I was sitting at my desk this morning in a full-on Friday stupor when I got the message. Soprano sick. Messiah tomorrow night. Can you do it? Even with my caffeine barely registering, I woke up. Quickly. Can I do it? Check the calendar. No direct conflicts, so technically, yes. However, the logistics required for the next 36 hours would be Herculean.
Have to pick up the kid from College. Bad.
But college is 20 minutes away from dress rehearsal. Good.
Have Broadway tickets for Saturday afternoon. Bad Bad.
Arranged to leave dress rehearsal early to make the show. Good Good.
Should have at least an hour to spare to make the concert after the show after the dress rehearsal. Good.
So, all systems are a go. Ran home, found (yet another) Messiah score, pulled myself together, grabbed the kid from college, grabbed some dinner, made it to rehearsal, and all was well. In fact, all was very, very good. Good players, good singers, good music happening. It's why musicians do what we do. We live to make music, and we want nothing more than to share it with others. It's a force so powerful, we are willing to sacrifice, except it's not a sacrifice at all. It's what we do.
So tonight I'm in baby-the-singer mode. That means no midnight blog posts. It means everything has to be organized, accounted for, and ready to go. My gown is set, my gig bag is packed. My music and folder are prepared. I have my written instructions, my GPS to help me find the venue, a fully charged cell phone, pencils, tissue, cough drops and aspirin. Tomorrow I'll take ridiculous care to consider when and what I eat. Lay off the dairy. Not too much caffeine. Nothing terribly heavy or saucy or gloppy or sugary. But make not mistake: none of this is a hardship. It's simply what is done. I look forward to traveling to a new place, meeting new friends and making amazing music.
If you ever wonder about the old chestnut it's better to give than to receive" I can tell you as an artist, while the gifts we are given are a blessing, the ability to share those gifts is what sustains us all. So, Rejoice, Greatly! Tomorrow, that's exactly what I plan to do.
This is my confession: I used to cheat at Battleship.
Battleship was the game where you positioned several plastic ships on a grid, hidden from the view of your opponent. You then would call out grid locations (B-3!), and if one of your ships was on that location it was a "hit". If not, it was a "miss". Hits (red) and misses (white) were recorded on a second grid so you would know what *not* to ask the next time. My ingenious strategy was to record ALL guesses. My guesses would be marked on the second grid, but my opponents guesses were marked on the first grid where my ships lived. The cheat came in that my fleet always happened to be, well... mobile. If my ship was on B-3, well... it just moved somewhere else. Since I was recording the guesses of my opponent on my ship grid, I knew which spaces were open so my cheat would go undetected. And, to defend something as silly as my amazing moving ships, there was nothing in the rules that said you couldn't. It just assumed once they were placed, they were anchored for the remainder of the game. I simply didn't make the same assumption.
Another cheat-possible game was Monopoly, but only if you were the banker. If you were sly or able to distract your opponents, it was possible to palm a few extra hundreds when you were running low. But to be honest, actually completing an entire game of Monopoly happened NEVER because we always got too bored to finish. So, extra money or not, it never really mattered.
I abandoned my cheating way with board games early, because... I stopped being six and seven and eight years old, and there didn't seem to be a point to it. There was no lasting satisfaction in always winning. It's nice to win. It's OK to lose. As always, it was just a game, and the whole point of the fun was to play and hang out with friends or family. Besides, you cannot help but laugh when you get sent back to Plumpy in Candyland for the 3rd or 8th or 12th time in the same game. Sure, it's annoying, and you'll probably lose, but hey, Plumpy needs a friend too.
1. Don't be fooled by the smiles.
If you're stuck here, you're in the back of the pack, Jack.
2. I always thought his name was "Plumy" (Plum-ee), not "Plumpy".
Sorry Plumpster, you shall always be Plumy to me.
Competition, sportsmanship and fair play are lofty ideals and worthy attributes when it's convenient. We toss around all sorts of sayings (winners never cheat and cheaters never win) to demonstrate how upstanding we are, and when cheaters are found out, they are impeached or stripped of their victories, or banned for life. We don't take kindly to cheaters when they are the other guy.
In an ideal world, we are all better when we begin a sporting event, a prizewinning competition, an academic exercise, a game of chance, or a philosophical debate on equal footing following the same rules. That ideal works out just fine, until we're hit, and then the rules become fluid and our moral ships become mobile. We cork a bat, we sabotage a competitor, we steal answers, we palm fake money. We win our debates by not allowing the opposition to speak.
Today my state government realized it was hit and the rules became fluid very, very quickly. It started shoving bills through as quickly as it could, and it accomplished this, in no small part, due to the fact that they locked the doors of the Capitol. No debate. No dissent. No opportunity to discuss or consider any viewpoints other than their own. And make no mistake -- this is not a question of being on the opposing side of the issue. It's a question about being allowed to have a side and then participate in the process. There should always be the opportunity to listen, discuss and debate. We are stronger when we are all given the opportunity to agree or disagree and express those opinions. But that didn't happen. Not in my state. Not today.
Today, anybody who wished to be a part of the process, to play the game on equal footing, or to present a viewpoint and engage in thoughtful discussion was unceremoniously shoved all the way back to Plumy. It was back to the back of the pack, Jack, and by the looks of things, nobody is going to be moving forward any time soon. If this were a board game, it might be funny. But it's no game. Meanwhile, the ships continue to be on the move, skirting the rules and avoiding the hits, just as long as they are able.
The Atrocious State of Spelling and Grammar on the Internet
Why I've Never Seen A Single Episode of Downton Abbey
Internet Trolls
Politics
Lost Socks
Cats
Inflatable Christmas Decorations, or, Why is Santa in a Snowglobe?
Skype - Or, How to Look Like a Murderer In One Easy Step
Haiku Poetry. Creativity Abounds. Counting is a Must.
I'm Trying to Like Doctor Who like the other cool kids, but So Far the Jury of me is Bored.
No, I Still Haven't Seen **Insert Name of Movie Here**
Why Is the Ghost of Christmas Future a Skeleton? Isn't a skeleton the representation of something that is past? Like, Really, Really, Really, Really, Really Past?
As Much as "Hoarders" makes me feel good about my house, it's not enough to compensate for how utterly sad and creepy gross it is. I Can't Watch.
Wacky-Tacky Nativity Scenes -- What's Not to Love?
Teaching is Exhausting Awesomeness
Whoever Invented the Cubicle is a very, very bad man.
I'll let you have "God is Good" but you'll never convince me that God answered your prayer for a good parking space. Even God has priorities.
How many more days until **something that happens later** ?
Waiting
Three Wise Men
Fifty Dumb Men
If Frozen Yogurt battled Gelato in a cage match, who would win?
Considering everything that was happening last year at this time, it's a wonder I'm still here.
What does a Christmas List and War and Peace have in common? I haven't started either one.
I don't like Miracle on 34th Street or It's a Wonderful Life. Do I need a Holly Jolly transfusion?
Charlie Brown Christmas will always and forever be the best. Rudolph runs a close second.
Is there a book club for people who can't get past page 3 before falling asleep?
Can I tell you how insanely happy I am that my only child is no longer a child?
Sure, there are times when I'm just bummed that she is off having the college experience (which in her case involves class, homework, indentured servitude to the music building practice room, complaining about food, and taking the occasional trip to the football or hockey game), because the house is understandably quieter without her.
But oh, let me count the benefits.
Growing up, as she passed the many milestones of childhood, adolescence and the teenage years, I had a camera in one hand and a imaginary glass of champagne in the other. Never once did I experience tear-stained nostalgia for loss of diapers or formula. Like the Israelites freed from their bondage in Egypt, I celebrated the day we walk out of the nightmare daycare #1. However, just as the Israelites were soon running for their lives from Pharoah and the boys, I quickly discovered the nightmare that was daycare #2 was exponentially worse than the first. Daycare #3 was the answer to my prayers, and the day she entered Kindergarten, it was as if I had finally entered the land of milk and honey cookies.
Over the years there have been countless other celebrations of never again. No more school pictures. NO MORE HOMEWORK. No more standardized tests. No more tri-fold pamphlets, power point presentations or group projects that always seemed to involve way too many people and one video camera. No more elementary school music class recorder presentations (one was MORE than enough). No more dances, No more proms. NO MORE PARENT TEACHER CONFERENCES THANK THE LORD AND SAVIOR. They were all important (or perceived to be important) at the time, but over the last several months I have found myself taking a mental roll call of all the things that are absent this year.
To be fair, life after college isn't all skittles and beer. Many activities I thought I had drunk into the "done" column managed to return, albeit in a different form. Group projects continue to rear their ugly heads (but without me, so that's a plus), and the scourge that was parent-teacher conferences was quickly replaced by the scourge that was freshman parent/student orientation. Somehow, I suppose in the end it all evens out.
But looking back on it all, sweeter than knowing certain tasks were forever done has been knowing that we managed to dodge the bullet on some fads altogether. And nothing, NOTHING in this world makes me happier than knowing I never had to deal with
THIS
For the uninitiated, this is the dreaded "Elf on the Shelf" who is nothing more than a holiday snitch. A tattletale. An enforcer. A narc. By day this creepy crappy hunk of plastic is the ultimate voyeur, and by night, it's the elfish equivalent of TMZ crossed with the National Enquirer -- reporting all the scandalous activities to Santa. The purpose of the Elf is to make the child behave during the holiday season, but my question is, where are the parents? Why does behavior and manners suddenly fall under the jurisdiction of this sideways glancing stool pigeon that has a 31 day shelf life? If there was ever an inanimate object that deserved "you're not the boss of me" hurled at it by an indignant preschooler, this is it.
Even if I -- God forbid -- still had a young child, there is no way I would ever cede this kind of power to a doll. The day an adult isn't adult enough to actively parent a child -- day in and day out, for better or for worse -- is the day the parent has lost control in power struggle. After all, if the elf has to do the dirty work to make a child behave, what recourse will a parent have when their toddler is now a teenager asking for the keys to the car? Elf on the dashboard?
Thank you, no. As far as I'm concerned, the Elf can go to shelf.
There are days when nothing extraordinary happens. No unusual stories to tell. No humorous anecdotes. No great lessons learned. No hardships overcome or obstacles encountered. It was a day, like many others, where I got up, I went to work, and I came home. Unremarkable and forgettable.
On days like today I could complain about my boredom and the utter Monday-ness of my Monday. The gray, dreary weather, and the last week of college classes. I'm weary of the national news cycle that has been fixated on the "fiscal cliff" for what seems like an eternity, and I'm fed up with politics of every flavor.
I could whine. I could complain. I could make up something better so my day appears to have some meat on its bones. But why do that? Why is it so hard to be content with the unremarkable and ordinary? Why does "just another day" feel like a failure?
There are lots and lots of people who would give anything to have an unremarkable and ordinary day. A day without fear and hardships and problems. Without illness or sadness or loss or grief. A day where going to work or to college would be a privilege instead of a punishment, and a cause of celebration rather than a source of obligation.
It's difficult to maintain a healthy sense of appreciation and perspective when you're wandering in the desert of tedium impatiently waiting for something better to come along. So as monotonous Monday slips into Tuesday, I'll not wish for a better day for myself. Excitement will come soon enough. Instead I'll wish for an unremarkable, predictable, ordinary day for all those who would wish for nothing more.
Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in a common activity: killing time until rehearsal was over. GramTuna and I were in Broncoland, and after visiting our usual haunts, we decided to go exploring. This morning we were looking for something specific, namely, the church TeenTuna has been attending since she's been here at college. We figured we'd find it, poke our heads in the door for five minutes, make a bunch of snap judgements, and leave.
After navigating the maze of one-way-streets that surround "Church Square" and driving past every other religious structure in the city, we finally fished our Episcopalian wish on the corner and found the right one. It was a bit of a lucky find because we hadn't been given much to go on. All I knew was "It's old. It's small. It's quaint." Not for nothing, but the wise men got better directions from a star.
With the five-minute plan firmly in place, we headed for a door and went inside, only to be met immediately by another set of doors which were locked. So much for stealth surveillance. Time to charm the gatekeeper, also known as the church secretary.
I began babbling in the hopes of gaining access. "Daughter in college.... sings here.... has made this her college church home... seems to really like it.... we just wanted to poke our head in and look for a minute and leave... don't want to be a bother..." Before I finished we were ushered inside and now I had to start my babbling all over again with sweater guy. Sweater guy who also happened to be The Priest in Charge.
I began my babbling all over again, but what I really wanted to say was , "No offense, but I really don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to look around and leave." Of course, I kept all that in my head, but to tell the truth, even if I said that, I don't think Father Sweater Guy would honor that request, because before we could say Christopher Wren, we were taken on a personal tour of every nook and cranny.
I had heard the church described as old, small and quaint.
I found it to be solid, warm and lively.
I assumed it would be just another building filled with stained glass, candles and flowers.
It had all those things, and they were indeed beautiful.
But it was anything but JUST another building.
It was alive. It was filled with the joy that comes not only from sustaining the people within, but especially serving the people on the other side of the stained glass. There was a celebration of laughter and artwork and stories and good deeds. And despite an introduction to their hibernating bat (religious affiliation unknown) there was an undeniably infectious excitement for all the possibilities of what comes next and what more they could do.
As I left the building it was hard to know if I was more surprised or grateful for what had just happened. On just another day we found just another building filled with stained glass and candles and flowers that happened to be where my singing daughter spent just another Sunday singing. It was just a chance encounter with just another person who spoke with love, conviction and unashamed joy that changed my perspective on just about everything.
It was just another Saturday that was anything but just.
There is no surprise and no mystery to that statement. Ready or not (usually not), it's THE SEASON. Actually, right now it's lots of seasons. According to the calendar it's still fall, although it has always seemed strange for it to be fall AND the month of December. Compounding the confusion is the fact that it is so warm up here in the mitten right now, it feels more like early spring than late fall. In the month of December. If there was a Druid nearby it might be easier to get an official ruling, but in the meantime you can henge your bets and safely say it's some sort of season, meteorologically speaking.
Yes, I've already made up a word and resorted to a Druid joke. It's going to be a long month.
December is a month of competing interests and conflicting priorities. Is it Silent Night or Rudolf? Is it the season of giving or the season getting what your neighbor missed during the 3 AM Super Doorbuster Blowout? Is it stocking the food bank or stockpiling the food? Is it "the little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay" or "Hey! Good Lord....Jesus...still asleep?"
The answer is yes. It's every one of those things. It could be. It might be. Or maybe it might not be. Maybe it's not all of those things. Maybe it's not even any of those things.
What December is is formed by countless activities influenced by society, tradition, religion, and seasonal consumerism, to name a few. But what December could be is infinite. This year, instead of swearing an impossible vow of abstinence from everything that is December, I'm hoping for a peaceful coexistence and a better balance between what is and what could be.
Many years have taught me that what December is is shopping and concerts and commitments and an abundance of stress I am far too skilled at heaping on myself. But there has to be more. The world is filled with mysteries and surprises and wonders and miracles. But mysteries can be quiet and easy to miss. Surprises are scary and best to be avoided. Wonders live in strange, faraway lands, and miracles are fragile things, easily drowned in a wave of skepticism.
So this year, while I live the incredibly busy, insane December that is, I hope to discover the quiet mind, the brave heart and the adventurous spirit that will lead to a December of new possibilities. I don't expect a complete life overhaul at the end of thirty-one days, but I'm going to set aside my skepticism. After all, despite being fragile, miracles do happen.
I am thankful for the here and now. For sun and sky. Quiet instead of chaos. Chores that don't seem a burden. Family warm and comfortable as familiar stories, favorite sweaters, and pets napping in the November sun.
I am thankful for the people in this present place. For pilgrims that journey to reconnect and reaffirm the importance of being a friend, sustaining a family, building a community. For all those who rise to the challenge of being a verb in this world, not just today, not just this weekend, but in daily affirmation.
I am thankful for traditions honored, newly created and mercifully ignored. For parades and football and turkey and stuffing. For hamburger Thanksgivings. For naps before and after. For pie, cheesecake, mousse and ice cream. For adult tables and kid tables. For folding chairs. For empty couches. For paper plates. For Grandmother's china.
I am thankful for photographs, stories, twitters, posts and statuses that mark this time. For those we laugh about today, cringe at tomorrow, and count among our most prized possessions years from now. Silent witnesses to the whos and whats and wheres of the day. Able to speak only if we tell the stories.
I am thankful for today, grateful for yesterday, and hopeful for tomorrow. For chapters written, a story in progress, and blank pages of endless possibilities. For gathering friends around me more precious than gold. For knowing where to turn in a storm. For a family that loves to live and laugh and live some more. For unsolicited advice and unconditional love.
For love, for family, for traditions and stories.
For yesterday, today and tomorrow.
For seeing and being and sustaining and building and honoring and sharing.
It started innocently enough when I read this afternoon tweet:
Do you have 60 seconds? Then you have all the time in the world
to create one of these DIY centerpieces
Oh boyOh boy Oh boy.
Now, I understand that a pictorial like this (I cannot in good faith call it an "article") from my crifty, crafty, handy, dandy 60-seconds-to-spare friends at Real Simple magazine is supposed to be uplifting and encouraging. My response to this is supposed to be either "Wow! Of course I have 60 spare seconds to make this beautiful centerpiece" or "Well, even though my strongpoint isn't home decorative arts and I still have nightmares about my high school ceramics class, if YOU say I can do it AND it's on the Internet, then surely it must be true!"
Unsurprisingly, their enthusiasm was entirely lost on me, because instead of inspiration, I took one look at that tweet and felt a one-two punch of guilt ganged up with a double-dog-dare-NOT-to-have-60-measley-seconds-to-make-this. So, half curious, half annoyed and filled to the brim with delicious sarcasm, I thought, for your sake, I would go take a look.
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?
60 Second All The Time In The World DIY Centerpiece Number 1
Their title: "Natural"
My title: "Leaves and Crap"
I am fairly certain I can beat the 60-second clock on this one, if you ignore the "tip" that says "Make sure the stems aren't all the same length. The arrangement should mimic the natural, free-flowing form of the leaves
themselves." Now, I have neither the time nor the inclination to measure the stems of dead foliage (and how could you with the clock running?) but if you stand outside in 50 mph winds, the leaves will magically come right at to you, natural and free-flowing, ready or not. Real Simple tells me to use a galvanized tub or any opaque container that hides the stems. I can only assume that a neon orange Home Depot "Homer" Bucket or Yellow Kitty Litter pail counts.
60 Second All The Time In The World DIY Centerpiece Number 2
Their title: "Glowing"
My title: "FIRE!"
The good news here is that I have large stashes of candles. The bad news here is that they are in my basement, and that factoid alone is going to put some serious hurt into the 60-second rule. The tips says, " Make sure no candles of the same height sit side by side." I have to say, Real Simple is REAL PICKY about how big and tall things are and are not. Even if I DO find the candles in my basement (and honestly, I think Jesus has better things to do than help me on this one), how will I ever get them arranged in a shallow platter, tray, bowl, or pan with no candles of the same height sitting side by side in under sixty seconds? And what about lighting all these suckers? Sixty seconds is unfair expectations here, Real Simple. Way to make me feel like a slacker.
60 Second All The Time In The World DIY Centerpieces Numbers 3 and 4
Their titles: "Sunlit" (above) and "Fruitful" (below)
My title: "WHATEVER"(both)
Already I've saved time by crafting a one-title-fits-all for these arrangements of kitchen crap. The tip for "Sunlit" teaches me "Juxtaposing large, smooth, shiny objects (lemons) with smaller, textured ones (nuts) creates a compelling composition." "Fruitful" implores me to use fruit with similar hues and "any white bowl with a sensuous line."
Among my many, many problems here: Although I may or may not have a lemon at home, I know I don't have twelve. Hazelnuts are a no-go, and sadly I've used up all my leaves and crap in an earlier arrangement. I could juxtapose large, smooth, shiny sticks of butter with smaller, textured hot and spicy peanuts, but I'm not sure how compelling it would be. As for the bottom centerpiece, I'm totally at a loss. Do fruits have their colors done? Bowls with a sensuous line? All mine are rated G. Would a decidedly non-sensual Peter Rabbit cereal bowl filled with fruity pebbles suffice? Could I have a 60-second therapy session if I fail?
60 Second All The Time In The World DIY Centerpiece Number 5
Their title: "Bountiful"
My title: "No way in hell am I buying 8-dozen carnations at $7.99 a pop"
Deficit (n.) - Inadequacy or insufficiency - A deficiency or impairment in mental or physical functioning. - An unfavorable condition or position; a disadvantage
- The amount by which a sum of money falls short of the required amount
Welcome to my world. I would say that I am queen of this kingdom and ruler over all, but ruling anything or anybody requires far too much time and effort. So whether you're just visiting or here for the long haul, you're on your own.
I really began living life in the deficit during college. I wasn't planning for it to last long, but a full schedule of classes combined with multiple part-time jobs (not to mention additional gigs whenever I could get them) quickly proved that life in the deficit was the new norm. My days were filled with early morning practice, classes and work. My nights were a round-robin of work (different work) rehearsals or concerts. Weekends were a mixed bag of any and all of the above. If it sounds insane, let me assure you, it was. But somehow between the sleep deprivation, the exams, the research papers, the drop-the-needle cram sessions (a reference few will understand), the lessons and incessant criticisms that are part-and-parcel of a performing arts education, the midnight work shifts that seemed to last an eternity and the unseemingly unanswerable question when will this madness end? there was a great deal of happiness. There was music. There was singing. There was art. There was learning. There was acing that drop-the-needle final exam. There was embracing the criticism and hammering away at the technique to finally achieve a breakthrough. And there was an unlimited supply of free popcorn as we waited for Bruce Willis to triumph yet again in Die Hard as Beethoven's 9th Symphony blasted moviegoers out of their seats into the night. The days and weeks and months were like burning a candle at both ends with a flamethrower. It was life in the deficit, and still, it was good.
Time marched on, and eventually a wedding, a baby and a divorce were added to the the mix. I traded research papers and exams for diapers and day care. I added jobs and subtracted jobs, but never made enormous gains in either the sleep or financial department. There was always enough to get by, but sometimes not by much. It was a difficult and worrisome time, and somehow it seemed busier than ever. There were problems with day care, toddler germs, and a preschooler that came with an encyclopedia's worth of challenges but no instruction book. We dealt with the elementary school bullying, a scarily advanced sense of music, and life with a too-smart-for-her-own-good pint-sized drama queen who, early on, possessed an astonishing lack of coping skills, thus requiring us to hold daily briefings outlining "the plan" lest we risk total meltdown. And despite it all, there was a great deal of happiness. There was music. There was singing. There was art. There was learning. There were bedtime stories that became 4-year old impromptu operatic extravaganzas. There were car rides with the same ten books on permanent rotation. There were made-up songs with 97 verses...that rhymed. There were living room recreations of Riverdance -- complete with a grand running entrance from the bedroom -- and evening performances of 'The Bottle Dance' from Fiddler on the Roof done in footy-pajamas. There were days I didn't think I could do it, much less be everything to everybody. It was life in the deficit, and somehow, with family and friends by my side, it was still good.
And now here we are. We survived the trial of fire known as elementary school, middle school and high school. We survived first dates, homecomings and proms. We managed to come out (not entirely unscathed, but still fighting) with college acceptances in hand, a graduation cap on our head, and excitement for the future. My life in the deficit is as it ever was: too many jobs, not enough money, and never enough sleep. I've also managed to discover some new fun worries that have joined my old favorites. And believe me, it's still insane. There are days I think I won't be able to do it. But thirty years after I did the academically inspired deficit tango, I am now able to watch my daughter embrace college with more excitement and joy and dedication than I ever thought possible. Because for her there is music. And singing. And art. And learning. And embracing criticism and hammering away at technique. There are victories, and yes, there are setbacks. But week after week, instead of backing away from life in the deficit, it's as if she's recognized all the opportunities placed in front of her and all she can do is grin that slightly wicked grin and say, "Let's do that AGAIN!"
So when you ask us how we are, most likely we'll tell you we're tired. We're overstretched. We're anxiously awaiting a true day (or more!) to rest and regroup. We know we do too much. We know just how tired we are. But know that underneath all that exhaustion, you can be assured that we are grateful for the joys we have had and the opportunities we've been given. It's not just life, it's a good life. Even when it's life in the deficit.
It's been an extremely grueling election cycle and in its aftermath some are celebrating and others are mourning. Unfortunately, an end to the election hasn't translated into an end to the arguments. Today I have absolutely nothing profound to offer. It just isn't the day. Instead, I'll offer up a small but impassioned plea for the entire country to breathe deeply, take a bath and go to bed early. Here are some animal pictures that might make you smile. Maybe tomorrow we could all go out for ice cream.
In my family there has always been one consistent barometer of happiness: singing. When I was little I would sing everywhere at all times. From patriotic serenades in the bathroom which I do NOT remember (without proof I'd like to chalk this up to family lore of the lying liars variety, except I don't think my mother would do such a thing) to my non-stop sibling-infuriating vocals during our frequent car trips to Detroit, singing was my thing. Unsurprisingly, my daughter has always been the same. If she was singing, she was happy. If she was humming, she was happy. If she wasn't, something was wrong. Her singing was and still is a wonderful affirmation of her happiness. No need to ask.
Even as adults today, both of us still cling to music like an emotional lifeboat. When things go wrong, I might fire up Act II of Tosca -- because nobody was having a worse day than Tosca. When things are going great, it's not unusual to hear Spongebob Squarepants howling, "It's the best day EVER!!" I allow it because I know it makes someone happy to annoy me with the vocal stylings of Mr. Pants. And besides, who am I to argue when it's the best day EVER!?
Yesterday a couple of people asked me what story I might tell first. I know I promised a slew of juicy tales, but today, as everyone knows, there is only one story, and it is going to play out through the day and well into the night. If we're lucky, we'll know the ending Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. If we're unlucky, we're not going to be partying like it's 1999. More like, we're going to be litigating like it's 2000.
Like so many others, I am tired of this story. I'm tired of the bickering, the misrepresentations, and the outright vile tone. If it was a book I would have put it down a long time ago. As it is already, I don't answer my phone or my front door, toss 90% of my mail sight-unseen, and watch very little TV. For a story that is supposed to engage the entire country in thoughtful discussion, it has managed to turn me into an distrustful hermit. Rip Van Winkle and a 20-year nap sounds pretty good to me right about now.
This is not to say, however, that I don't have an opinion on how this story should end. I most definitely do. I care greatly what happens and who gets to hold the picture book for the next four years. I did my research and cast my ballot thoughtfully and hopefully for what I consider to be the best future for me, my family, my friends, my gender, my community, and my country. And no, I'm not going to tell you how I voted.
As wonderfully open as our vast, messy, imperfect world of communication is, it has turned conversation into accusation and opinion into dogma. It has turned respectful philosophical disagreements into acrimonious ravings. The art of debate has long since been chipped away by sound bites and is now fueled by money and a dangerous desire for power at the expense and disenfranchisement of many. Our great open electronic landscape has given great power to those who wish to hide, allowing misinformation and hatred to be hurled across the Internet by anonymous, vitriolic drones. This isn't the oral tradition I wanted passed down to the next generation. This isn't the story I want to be a part of. I don't even like the font.
If you knew me, or met me, I'd be happy to share my views and listen to yours. I'm not only appreciative, but proud of those who have shared their thoughts calmly, honestly and rationally, without name-calling or rancor. It's a wonderful trait that should be not only admired, but embraced immediately. I like to think that if it was, we'd all feel so much better. I know I would.
In the meantime, I'll be spending the majority of my day in my emotional lifeboat. I'm going to surround myself with music and art and beauty. I'm going teach and listen to my students sing of triumph and sorrow, of beauty, truth and joy. I'm going to help them weave fantastic musical tales. And then I'll drive home and sing my own songs of hope, love and angels.
It had occurred to me several times over the years that 2012 was going to be a caps lock, leaned-over boldBIG BIG YEAR with two major events, namely, a senior year in High School and a 50th birthday. I knew it would be a year of stories fueled by drama and filled with heartache, the thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat. And that was just the birthday part. Sure enough, 2012 did not disappoint. It was everything I expected and so much more. This past year gave me enough writing material for an army of bloggers. And life in 2012 wasn't just run-of-the-mill stories. 2012 was more like a Homeric epic, with Act I (High School) combining with Act II (College) to form some new layer of Dante's hell. Needless to say, it was a crazy, busy time.
But there was no drama here. Not on this page. Here, to quote Elmer Fudd, it has been "vewwy vewwy quiet". There has been no retelling of the epic sagas, no heartwarming tales, no humorous takes on the life of an 18 year old and no woeful half-century laments . There hasn't even been a single bad joke, witty haiku, surreptitiously stolen Internet bauble or humorous picture. Poor Abraham Lincoln has been sitting here since December 15, 2011 wondering if it was something he said.
What happened, and what I failed to factor into the whole notion of sharing the epic stories of 2012, was that I was very busy living those stories. At the end of the day it wasn't possible to separate myself from life and examine what had been, what was now, or what might be next. I didn't know the morals to the stories because the stories were ongoing, continuously unfolding one on top of the next. It simply wasn't the time for meaningful commentary. I didn't know what yet to say because I was too busy being a part of the story.
I was too busy being.
Today, as more and more people share more and more everything across more and more platforms, it seems odd and almost a little out of place to be quiet. I'm okay with that. I've missed the writing, and my poor page has seem pretty neglected and sad over the past year. But I would have been sadder if I had neglected the most epic part of 2012. Being There. Being present. Living it.
And now, I have some stories to tell.
Thanks for waiting.
The Internet is a funny, funny place. Part information clearinghouse, part social hub, part criminal breeding ground, part miraculous source of all that is good and part colossal time-waster, there is something in the tubes of the Internet for everybody. In fact, when Churchill was talking about riddles wrapped in mysteries inside enigmas, was he truly referring to Russia? Or the web? Best to check Wikipedia.
Ah, Wikipedia. Wikipedia is either an all-knowing oracle, or a main reason for the decline of the entire educational system in our country, depending on whether you are the provider or receiver of said research. In truth it's a bit of both. It's fine if you need to check a concrete, established fact (Lincoln was the president of which country?) but the problem is, you have to know if the information you seek is factual, research-based, or speculative. Odds are, if you knew all of that, you probably already knew which country elected Lincoln to be their president.
Wikipedia, like so many other things, is a handy stop in the quest for basic drive-through information, and there is nothing wrong with it, provided that additional stops are made to verify your information. And that's the problem. We're too often a one-stop-shopper, and assume that what we read is factually accurate, no matter the source. And it isn't just Wikipedia. From print media to televised media to electronic media, everything should be questioned, but often is not. We're increasingly becoming a society all too willing to grab a pitchfork first and ask questions later. Or never. I used to joke that "if it's on the Internet, it MUST be true." Nowadays it's not a joke, and it's really, really not funny.
It's one thing to be skeptical of factoids, news items and political ramblings. In fact, I think it's healthy to ask questions and do your own research. But what about literature? It's disheartening to invest time and emotion and interest (not to mention money) into works that are peddled as true stories, and end up, months if not years later, to be nothing more than a million little pieces of half-truths served with three cups of tea. I simply don't understand the logic. A well-written story is a well-written story. Why would a classification of fiction make it second-rate?
The problem, I would guess, lies with the four horsemen money, power, greed and notoriety. It's a powerful draw to be a superlative, whether it is being first, the most controversial, the most sentimental or the most prolific. Somewhere in that race we're losing the most precious gift of all: we're losing ourselves. The more we stretch the truth and embellish the facts, the more we become like everyone else: jockeying for position and attention, truth be damned. And that's really too bad, because an honest slice-of-life piece can be just as compelling as a work of fiction. But anymore, no matter what I read, I'm going to smile and nod and doubt.
If you walked into my house, you would never know that Christmas is only 11 days away. There is no tree, no presents (wrapped or unwrapped), no cards and no cookies. There are some stockings, not hung by the chimney with care, but rather piled on the couch (CLEAN!) waited to be matched, folded and
put away. The only Christmas music you'll hear is from television commercials, but you won't even hear that because nobody is watching television either. If we're home at all, we're either sleeping, practicing, or doing some form of school-related work.
Right now, there is no Christmas in our house. There is December, but no Christmas.
December is a crazy month. There have been rehearsals for something and usually more than one something every single day. And I'm not cheating by counting classroom rehearsals. There have been ten performances with six more pending. There have been auditions, applications and essays. December has been late nights early mornings blanketed with a thick coat of stress.
With stories of elves, holiday baking, parties, decorations, and other festivities, my lot in life sounds a bit sad and depressing. Surprisingly though, it isn't. I will freely admit that we are all stretched, and the word tired doesn't even come close. But it is with the smallest amount of pride that I tell you we're all hanging in there. Some days it's better than others, but we've circled the familial wagons. We have pulled together to execute complex schedules and transports that would make the military weep. We have made certain we have the correct music, instrument, book, assignment, supporting document, permission slip, fee, gift, clothing, performance attire, contributing money or snack that is required.
But most important of all is that we, as a family have been there for each other. If there is an event, we, and many of our wonderful friends, have attended to support whomever is performing and enjoy the offering. If there was an obligation, we fulfilled it. And when one of us is down, overwhelmed, or frazzled to the point of despair, someone else has been there to lend a hand, a sympathetic ear, or a well-needed hug.
There may be no tree or twinkling lights or decorations or presents in our house right now, but there is something even more valuable. There is patience, support and love in the form of family and friends.
Truth be told, I can't think of a better Christmas present.
It's nights like this
when I've put on another sweater
and my feet are cold even with socks
that I remember hot July evenings.
The fan humming steadily above me.
The windows open a bit in the hopes that a breeze
might lose its way in the dark summer night
and land in my bedroom
before it chases after something else.
It's nights like this
when I crawl into bed
disturbing comforters and blankets alike.
Layer after layer like an archeological dig.
Until finally I reach the center and I am the core.
One by one I return the blankets and comforters.
Stretching and smoothing each layer.
Adding warmth and weight
to my feet still cold even with socks
and my sweater on top of sweater.
How long until warmth swaddles me like a baby?
How long until I open the window at night, wishing for a lost breeze?
How long until the fan lulls me to sleep
humm humm humming above me
welcoming me back from the cold of December.
From nights just like this.
The holidays are a festive time.
I'm cranky and stressed.
The holidays give us a reason to join together and celebrate.
I want nothing more than a very long uninterrupted sleep.
The holidays give us opportunities to play, sing and listen to special seasonal songs.
I crave a silent night of the non-musical variety.
The holiday season is beautiful with colorful Christmas lights that sparkle in the freshly fallen snow.
Snow is pretty, but not when you have to commute. As for Christmas lights, a hearty bah-humbug to all.
I'm not anti-Christmas or Hannukah or Kwanzaa or any other festive holiday that happens around this time.
I like the thought of festive days, and celebrating and singing together, but when it comes to holidays, it seems I am always about sixteen months behind. So let me take this moment to wish you a very happy Labor Day (2010)
Generally speaking, I try not to get too terribly upset at my lack of preparedness. But every now and again I wish my life would align with a stereotypical greeting card filled with sleighs and horses and snow-covered picket fences and a small house in the distance where people are undoubtedly singing, dancing and enjoying their time spent together, right down to the last perfect chestnut roasting on an open fire.
Despite its appeal, I am not at all anxious to hurl myself into a mystical, magical landscape courtesy of Thomas Kinkade. I'd miss that touch of crazy that whispers, "this is your life." I'd miss sharing music, from a rousing chorus of O Come, All Ye Faithful, to an inspiring Oh, Holy Night, to a spin around the room with Rudolf, Frosty and Santa, Baby. I'd even miss the struggle to find a calm, quiet peace in myself and my life because even that journey -- as difficult as it is -- is a part of who I am now and who I'd like to be.
Maybe it's not so much a matter of doing it wrong.
Maybe it's becoming aware of the many ways I can do it better.
I spent a lot of time tonight talking about goats. It was that sort of day. There were a large number of them and to say that they were unruly would have been an understatement of ginormous proportion. But as it is with goats, it's best to learn their ways -- no, not become one -- but seemingly integrate into their society on an as-needs basis. It's simply easier to go with the flow that way. The goat flow.
Word to the wise -- Do NOT Google flowing goats.
I told you NOT TO.
In an effort to be thankful, I will admit that I am very thankful these goats don't appear to know or at least aren't sharing any traditional songs of December. That isn't a case of thank goodness for small favors. I think it was Elton John who sang Someone saved your life tonight....Toes Magotes!
As you can tell. I'm delirious. Let's pretend it's deliriously happy,or deliriously in love, or deliriously delirious. Getting Tuesday out of the way was struggle enough. Wednesday is looking like a formidable opponent.
In Christmas nativity scenes, you see Mary, Joseph, some shepherds, three wise men and a variety of animals. Last, but never least, is a sleeping baby Jesus. Christmas, it seems, is a season of sleep and rest. Even many Christmas Carols follow a similar theme: Sleep in heavenly peace ... asleep in the hay ... Dormi Jesu ... O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie. Why is it then, in this season of calm, quiet holiday slumbering, we are at our busiest?
During these precious few days between Thanksgiving and Christmas, everybody is bustling, which is the polite, somewhat antiquated word meaning RUNNING AROUND LIKE CRAZY PEOPLE TRYING TO FIND A PLACE TO PARK AND THEN ATTACKING YOUR FELLOW HOLIDAY SHOPPER WITH PEPPER SPRAY. Bustling. I lasted exactly 30 minutes in a mall yesterday before I had to leave or go insane. I followed that with a trip to a bookstore, which is always my go-to activity when I'm overwhelmed. Spending time in a bookstore is like being with my people. That idea was short-lived as well, as my people were overrun by other people, and suddenly my haven of literature was overrun by a bin of angry birds, holiday mugs, Twilight figurines, and an entire 3-part wall of 2012 calendars. Defeated, I slunk back to the car, which was parked a light-year away at a pizza joint.
The next seven days are so busy, our household has to map out a plan of attack every night to be sure everybody is where they need to be when they need to be there, and has the appropriate clothing, music, homework, costume, electronics, instrument, etc. Usual household activities like doing the laundry, dishes, etc. are either postponed until they reach a reading of critical, or are abandoned all together.
I like the idea of a peaceful Christmas -- heck, I like the idea of a peaceful anything -- but I wonder if I'm just not cut out for it. Generally speaking, I like to be busy, and I definitely prefer it to being bored. What I wish for isn't so much rest, as a reasonable amount of time to do everything I would like to do. I even wonder about the phrase Rest in Peace. For many people who have spent a lifetime being doers, would rest in peace be appreciated or even wanted?
My goal for the Christmas season, and life for that matter, is to be peaceful and calm whenever possible within the parameters of my life. But I'm mindful that baby Jee, like most people, didn't spend his life sleeping. He woke up, he made some noise, and he filled his life with activity. And as for that sleeping in the hay stuff? Best to leave that to nativity scenes. I have things to do.
Long day, long weekend. Some observations and lessons learned:
1. If you are shopping in a mall on a Saturday afternoon in December, you'll get exactly what you deserve.
2. Even bookstores are not immune. If the entire world is going to be out en masse, the bookstore is no longer safe and sacred territory.
3. People asking if they can help you and/or if you are satisfied will never be content with your first affirmative answer. Or your second. Or third or fourth.
4. It might, on first thought, be difficult to be annoyed with overly cheerful people. But with the right attitude and a will to succeed, anything is possible.
5. Loud is not always better. Never quiet is never better.
6. Practice makes prepared, and for that, there is no substitute.
7. Sometimes even when you carefully read the instructions, you're still confused.
8. There's always tomorrow. For everything.
9. It's possible to be proud of an accomplishment and gracious towards others at the same time. They are not mutually exclusive.
10. Going to bed before midnight is not a crime. Neither is declining to watch the big game on TV.
11. The best of all possible worlds is whatever you make it to be. Never apologize.
The high school mascot and figurehead is a Chieftain, and this high school has been the "Chiefs" seemingly since time began. It's not an unusual link -- Michigan has a rich Native American heritage, the town itself is named for the Indian Chief. There is also a memorial rock dedicated to his memory. The high school symbol of the chief is an Indian head in profile, wearing what seems to be full headdress regalia. It isn't a satirical image, or a caricature. I always felt it was a very dignified, proud and traditional image.
Now, in a very controversial decision, the school board has voted to eliminate all images of the chieftain. The high school will still be known as the chiefs, but the name will be written rather than depicted in pictures. Current high school students, alumni and people from the town are HOT over this decision, and not in a good way.
As usual, I'm of two minds of this whole thing. I'm disappointed to lose what I always had considered a beautiful artistic rendering of our town's proud Native American heritage. I never considered the image to be inappropriate or insensitive. That being said, I'm NOT Native American, so would I really know?
A better way to handle this issue would have been to have a discussion in advance of the change. If it's truly an insensitive image, explain why. Let those who aren't of this lineage come to understand the pain it brings, or the stereotypes it portrays. A little dialogue here would have gone a long, long way.
Instead the school board just announced it was effective immediately, and attempted to soften the blow by explaining this was to have been completed several years ago and seemed to have fallen by the wayside -- as if this was both an acceptable excuse and an ingenious way to lay the blame on The Ghost of School Boards Past. This strategy did nothing to help their cause, and now everybody is mad at everybody else: the students, the grads, the school, the school board, and, I might imagine, to some extent or another, those who might actually be pleased that they have chosen to phase out this image. What could have been a teachable moment leading to greater understanding has turned into a big mess of hurt feelings and betrayal.
At the end of the day, it's important to remember that the school mascot is still The Chiefs. We can be thankful that they didn't decide to rename the mascot entirely, because considering the fact that the "new" high school building (almost 20 years young) is built on swampland and is actually sinking, we just might have been the The Fighting Marsh Rats instead.
Here's to wondering what might be in store for The Vikings who live down the road....
Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November
all the rest have thirty one
except February blah blah blah I don't remember the end of this poem.
And so, it's day thirty of the month of November, and National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) is drawing to an end. I wondered at the beginning of the month if I'd be able to gut this out. Certainly there are many people who write far more than I do: National NOVEL writing month (NaNoWriMo) also takes place during the month of November, and I know someone who actually completed the task! Mad props to those folks, but for me, a sixty hour work weeks combined with a senior in high school is not a successful recipe for penning a novel. In fact, I think it's the precise recipe for Mince Pie face. My writing tends to start after 10pm, and usually after 11pm, and I'm not exaggerating when I tell you if November was also National Nodding Off At Your Desk Month (NaNodOffAtYoDeskMo) I'd win a shiny banner for that one as well.
But I'm glad I did several more laps at the Tuna News. Part of me truly missed it. Part of me felt guilty every time I fired up my web browser, because The Tuna News is my homepage, and I've been staring at last winter's socks for the past 11 months. Part of me worried that with so much national and social conversation going on right now (a very polite way of saying everybody is talking and nobody is listening), I was offering nothing new or substantive, and was, in fact, only adding to the problem. Part of me was (and is) plain old boring vanilla tired. It happens.
Today took an interesting turn down the rabbit hole of YouTube. You never know when these days are going to happen, but one interesting thing after another seemed to pop up. I took it as a sign. And when music starts and ends your day, it's a good sign indeed.
Verdi - Requiem
A colleague of mine shared this video first thing this morning. I don't necessarily think you should watch the entire thing, but if you want to check out a couple of amazing moments, the Lacrymosa (40:24) is a great place to start. Soloists include a 36-year young Leontyne Price who sings with such control, beauty and sensitivity, I don't know if I should swoon or take notes. Really, both are appropriate. I love the very beautiful, formal and simplistic concert attire of the women, and I'm amazed that half the soloists and the conductor are performing this 90-minute work from memory. For those who are familiar with this work, the tell-all moment comes right at the end (1:15:46) for the Soprano. Will she or won't she (1:17:27)? You know she will. And it's glorious.
Eric Whitacre - Paradise Lost
Eric Whitacre, 20th Century composer, social media fan, and seemingly all-around nice guy, not to mention smart and encouraging to musicians of every age and skill is working on a somewhat unconventional Broadway Show that he hopes to open in London soon. Why didn't I know about this before today? I don't know, but I'm glad I know now. For an even tastier treat,you MUST listen to this. Posting it on Facebook this morning, he wrote:"A little a cappella interlude I wrote for the concert version of Paradise Lost. Thinking of expanding it into a full piece..."
Elbow - Live from Manchester Cathedral
I stumbled across Elbow this spring, and this is easily the most excited I've been about contemporary popular music in a long time. Well-sung, well-written, lyrics that are smart and thought-provoking. You could choose any part (or all of it..it's that good) to listen to, but my first suggestion would be Lippy Kids (34:30) from their latest album Build a Rocket, Boys! The lyrics are astounding on their own ("Lippy kids on the corner again. Lippy kids on the corner begin settling like crows. Though I never perfected the simian stroll, the cigarette senate was everything then. Do they know those days are golden? Build a rocket boys!" ) but when you hear it presented, it's not angry. In fact, it's respectful of youth and encouraging at the same time. A fine line to walk, I think.
My second suggestion would be One Day Like This (54:12) which is the most wonderfully unabashed love song you'd ever want to hear ('Cause holy cow I love your eyes! And only now I see the light, lying with you half-awake, stumbling over what to say, Well, anyway it's looking like a beautiful day. So throw those curtains wide, one day like this a year would see me right.)
Bonjour, Girl! - Disney's "Beauty and the Beast"
Oh, I love a good parody, and this one is fabulous. Please, please please warning -- language alert and definite Disney lampooning. If either of these are sacred cows, then you should move on.
As for me... IT'S MY FAVORITE!!
Faust - Metropolitan Opera
Directed by Des McAnuff
My buddy Des is EVERYWHERE these days. His musical "Jersey Boys" is still touring all over the United States. He is the BCMOC (Big Canadian Man on Campus) at the Stratford Festival in Canada, writing all the original music for this past season's production of "Twelfth Night", he has a hit revival of "Jesus Christ Superstar" that will open on Broadway next March and now, because, maybe he's bored or something, he's directed AN OPERA AT THE MET. Seriously. All the clips are fun, and it's in a very different and usual setting from the original concept.
So, there you have it. If you asked me how my day went, these videos sum it up. It was a very good day indeed. Thanks November. Bring it, December. I think I'm on a roll.
After a 14 hour workday
After 12 singers
After 10 performances
After a 2 hour night commute that usually takes 50 minutes
After 8 inches of snow
After too many accidents to count
When you finally get home
With all four wheels on the ground
With a bumper unkissed by the guard rail or an impatient car
With dinner waiting
And with family relieved that you are home safe and sound
It seems there should be a dos and don'ts subject list -- much like a fashion hits and misses -- when it comes to blogs. Or maybe it should just be a huge don't list, and anything leftover is fair game. To name just a few:
1. Weather A definite don't when the weather isn't unusual for the time of year and/or geographic location. This includes summertime heat in Arizona and sleet, snow, arctic freeze, rain, floods, tornadoes, hail, heat and/or humidity in Michigan from January through December. By the way, we are supposed to experience approximately 80% of all those options in the next 24 hours. In Michigan. SIGH.
So you better make sure you have a pair of these
when you live in the state that looks like this.
2. Cats
If you write about cats, well, don't say I didn't warn you. Writing about cats makes you the cat lady. Writing about two cats makes you the single cat lady. Writing about 65 cats makes you the crazy single cat lady. My friends Gabby and Mila inform me I am not crazy.
Gabby says "Not crazy!"
Mila says "Not crazy, but I really don't care."
3. Politics Yes, it's all the craze at the moment. And by craze I mean crazy. And by crazy I mean WHAT ON EARTH ARE THOSE REPUBLICANS DOING NOW? Now before all the Republicans get upset with me for going all Caps-Lock on their ass, the Democrats aren't flaunting their crazy at the moment because they've all agreed to let the guy at the top take the heat. Thanks, Jesus.
4. Food Blogging about food is a double-edged sword. It's sort of like watching it on TV. It's great for awhile, and then you're hungry, and then you're angry because you're hungry, and then you're angry because you're hungry and you're torturing yourself watching the secrets to making the perfect Ho-Ho and you don't have any perfect Ho-Hos. You don't even have any imperfect Ho-Hos.
5. Twilight
The movie. Not the time of day. Blogs, like vampires don't sparkle.
6. Holiday peeves
Oh, what an enormous category THIS is. This includes Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Dead people that stepped on in Target, shoppers that got pepper-sprayed in Walmart and anything that includes the phrase Tickle Me, Elmo. This also includes real or perceived injustices for or against Christmas Trees, Nativities, Carols, Holiday greetings, the Happy Holidays vs. Merry Christmas Smackdown, too many Christmas lights, not enough Christmas lights, wasteful spending, not enough spending, drunken debauchery at the office
Christmas party, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Rudolph,
Frosty and Herbie, who doesn't want to make toys.
If you can make it past this gauntlet without any infractions, you're well on your way to creating a real blog DO instead of a blog don't. Next up... Collegiate sports!
