorrow bring? Word has it unseasonably warm weather. Let's just hope there is some dry to go with the warm.
Surprises are a tricky business, especially at Christmas time. But I just love a Christmas surprise that is not only never expected (thus fulfilling the definition of "surprise") but TOTALLY loved. This Christmas it was hard to gauge which present was the biggest, OMG Caps-Lock, Bold, happiest surprise.
It might have been our family gift of a Wii game system.... or it might have been tickets for a Broadway production of Sweeney Todd in Detroit. Both were a wonderful surprise. Maybe the only thing that could have topped it would have been a Wii Sweeney Todd game.
From our house to yours, wishing you a year full of surprises. The redundantly never expected but TOTALLY loved (good) kind.
This is enough to make the Baby Jesus cry. I know times are hard. I know retailers are scrambling. But this doesn't make me sympathetic in the slightest, nor does it make me feel as if I should dash through the snow (currently rain) and plunk down my Christmas money on an After Christmas Sale before Christmas -- and said money -- even arrives. This annoying, laughable and insulting. I could be wrong, but I'm thinking that at noon on December 24th it isn't After Christmas anywhere, unless they somehow meant After Christmas (2007)
Nice try, Sears, but you're not getting my vote for Wiseman of the Year.
For all of you who shopped early so you'd have all sorts of time right about now to bake cookies and drink hot chocolate and celebrate the holidays inside your warm and cozy home, I'd like to say thank you.
On behalf of all of us who starting our shopping on the I've-lost-count-consecutive-number-of-days-it-has-snowed which also happens to be two days before Christmas, I'd like to say thank you. Because of your supreme organization there were fewer cars on the snow-covered roads. Because of your mad skillz at juggling family and calendar, you weren't clogging up various local stores with questions about bookmarks, honey scrubs and wheelbarrows. In other words, because of you, we were able to procrastinate in style like the pros do.
Tomorrow, though, is back to business. There are cookies and more cookies and more cookies and more cookies to bake. Undoubtedly there will be one last frantic dash to the grocery store. Lastly, there will be the late-night pilgrimage to church on an evening so chilly, you wonder why The Baby G couldn't have had better planning and swung something like "Christmas in Miami in June."
But in the meantime, for the shopped and the plain old shopped out -- time to crawl into bed and get warm. It's getting down to the wire, and after all, tomorrow is another day.
If you ever wonder how badly I do NOT want to do something, check and see what I'm doing instead.
If I'm napping -- I probably want to do it, but figure I can do it later, better, and happier with an introductory nap.
If I'm complaining -- I'd rather not do it, but I will feel better once I vent my spleen, and then, somewhat less grumpily I'll get around to doing it.
If I'm online -- I don't want to do it, and I'll use email, CNN news alerts, Weather WE'RE GOING TO DIE notifications and obsessive tidying of the spam folder as excuses. I'll probably get around to it later, if I don't revert to napping or complaining.
If I'm practicing -- This is a sign of something fishy going on. I tend to not practice for anything, so real, live practicing means I have gig. Probably tomorrow. Or later today. Whatever it is, customary singing protocol means there shall be NO other activities, so thankfully I won't have to do whatever it is I really had no intention of doing anyway.
If I'm cleaning -- things are looking grim, and I mean in addition to the house, which often looks grim. Cleaning is the ultimate procrastination activity. The reason is simple: cleaning is always desperately needed, so there is no arguing that it not be as important as the unwanted task at hand. Cleaning can be be done lightning quick or Southern Mississippi in August slow. If you're skilled enough, cleaning will outlast any reasonable window of opportunity for unwanted activities.
If I'm painting -- I've lost the will to outwit the unwanted task. Painting is the "volcano" in rock-paper-scissors and can only be attempted a small number of times over the course of one's lifetime. The good news here is the result of this drastic option is four beautiful walls, which makes the painty-procrastination seem worth it. Of course, it's not, but before I admit to failure, let me take a quick nap.
This past Friday I sang an Episcopalian funeral at my home church. Over the years I've sung lots of Episcopalian services and plenty of funerals. I often handle funerals in a somewhat detached, auto-pilot kind of way, because it is all too easy to get engulfed in the sorrow, making singing a difficult task.
This particular funeral was different in many ways. It was for a member of our church, but she was an 8 o'clock-er, so I didn't particularly know her or see her much. She was also African-American, and this service took its cue from a more traditional black funeral. I was told there was going to be a lot of singing and rocking and rolling and rejoicing, and boy, they weren't kidding. When I got there and grabbed a bulletin, I counted 6 hymns and 4 solos, preludes, postludes, a sermon, several speeches plus communion. To put it bluntly, we were going to be here awhile.
My duties in this particular funeral were pretty easy, really. I only had one hymn as a solo, and that was "How Great Thou Art." I was trying to reconcile this oldy moldy hymn (ok, I'll say it: not my favorite, stuffy, repetitive with lots of those "seasicky" chords) with rocking and rolling and rejoicing, and I wasn't coming up with much. But really, it didn't have to be my favorite. What I had to do was find and share the message given to me by the composer and the poet. All I had to do was love the song for what it was.
The other soloists were family members and they sang in a much more relaxed jazz-influenced Baptist style. In a word, it was fabulous. The piano accompaniment was free-form and done by memory. At the end there was applause mixed in with lots of "Amens!" and "Praise Jesus!" offered by the congregation. Being a life-long Episcopalian, that was hugely different. We'd turn one hundred shades of ecclesiastical purple before we clapped for anything, and, I believe it is the eleventh commandment that proclaims, "Thou shalt not speak out of turn unless so indicated by Bold Italics Only in the currently approved Book of Common Prayer. And then, thou shalt say it all together, for there shall be no speaking in any other rhythms than stodgy corporate Episcopal Prayer." AMEN.
I loosened up "How Great Thou Art" as much as I thought I could get away with, considering my constraints. I -- or rather, the song -- got lots of "Amens!" but I still felt very, very white. Despite the fact that I consider myself a seasoned professional, a small, insecure part of me hoped it was OK, and felt rather honored and humbled to have been included in the musical portion of the service. I wasn't like everybody else in the congregation, but I hoped they would just love me for what I was.
At the end of the speeches given by family and friends, a son got up to speak. It quickly became apparrant that he was consumed with grief and guilt in equal portions. Evidently he had made a promise to his mother that he would be there with her when she passed. And although he, and the rest of the family had been with her nearly constantly, he had left briefly to change his clothes for church...and she passed. The son apologized over and over again to his family and asked them not to shun him, and that he would indeed be there for them. Over and over again he promised.
This was one of those speeches where you weren't sure if you should cover your eyes and ears because this seemed to be a family's private pain, or if you should go and offer consolation. In the midst of my not knowing what to do, a grandson came back up and stood next to the son. He put his arm around him, and let him finish speaking. And then the grandson said, "They say, if you want to make God laugh....just tell him your plans." He continued by saying, "This is not your burden to bear. This was God's plan, and you are a part of that plan. You are living in God's plan. This is NOT your burden to share."
Right then and there I knew I had heard the sermon, and before I could stop to remember what was proper, I found myself saying, "Amen! Amen!" just like everybody else. It occurred to me that what I do with songs, the grandson was doing with people -- he was loving them for who they were, and he was able to find the message and share it with everyone.
At the end of this very long traditional black service, the final musical number was a piano solo version of "Oh Happy Day" that was played while the final sentences were spoken. I admit when I saw that choice in the bulletin, my eyes got very large in a very disapproving "REALLY??" kind of way. But after listening to all the songs, reading the tributes and witnessing the love that came pouring out from family members across several generations, it suddenly seemed so appropriate. At every funeral we hear, "All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia" but in all honestly that never really happens because grief makes it seem both inappropriate and impossible.
This time, we actually did it. Funerals are a hard, tough, emotionally draining thing. But this one was different. This funeral was loved for what it was. It wasn't just an afternoon of grief and loss. It was the celebration of a life lived and the hope of joy to come. In the end, I think we were all better for it. I know I was. And what else can you say to that, except Oh, Happy Day.
When I was in college, I took my first art history course. I remember trudging halfway across campus to get there, only to discover that class was to be held in a very large, very old auditorium. When it started, the professor turned down the lights and we watched slide after slide on the big screen as we took notes in the dark.
I kept my notes for this first class, partly out of nostalgia, and partly out of sheer hysteria. Because the class was held in the dark, day after day of notes looked the same: legible and cohesive at the top, somewhat messy and nonsensical in the middle, and then, like lemmings to the sea, whatever scrawlings are left, they start running off the lines as if they were jumping into the sea. The reason for this, of course, was that I was starting to doze off in the dark, warm room.
This past month, On more than one occasion, I've sat at my computer trying desperately to type, but nearly asleep while I do so. Although my computer doesn't emulate words morphing into scrawl and heading south down the page, what it does do is record my conscious, semi-conscious, and nearly comatose state. Even in the privacy of my own home, there is nothing more embarrassing than reading through what I thought was a series of profound thoughts and discovering they are a combination of original thoughts, a mosh of whatever is on TV, and upcoming dream topics. Lately, the delete key has been my trusted friend.
I'm not sure why I've been so incredibly tired every time to sit down to write, except to say that I'm just that. I'm just really, really, really, really, really, really tired. But, just like my art history class, I love it here, so I'll continue to hunker down, snuggle up and sit down to write...even if large chunks more closely resemble an episode of The Twilight Zone.
Today was a day of firsts and lasts. Some noteables included:
1. The first snow day for TeenTuna. Yes, we were a part of the "midwest YOU'RE GOING TO DIE" mess, also known as, "hey, it's December and it's going to snow." Considering where we live and what month it is in the year, none of this should be a big surprise, but no big surprise equals NO DRAMA, and in the life of a 14 year old, it's Dramady Central (as opposed to Dramidary Central, which is Camel TV) all day, every day.
2. Being the first snow day, it was also the first day of firing up the snow blower after a long summer's nap. There is nothing harder than coaxing a pull-rope piece of equipment back into existence, and it was a fun time this morning, you betcha. Oh, and for the record, we didn't die. Not even a tiny bit.
3. Because it was the first snow day, falling conveniently on a Friday in December, you had to guess that it was also the Last Day of School before Christmas break. I don't want to give away trade secrets, but I had heard lots of rumors from several different school districts that they had already decided the day before that they were going to cancel school today. That's all fine and good, but for a kid who had a HUGE social studies paper due today, it would have been so much better if the schedule change would have been announced the night before so we wouldn't have had to play the "School or No School" board game.
4. Tomorrow is my neice's birthday celebration. In order to have some sort of functioning living space where people could come over and not burst into laughter, we decided that tonight would begin the first night of "Massive Living Room Purge, 2008. Where's it all going to go? Magic 8-Ball says answer unclear so I'll just have to figure it out on my own. I'm thinking things don't look too good for the basement...
5. Finally, tomorrow marks the last weekend before Christmas. Don't ask. Please. Just. Don't. Ask.
When TeenTuna told me she wanted to join the high school fencing team, I believe my first reaction was, "the WHAT?" It's not as if I have never heard of fencing. But I WENT to that same high school, and there sure wasn't a fencing anything -- be it swords of stolen goods -- back in the day. Her coach is the retired coach of the MSU Fencing Team. The WHAT? I went to that school too, and who knew they had a fencing team?
My knowledge of fencing is limited to Daffy Duck cartoons, late night ESPN watching, early episodes of ABC Wide World of Sports (in between agony-of-defeat ski jumping trials) and a movie or two. So in order to soothe the family disease of "having to know" I started trolling online for equipment sites, information, etc. I still don't know much, but feel as if I've learned all sorts of interesting things.
After mentioning our new fencing escapades a few days back, I was surprised to learn that several readers were themselves, fencers. WHAT? I mean other people do this? WHO KNEW? It's a secret fencing underground, known only to other secret fencers. I find it both baffling and wonderful that somehow I have discovered this new little subsection of humanity that participate in something nobody else would really imagine. Fencers. Swords. EnGarde and all that stuff. It's fabulous!
It reminds me of when I got involved in another rather retro activity: spinning. Spinning as in spinning wheel. Spinning as in turning wads of wool into yarn. As sure enough, as I started to get interested in spinning I discovered there were entire pockets of society who were spinners as well. Here I was thinking I was doing this really rather odd, old fashioned, Sleeping Beauty kind of thing, and I find out the mother of an elementary school classmate has three spinning wheels. And goes to spinning guild gatherings. But not the original gathering -- the NEW gathering because the original gathering became a bunch of not nice people, so there was a rift and the splinter group formed their own sub secret society. SERIOUSLY. So the sub secret society, which I seemed to have stumbled across also attends spinning and wool festivals. With their spinning wheels. Plural. Because if you only have one, you're a real rookie. Seriously. Who knew?
My friend assures me it was like that when her son started Ice Skating. The super secret ice skating underground was strong and deep, with skating moms freezing their axels off every morning at 5am. And there was drama. And intreague. And, considering we all know the whole "whack your opponent in the knee" drama, this particular underground is intense and filled with drama, to say the least.
I'm constantly wondering what other secret underground groups might there be? Midnight sports league? Scrabble tournament? Juggling? The options are only as limited as my imagination. So I'm keeping my eyes and ears open to new activities and new possibilities. You never know which tunnel of the Underground I'll discover next.
Fencing. What a classic. It's even better than Synchronized swimming. And wouldn't you know it, there is a huge underground array of gel-haired uber-lunged swimmers who love nothing better than to put on the costume and swim and dance upside-down underwater for 5-minutes a stretch. How do I know? Yeah. I was a member of that secret society as well. Who knew?
I'm cold and tired and tired and cold. It's been an eventful day, but none of it is worth recounting, unless you like to read things like, "and then I went to Target!" which is impossible to make interesting. Plus, for the record...I didn't go to Target.
Luckily for me, I can solve cold and tired and tired and cold in one fell swoop (Right after I look up the origins of "one fell swoop" because, if you think about it...it's a really weird phrase. Shakespeare; Shakespeare and not-Shakespeare) I am going to crawl into bed sweatshirt socks and all and bury myself in blankets. There won't be any sugarplums, but there will be visions of things that need to be done in the next 7 days, tempered by nightmares of the HUGE snowstorm slated to hit us tomorrow night. And yes, I'd be scared, except this is Michigan, and this is the way it's SUPPOSED to be.
I'm not ignoring you, Internet. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't even get past one crossword puzzle tonight. The brain, she is dead. But I'm sure tomorrow will be better. In the meantime, please don't freak out. It's not you. It's me.
This Christmas I have noticed a definite decline in the number of "lit" houses. I didn't really know why (I haven't exactly made a scientific habit of observing holiday displays in the wild) but I was chalking it up to the economy, as opposed to the weather. The upshot of all this was that up the road at The Clampetts, it was lights out rather than Christmas in Vegas.
Alas, it was too good to be true. When I got home tonight there was enormous blow-up Santa on the lawn next to a giant candy cane, a sled, a number of other electronic doodads and rows upon rows of multicolored lights on every conceivable horizontal household surface. So much for calm and bright. I hope the astronauts in the International Space Station enjoy the show. Maybe tomorrow night they'll try landing a couple of planes in between the 8 reindeer.
You should just admit it. You went out to the local farm. You took your adorable children, packed them onto a horse-drawn sleigh and rode through the tree farm until you found the perfect tree. You sawed it down and brought it out of the woods, with the horse hooves clip-clip-clopping and the sleigh bells jingling. When you were finished your cheeks were ruddy and you warmed yourselves with hot chocolate. When you came home, you decorated your tree with beautiful ornaments, and strung popcorn and holly berries.
You should just admit it. Your presents have been carefully selected, purchased and wrapped in lovely holiday paper. There are bows and curly-cue ribbons and a smartly placed gift tag on each one. They are all ready to be placed under the tree on Christmas morning.
You should just admit it. Your holiday meal is planned. You have stocked up on flour, sugar and sugar sprinkles in every color under the rainbow. Your recipes have been chosen, and you have special, decorative holiday tins for each handcrafted gift from your kitchen.
OK, then.
I'll admit it. I have a tree. I got it last night in a last second "better do it now before the weather becomes unmanageable." I drove out to the lot (buy a tree, send a kid to camp) and picked one in record time, which was approximately 4 minutes, 35 seconds. I brought it home but left it in the trunk while I prepared the home...which I did by picking up piles of stuff and piling it up somewhere else. I grabbed the old Christmas tree stand because I couldn't find the new Christmas tree stand. I dragged the tree in the house, plopped it in the stand and found some cardboard to wedge under the foot so the tree would stand up straight.
I'll admit it. My holiday isn't picture perfect. Norman Rockwell wouldn't look at my house for any sort of inspiration. So far there are no presents, wrapped or unwrapped. There are no holiday goodies to be found. But I have a tree in a corner. There may not be any lights or decorations on it yet, but I see it as an blank canvas; an invitation. It's not just a sad, plain tree, it's the hope and promise for beauty to come. And that speaks more of the season than anything else.
At it is the holiday season, the time has come for the musical monkeys -- namely the entire Tuna clan -- to be gigging here, there and everywhere. Between the three of us, tomorrow is a five-performance Sunday. Today was slightly easier because it was only a two-rehearsal day.
The second rehearsal was a bit of a trial, as it involved singers and dancers and actors and jazz hands and ever-changing scripts. As the rehearsal was nearing the two-hour mark (and my patience was well-past the four-beer mark to make it better) we only had one set of lines and a company bow left. The lines were easy enough: I was to say, "Merry Christmas to All" and Miss Jazz Hands was supposed to say, "And to all a Good Night" and then the entire company of dancers was to shout "Goodnight!" Easy, right? Problem was, dancing Santa wasn't clear on the concept, and he kept saying my "Merry Christmas to All" line. After stopping for the umpteenth time to correct Mr. Claus, the director looked at me and asked me if I know what I was going to say.
Losing the all-important ability to censor myself, I answered way too loudly, "Yeah. STUFF IT, SANTA!"
Although the entire company -- directors and all -- doubled over with laughter, I probably went a bit too far. But let me tell you, even if my little outburst earns me a stocking full of coal, it will have been totally worth it.
Today TeenTuna got all her fencing equipment. This includes plastic chest plate, heavy white tunic shirt, glove (one), helmet and sword. Her sword is a sabre (not an épée, for all you crossword puzzle lovers) and just cool as hell. She came home tonight after her concert and donned her gay apparrel, as it were. Although from the waist up, she was 100% fencing worthy, from the waist down she was sporting black concert dress socks and bright blue and pink polka-dotted fleece pajama pants. It was as if Superman was unclear on the concept and wore he big "S" shirt, a cape and a suit coat and dorky glasses. The helmet and sabre were the best, though, because she totally looked like a Beekeeper with serious anger management issues.
Another semester has come to an end, and I spent my last day listening to all my students sing for their supper, as it were. "Juries" are the musical version of a final, and after a semester of preparation, each student performs a portion of the pieces they have studied and theoretically learned. I have to be honest and say that as a student, juries never bothered me at all. My philosophy was that they provided me with a captive audience, and that was a very good thing. I know, however, that juries for many students are a terrifying experience, so I try to have a bit of compassion and sympathy for the students.
One of my real sticking points has little to do with singing and much to do with looks. I ask, beg, threaten and require that all students LOOK like singers. LOOK like performers. LOOK like professional musicians. In the olden days (she said, dating herself) it used to be easy. All I needed to say was, "church clothes" and students would come tastefully attired. Nowadays "church clothes" ranges from fancy-party-wear to fence-painting-wear, so that won't work.
Lately, I've tried to be more specific, explaining that dresses need not be as formal as...well, as a formal, and yes, pants are OK, provided they are dress pants with a dress shirt or sweater on top. This semester students did pretty well overall, with a few notable exceptions.
Herbie doesn't want to make toys. Neither does Schubert. - One student walked in with a short short red dress (body-hugging skirt and top, actually) and a pair of knee-high white Go-Go boots with white fur trim. She looked fabulous. If she were a Rockette. It was very difficult to concentrate on the beautiful German Lieder she was singing when all I wondered was if she was going to sing about the Island of Misfit toys.
One of these things is not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. Leggings because it's cold. Well, ok, I guess, because you're young and kicky. Acceptable top. Check. Four inch platform sandals with bare feet in 15-degree weather. SERIOUSLY?
Two of these things are not like the other - Appropriate skirt. Check. OK, leggings again? I suppose. Check. Acceptable top. Check. UGGS winter boots. Pass-a-rooni. There are a reason these things are called UGGS. It's because they are. They're UGG.
Goodnight Maw, Goodnight Paw, Goodnight Mary-Ellen - I was most pleased to see my gentlemen singers in shirts and ties, and sometimes a full suit. It's fairly apparent, however, that this is not usual garb, because I was pretty sure at one point, I saw the ghost of my Grandpa walk across the stage wearing armpit-high belted pants.
Only a flesh wound - Only in college do you break your foot and limp on stage wearing one stilletto and carrying the other one in your hand and then proceed to cram the shoe on your broken foot because you just got the shoes and they look great on you.
London and France - No, I didn't see any underpants, but I did see everything else. One lovely dress? Cut down to Florida and slit up to New York City. Sleeveless. In winter. bare legs and sky-high WIGGLY TOED sandals. Yes, my comment sheet did include a listing of what is a necessary singers uniform, including boring but necessary plain pumps and a stylish but modest (and comfortable) dress with sleeves.
Am I being picky? Maybe. But better me than a total stranger. Am I being unreasonable? Not in the slightest. Graduate schools and potential employers are all going to make decisions that consciously or subconsciously take clothing into consideration. The more blatantly a nose is thumbed at the notion of wearing appropriate clothing for the appropriate occasion, the more that same nose opens itself up to criticism that has nothing to do with singing.
So the rule of thumb is, before you sing your first note, to put your best foot forward. Just be sure there aren't any wiggly toes hanging out at the end.
There is something to the notion of a long winter's nap. It's been so cold and damp lately, it seems impossible to get warm. If I had a fireplace, I'd throw the Yule log on, and anything else laying around that might provide heat, including (but not limited to) errant elves and Reindeer poop. This is a strange feeling for me (the being cold part, not the elf incineration part), because I tend to be the one who is always hot and looking for a window to open. Lately, though, I'm just the opposite. I'm chilled and I can't get warm, so I walk around in pajamas that are layered with sweatshirts and finish off the look with enormous fuzzy socks. It's times like this that I wish my cats were a little more social and snuggly of their own accord, because they don't like it very much when I rubber-band them to my body, and I get tired of dousing myself in tuna and catnip just to entice a warm, purring fuzzbucket to take a long winter's nap next to my shivering self.
I fight against the onslaught of peer pressure that wants trendy but impractical clothes that wears flip flops in December that thinks midnight movies on a school night is a good idea
I fight against the onslaught of teenage emotions Unnecessary yet consuming drama Poor manners Disrespect and rudeness towards others
I fight against the onslaught of advertisement that encourages purchases made on a whim that makes you feel inadequate if you don't have it and superior if you do that tricks you into believing you never have enough
I fight against the onslaught of technology cellphones for young children gaming systems of every size and shape imaginable. televisions instead of books and sore thumbs instead of sharp minds
I fight against the onslaught of bad taste food served through a window music that hurts your ears and troubles your soul movies without a plot
I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.
I get up and fight every single day because I refuse to concede these battles. My child is worth fighting for.
I get up and fight every single day because there is no tag team. There is no hand off, and my role must be "bad cop" every single time.
I get up and fight every day because although I am not intent on winning every battle, I am determined to face them and fight them with consistency. How and when they end will be my decision and only on my terms.
I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.
Although it seems my constant refrain is "No" I hope that someday she'll understand. And as indescribably difficult and exhausting these battles may be I know my child is worth it. And that more than anything else gives me the strength to fight another day.
As I continue to reassemble my bedroom (post-painting), I'm hoping somehow to eke out some space for one final, but very important thing. I really, really, really want a nook. Now, my bedroom is so small, this particular nook isn't going to be anything more than one empty corner where I could put a small comfy chair. But that, in and of itself would be perfection.
A nook would give me a place to read. What's wrong with reading in bed? Nothing, except I can't keep my eyes open. What's wrong with reading in the living room? It's too TVish, so that doesn't work. What about the basement? Don't even go there. What about the throne room? First of all, porcelain does not a nook make, and there are definite time limitations before body parts fall asleep and walking becomes extremely difficult.
A nook would also give me a place to do needlework or knit, grab a quick nap, or make a list that I'll never complete. A nook whispers, "grab a blanket and come snuggle for awhile." A nook is quiet. A nook is peaceful. A nook is a grownup tree house without the ants and the splinters.
I used to work in an office with four walls. It was less a nook and more a fortress, filled with potentially deadly piles of work ready to crush you without warning. When I moved to my Dilbert cubicle, the first thing I did was make my area a nook. I positioned my desk and chair in such a way that I am snuggled up in a corner as far from the entrance as possible. If I could put on slippers and wrap myself up in a blanket it would make it all the better, but even without those luxuries, I've made it as cozy as institutional office furniture allows.
Some people love wide open spaces with minimal furniture. Maybe a hard chair or two, and a sofa that isn't much more than an overstuffed bench with spindly legs. While I appreciate the sleek lines and the airy feeling, to me it comes off as cold. There is no place to curl up, and even a pillow or blanket would seem out of place.
So as I put things back in my room, I'm going to work hard for my nook. If I give myself the gift of a special place to be, maybe I can give myself the gift of a little time to be there. Unheard of? Maybe. Heavenly? Hopefully. Worth the trouble? Absolutely.
One year ago - I was crazy busy (lazy) a did a first-sentence-of-the-month meme.
Two years ago - I was crazy busy (lazy) and did a Friday's Feast meme.
Three years ago - I wrote on the temporary permanence of music.
Four years ago - In my world, if I'm not writing about Mince Pie, I'm writing about the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (6 minutes, 14 seconds). Oh, and Google. And Amazon. I don't consider myself shallow. Just consistent.
Five years ago - The mailman delivered the weirdest Christmas gift ever. Who knows? I still may have those Swiss Colony Butt Wipes around here somewhere.
Things I could write about, but have no answers to:
Why one cat demands to share my people food every night while the other one couldn't be bothered.
Why I have so much junk mail.
Why they called shoe trees when all they are are cheap, ill-fitting metal contraptions that scratch up my bedroom door.
Why I'm always freezing at home but boiling at work.
Why I cannot find anything I'm looking for in my house, but always find things in stores when I have no money.
Why the price of newspapers keep going up, but the content keeps shrinking.
Why the new Facebook layout really doesn't bother me, yet makes so many others downright furious.
Why Mondays are always so hard, when in reality, Saturdays and Sundays aren't exactly days of rest, either.
Why college courses were forever ago, but college friends were just yesterday.
Why Herbie didn't want to make toys, but wanted to be a dentist.
Why I will always sing "Hark, Herald the Angel sings" instead of "Hark, the herald angels sing" and always think I'm being funny.
Why pandas make me smile, and bats make me panic.
Why life often just seems to be one big lonely sock.
Why putting the iPod on "shuffle" is the equivalent of playing the musical lottery.
Why I never, ever play the lottery until the prize becomes obscenely huge. Evidently my plan is to wait until the odds are really, really, really, REALLY bad before I care to join in.
Why I can never remember the twelve days of Christmas song when it gets higher than 9.
Why I don't get, don't appreciate, or plain old don't care about vampires.
Why I'm falling asleep at my computer desk and I'm not in bed.
At least I can solve that last one. Goodnight.
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One year ago - I sang my fourth "Amahl and the Night Visitors" opera. Each performance and "Amahl" has been personal and special in its own way. This one was no different.
Two years ago - I bemoaned the educational flavor of the day, known as "Connective Math"
Three Years ago - TinyTuna sends me an email and regales me with stories of injuries at school, and rants that nothing rhymes with "Chromium".
Four years ago - I took a commercial break and whined about a few prime examples. Little did I know the Gastrointestinal Macarena was just around the corner.
Five years ago - I was hoping TinyTuna wouldn't get creative in church when answering questions about Advent during the sermon.
I'm hoping this is my one Scrooge entry for the year, because I'm telling you, it's days like this when I'm ready for it all to be over, for it to be mid-January, and for me to have nothing better to complain about than no more work holidays until May.
The holidays are hard on lots of people for lots of reasons, but for musicians, December is tough. There are way too many concerts, way WAY too many rehearsals and way WAY WAY not enough not enough minutes and hours and days for all the regular holiday insanity, not to mention the day-to-day trivialities of oh, a JOB and BILLS and HOUSEWORK and WHY DONT I GO TO THE STORE AND BUY SOME MORE DISHES AND SOCKS BECAUSE LORD KNOWS NOTHING I HAVE IS CLEAN. So, please don't ask me about Christmas shopping, or baking, or a TREE or a shrub or anything else that is supposed to be assembled, decorated and on display. It hasn't happened. I'm seriously considering piling up all the detritus in the living room and tossing some tinsel on it and calling it good. Baby Jee would understand, and the cats would love it. The teenager, most likely, would complain loudly and dramatically, but since that's all she does these days, I'm already living it.
And here's my dilemma -- I know that I'm lucky to have a talent that I can share with others. I know that special events afford me that opportunity. I am humbled beyond words to be asked to perform. I really and truly am. And despite my complaining, I enjoy it. I really do. I am grateful for the opportunities, even if it sounds like all I want to do right now is crawl in a hole. But like many things, a musician's life is feast or famine, and although famine sucks, even feast gets tiring when you're shoving figgy pudding down your gullet all day, every day, you know?
But, I'm not just here to complain about life onstage. No! When I am Queen of everything, my first order of business would be to teach people how to behave in an audience. GONE! would be the crinkly wrapped snacks. GONE! would be the loud loud loud out of synch foot tapping. GONE! would be the cellphones. GONE! would be the ridiculously loud talking in the middle of a performance. GONE! would be the inappropriate concert attire. GONE! would be people who find it necessary to crawl over 45 people so they can leave two minutes earlier than everyone else (in mid-piece) so they won't get stuck in traffic. GONE! would be latecomers. GONE! would be the lovers of musk deoderant and cheap perfume.
And that's just off the top of my head.
I'm sure hoping that tomorrow when I wake up, my holiday humbug will be gone. Today was full of kerfluffle, and tomorrow represents a clean start. Here's to hoping that life calms down just enough so I can breathe deeply, look around me and be grateful for the right things.
Like that big pile of living room mess and that new box of tinsel. If that doesn't scream Christmas, I don't know-ho-ho what does.
The day after Thanksgiving has traditionally been known as Black Friday -- the day businesses sell enough merchandise to become profitable. Some shoppers love it and others hate it, but I'm always amused by those who make the biggest deal out of the whole day...by yelling about how they aren't going to buy anything. For the record: I marked the occasion by painting my bedroom.
The StoryCorps organization has also made a push to make the day after Thanksgiving The National Day of Listening. The idea was profoundly simple: Spend one hour talking to someone and listening to their story. It could be a family member, a neighbor, a friend, or someone in your community. The thought is, by listening to others, we become less isolated and more interconnected. Stories allow us to learn more about who we are as a people, and preserving them let the memories, and people attached to them, live on forever. It's a very cool idea.
Judging by the thousands upon thousands of stories this project has collected thus far, it seems everyone is ready, able, and willing to jump in front of the nearest microphone and start spilling the goods. For the rest of us, this is great. But if I asked anyone in my family (not counting the nephew, because as dear as he is, the world isn't ready for armpit-noise stories, and not counting the teenager whose daily refrain is YOU'RE NOT BLOGGING ABOUT THIS!) to tell me a story about themselves, their first response would be a Mince Pie Face. Their second response would be a loud "WHAT?" Their third response would be a very confused, "Why?" And the final blow would be a conversation halting, "Oh, I really don't have anything interesting to say."
Now I'm not here to diss my family, so let me explain. Why do I think this? Because I would do exactly the same thing. Stories on demand aren't easy for everybody, but I don't consider it a defect, it's just the way some people are, and being a pretty accepting person, I think it's alright. But it doesn't mean there aren't stories waiting to be told. Wherever there are people and life and living, there are stories. Lots of them. The trick is, you just have to learn listen all the time, in all sorts of ways.
My paternal Grandfather has been gone for many years, but I know some of his stories by things he did. He used to make small wooden replicas of things: table and chairs, china cabinet, a two-seater outhouse. There were no patterns or kits. He just made them, and they were beautiful. I still have a small grand piano that he made, and although he can't tell me stories about the piano, I listen to him ... I hear him and his story as I hold it in my hands.
Sometimes stories are told unawares. A drive through an old neighborhood. A picture. An old song. A favorite recipe. These ordinary prompts wake up our memories and shake them loose. If you're listening, you'll hear it, and be very, very lucky, because sometimes the unimportant stories are the best stories of all.
Today marks the first day of Holidailies. This is my fifth year of writing for this project, and as I look over list of participants, I recognize some old favorites, and look forward to discovering some new favorites as well. When I started writing back in 2003, it wasn't a conscious effort to begin recording my every waking thought for the entire world. I had a nine-year old, which meant I had automatic story fodder too good to forget. Over the years I've shared the funny, the heartbreaking, the isane as well as the inane. If you sat me down and demanded I tell you a story, I'd tell you I have nothing to say, but it seems this blog says otherwise. It's been my side-kick, my wailing wall, my psychiatrist and my thinking out loud place. For my daughter, my family and my friends and all of you who visit regularly or who just might be passing by, consider it an open gift. The stories -- the good, the bad and the ugly -- will always be there whenever you want them.
Just for the listening.
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One year ago -- I was having difficulty adjusting my new life in Cube hell. One year later? It's just as noisy down here as ever, but I CAN tell you everybody's current medication, political leanings, and vacation plans.
Two years ago -- I was bemoaning my upcoming Christmas gigs in Haiku. Considering what I'm facing this weekend, it's just about time to crank out another set.
Three years ago -- I was thinking up excuses as to why I didn't write a 30-day novel. Even my excuse was late. No posts.
Four years ago -- I was getting ready to sing a gig in YooperLand. Hey guess what? I'll be back up there again in April, 2009.
Five Years ago -- I was bemoaning the fact that I have horrible timing. Five years later, I'm here to report nothing has changed.
Over the past few weeks and months, my lovable, wonderful, reliable, magnificent car (I never EVER speak poorly of my lovable, wonderful, reliable, magnificent car because it predates TeenTuna)
has been getting progressively louder, and dare I say embarassing to drive in public (only embarrassing because other, less-enlightened people wouldn't be able to look (listen?) past the noise to see the wonderfulness)
I finally took it in to the shop this morning to get it fixed (praying to the patron Saint of cheap car repairs all the way)
before a law enforcement officer with a fix-it-ticket forced my hand. (please refer to less-enlightened people, above)
I dropped it off and explained that it was noisy (which was an understatement)
and had progressed in decibel level from old lawnmower to cranky snow blower. (coincidentally, both made by Toro!)
I explained that while I needed to get it fixed before it reached low-flying jumbo jet (hey! wouldn't it be cool if cars had tray tables?)
it was old and didn't need anything fancy-pants. (because my car is practically perfect in every way RIGHT NOW!)
He explained exhaust work was exhaust work (it must be exhausting! BaDUMPbump!!)
and would cost the same no matter how old my car was. (DON'T SAY "OLD" OUT LOUD!)
The phone rang a little later at work (rut roh!)
And I was told Christmas came early (I panicked.....for WHOM???)
and it was just a disconnected gasket and some broken bolts (Halleluia!)
and it would be ready just about immediately. (Seriously? Good news from an automotive repair shop? Just doesn't happen. EVER)
and it was. (it was)
and I was set back a whopping $54. (sahWEEEEET!)
Thank the lord. And the Patron Saint of Cars (Guess that must be St. Otto.....right?) ... ... ... (just think about it)
It's the last week of class in the collegiate world, so I have two more teaching days before finals. Although the days are long -- NOBODY is sick the last week of school, even if they're sick -- this is one of my favorite weeks. This week each student does a full run-through of all their repertoire, so I get to talk a lot less and listen a lot more.
There's nothing better than being serenaded by a diverse sampling of voices, composers and poets. From English folksong to German lieder, French Melodie to Italian arias, I love them all. It can be Broadway or Jazz, Opera or Oratorio, Secular or Sacred. The genre doesn't matter to me, because I find that every poet had something to say, every lyricist had a character to develop, and every composer has a melody line that allows a thought to soar over the spoken word, a rhythmic structure that gives life and movement to the text, and a harmonic structure that brings color to each underlying emotion. The trick for the singer, of course, is to find all these gems that hide in plain sight on the printed page. Part of my job as a teacher is to help each student in their own personal discovery of interpretation.
I don't like to TELL a student what a song is about, or how they should interpret every single syllable and note in a song. It's not that I can't -- I can, and often do -- but I prefer to let them struggle for awhile and think about it for themselves, so they can arrive at their interpretation, not mine. While I sometimes point them in the general direction if they seem to be floundering, I prefer to let them come to their own conclusions. When they do, it's a great AHA! moment.
As a teacher, AHA! moments are what I strive for. To riff the Rolling Stones, I don't get no satisfaction in cramming a bunch of facts into students, even if they successfully recite them on command. Regurgitation isn't education. I want them to have AHA! moments -- moments of personal discovery.
Next week all my students will sing for me for a part of their final grade. As much as I care that the songs are memorized, notes and rhythms are correct, and proper vocal technique is demonstrated, I'm much more excited to hear what they have discovered. It's one thing to have an AHA! moment; it's quite another thing to open yourself up and share it with others. But when it happens, it's nothing short of magical.
And then all that's left to say is, "Encore!" Teaching accomplished.
Old timers (and those who watch TVland and other classic/retro programs) remember the theme song from Gilligan's Island. It was a tricky little tune, because it had two endings, and you had to know if it was an early episode or a late episode in order to get the ending right.
The later version of the theme song rattled off the entire cast, so the line "The professor and MaryAnn" was included. The earlier version, however, just ended with "and the rest" forever condemning the nerd with his coconut radio-phone and the island's cutest pie maker to a life of obscurity. For those of you dying to be in the know, there is an explanation concerning the change of lyrics here -- but honestly, I'm not going to research this, so you'll have to either believe it or chalk it up to normal Internet nonsense. Either way, I'm good with it.
At the moment I'm surrounded by and the rest, and not at all in a good way. This and the rest arises out of necessity, because it would be an impossible task to try to name all the leftover things that have found themselves homeless. So I have and the rest piles EVERYWHERE. Sadly, I'm not going to have many options here as time goes on. I'll either have to go through it and make a decision to keep, to toss or to donate, or, I'll have to buy a couple of flamethrowers and arm the cats for the afternoon. Sadly, since they are lacking opposable thumbs that idea isn't going to work out too well, and I'm back to having to go through it all bit by bit.
This is the downside to cleaning and renovation. Once a space is cleared, the real temptation is to fill it all back up again as soon as possible, as if the most important thing in this world is to equalize the negative clutter pressure that formed during the cleaning. I'm trying very, very hard NOT to fall into that trap. Besides, when is it enough? I think it many areas of personal aquisition, I'm not only there, I'm well stocked into the next century.
This plan for this winter is the purge of 2009. That way (hopefully) when I'm done, I won't be surrounded and suffocated by and the rest . It will be hard making choices of what to keep and what to pass along, but it's time. It's past time. I just wonder if the professor could build me a coconut-powered flamethrower to give me a bit of a helping hand.
