The Best Days

These are the best days: the daylight stretching beyond bedtime, cokes out of bottles, children shrieking as they dodge sprinklers, retirees fussing over their straw-like lawns. Sunburns and sweat and pony-tails and graduation parties. Hot dogs and jello salads and the solace of a soft breeze. Griping about the lack of air conditioning, griping about rainy days. Plans of hikes and visits with friends and vacations to places with clear lakes and winding creeks and raging rivers. Picnics in the park and Shakespeare in the park and fireworks and campfires with marshmallows. Sticky kisses from kids who have eaten said marshmallows. Late mornings and later nights and dim fireflies in jars because your kids don’t want to ever let the light go. The groan and whirr of the window air-conditioner; tank tops showing off bare shoulders and arms freckled from the sun. Bare feet and dirty floors and dandelions in cups. Dancing with your husband beneath starlight to Ryan Adams or The Righteous Brothers or Melody Gardot. The aromas of a day well done blending together in the bathtub like soup: a mélange of dirt and sweat and hard play. Boys dilly-dallying in the bathtub. Light snores mingling with the cacophony of crickets chirping, bullfrogs croaking, beagles howling, teenagers laughing, that retiree mowing his lawn at 8:30 because it’s cool enough to stand it.

A good book, cool sheets and nimble dreams.

The moon in the window like in a fairytale.

Two cats hissing and fighting and screaming like they’re dying at 2am in your backyard. And no, I really couldn’t get back to sleep after that.

And let me tell you what- if they do it again, summer be hanged, I will shoot them with John’s BB gun.

For Valentine's Day

The husband is out of town half the week, so I was seriously contemplating posting a song full of angst and resentment, like that song Adam Sandler sang in The Wedding Singer after his fiance left him at the altar. 

I was feeling a little sad and abandoned.

Then I thought maybe I was being a tad dramatic.  After all, I get to spend Valentine's Day with four of the biggest lovebugs I've ever met.  We're going to make cupcakes and cookies and watch Kiah the Wonder Dog chew her beef-flavor infused Valentine's Day dog bone.  Also, we're going to fold some laundry. Any Valentine's Day that includes a beef-flavor infused Valentine's dog bone and laundry folding is bound to be glorious.

Today, I'm posting the most beautiful love song I know.  The one I sing to my kids each night:

Alabama Shakes and Shopping at the Home Depot

We're in the process of moving the kids' rooms around.  I lost my office.  Ella is gaining her own room painted the color "Ballet Slipper" by Benjamin Moore. 

This morning, after I convinced the fine gentleman at the paint store I didn't need primer (ample quantities of primer came with the house), I stopped by the Home Depot for an edger, some blinds, and just to browse.

Women enjoy browsing.  Men shop with purpose, and the Home Depot is filled with men who are shopping with purpose.  I meander lazily through the paint aisle and am nearly trampled by contractors and salesmen who assume I have a purpose for being in the paint aisle.  I did have a purpose- getting an edger- but the purpose was really secondary to checking out the Martha Stewart paint colors.  So pretty!  Who gets to make up the names for paint colors?  I want to paint my kitchen "Wooden Spoon," even though it's grey and doesn't match my kitchen at all.

John often mocks me because of my short attention span.

"And that's why I feel so passionate about this.  I mean, it really comes down to- ooooh look!  A butterfly!"

I feel like that in the Home Depot.  There's the hanging blinds I'm looking for, gotta make sure to get cream and not white- oh look!  Carpets are on sale!

I like the Home Depot, and I'm excited about Ella's new- oooh!  Look!  It's your Monday Happy Song! 

I'm really looking forward to this album coming out in April.  If you like Janis Joplin, etc. etc.:

Pride

I have a list of Happy Song Project suggestions, the first of which I will get to next week. For today, however, this song, though not entirely "happy", seemed appropriate.





HGL is in the process of migrating to its own Facebook page!  To receive or continue to receive HGL posts on your Facebook news feed, please press "Like" on the Facebook plug in toward the top of the right column.  You rock.  Love, Holly

Dreams of Walking in the Snow

When there are spiderwebs hanging from your Christmas tree like tinsel, perhaps you've kept it up too long.  Unfortunately, Christmas trees are not easy to dust.  The needles just keep falling off.

All this to say, I finally took the tree down and the stupid thing gave me a rash on my hand.  Apparently I'm allergic to sap.  Or bark. 

I'm so over Christmas. 

I am, however, uncharacteristically excited about winter.  If it would just snow! 

Ben (solemnly):  I pray for snow every single day, mom.

And he does.  (Dear God, thank you for this food.  Bless it to our bodies.  Thank you for mom and dad and all my grandmas and grandpas and for my teacher and for my toys and fireplaces and Kiah and robots, and please let it snow today.  Amen.)

We want to go sledding and make snowmen and throw snowballs at my neighbor who hates me.  But that's a post for a different day.

Today's happy song:  Brandi Carlile's "Have You Ever."  I could listen to it over and over and over and over and over and over...

Happy New Year, Peeps.

It's 10:30sh and I just recently got up because MY HUSBAND ROCKS.

First on today's bloggy agenda: I've simplified the blog layout. I've stripped it of advertisements and other stuff and changed the blog header. Someone I live with mocked it.

" 'The blog' in parantheses? Ha ha ha ha!"

I became offended, but thankfully we started speaking to one another again in time for me to sleep in today.

Stripping the blog is one step in my major life goal in 2012: Simplify MY ENTIRE LIFE before the crap hits the fan on December 21st. Or 23rd. Or whenever it is we're all supposed to perish. But discussing one's New Year's resolutions is a bit of a yawn when compared to presenting the Monday Happy Song, so I will move on.

Today's song has a backstory:

My father cruelly hid all my stepmom's Christmas music this year, so she's been listening to the soundtrack from The Sound of Music as a substitute. I do not think her Christmas music was ever recovered. I try not to get in the middle of these little marital spats, but I might suggest she hide something that's important to him? His grand piano, perhaps? I know a guy.

Anyway, she requested the following as a Happy Song for Monday, and she was so excited about it (I think she said, "Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!") that I had to oblige her.

On a side note: Caleb is not a fan of yodeling as a musical art form. Or, rather, not a fan of his mother's yodeling as a musical art form.



Comments below are for you to tell me how much you like my simplified blog:

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe (& other Christmas stories)

I

It’s the Christmas season and you know me, holly in my heart (Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember)

The following are directed at me every year over the holiday season. I would like answer concerns and questions about being a girl named Holly born four days after Christmas so that I never, ever have to answer them again.

1. “You name is Holly? Wow. You must, like, really love Christmas.”

Oh, I do. I love Christmas, and so much more than people named, like, Beverly. How can you love Christmas when you’re named Beverly? Also, I love Christmas so much more than people NOT born in December. How can you love Christmas when you were born in July? Preposterous.

2. “You were born at Christmastime? Did you, like, get cheated out of gifts?”

Not when I was younger. My mother always made my birthday very special.

However, things are different now, and yeah, I totally get gypped come my birthday. It’s an awkward time of year to have a birthday. It’s not like you can compete with, well, you know. And the one time I crossed my arms and complained that I wasn’t getting enough attention, people thought I was being “selfish” and “sacreligious.” (Wasn’t Jesus actually born in June?) So I don’t complain anymore- I just weep silently in my bed. Birthdays are for kids, not adults, anyway. And I don’t need anything. I want a lot of stuff, but I don’t need anything. So, don’t worry about me and the presents I’ve been swindled out of. I’m okay.

II

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe

Today, the Christmas season is a shell of its It’s a Wonderful Life former self. Mr. Potter, despite what you saw on film, has not been defeated. Nativity scenes are out: singing the tune of "The Carol of the Bells" to sell bargain-priced designer-labeled clothes is in. Christmas caroling in the mall is a potential fire hazard, but Black Friday shopping has become a tradition in many families. Mistletoe is being banned from office parties so that corporate executives can still have “Santa Shots” (this is an actual drink) and not get stuck under the mistletoe while inebriated. Darn that mistletoe, inviting sexual harassment charges with its lascivious plant motives.

I was never kissed under the mistletoe until after I was married. Not that I didn’t want to be. I mean, how romantic is that, getting caught under the mistletoe with the object of your affection? I may have lingered by a sprig on an occasion or two, just to see if I could gain the experience of being kissed under the mistletoe, but alas… no one ever noticed.

One year, John and I were at a party where mistletoe was prominently hung from a doorway. I stood boldly underneath and called my husband over. Utterly clueless, he wanted to know what I wanted. Why had he been dragged away from playing Call of Duty? (Which is a wonderful wartime game that’s a staple at any traditional Christmas gathering, along with eggnog and candy canes.)  Also, I think maybe he’d had a couple of Santa Shots.

I directed his attention to the mistletoe above us, and this is what happened: John sniggered, grabbed my butt, pulled me in close, and laid a noisy, lingering smooch on my mouth. He tasted like peppermint schnapps.

My husband sexually harassed me under the mistletoe.

And I loved it.

III

We Wish You a Merry Christmas

The twins have been happily practicing their preschool Christmas program songs. At home, they sing loudly and unabashedly, so I was surprised when their teacher informed me that during practice at school, Ella had repeatedly dissolved into tears, ran into her teacher’s arms, and had hid her head while shaking like a leaf. Ella, who is not a naturally quiet individual, has auditory sensory issues and is unnerved by resounding ambient sound. Being in large, cavernous places where echoes bounce and shrill voices carry brings my usually boisterous little girl to her knees. So on the day of her program, I made sure to get a spot right up close, so that if she began to withdraw, I could grab her and hold her.

Ella sashayed down the aisle in her Christmas gown, beaming at us, shaking her hand bells with enthusiasm. She came down first because she was the smallest and needed to be placed at the front of the group. Daniel stood a little ways behind her. The first song began, and Ella’s face went from joyful to terror-filled. She stared at me. I grinned at her. “Sing,” I mouthed.

The sanctuary was packed with moms and dads and grandparents and siblings, and the crowd absorbed the sound beautifully. No echo. No reverberating bells. Ella relaxed noticeably and stayed with her classmates. She didn’t open her mouth and sing during the first song, but she stayed there and stared, somewhat dazed, at the crowd.

By the last song, she was into it. The following is a video of her preschool class singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Ella got a little carried away. She was the only child who twirled during the program. (Which was no big deal considering two songs before, she jumped up and down and then sat for half the song.) Note her unique dance movies during the “singing” verse. Please ignore the constant wiping of her nose with her hand.

Daniel was incredibly proud of his tie. When I showed it to him he gasped.

“It’s a real tie?”

"Yes! A real tie!”

"Just like daddy’s?”

“Daddy would never wear a black vest over a red shirt,” John said. “We are not gangsters.” Daniel was too busy taking his tie out of his vest and putting it back in to listen to his father's weirdness.

Today’s song for Monday: We Wish You a Merry Christmas:

Under the Boardwalk

I'm a day late with my Monday happy song.  This is actually typical behavior that I am going to try and rectify in the new year. 

Several Valentine's Days ago, John took me out to eat at my favorite restaurant (since closed), and then to Eastman Theater to see Ben E. King.  The place was filled with a bunch of 60-year olds and us, but it was one of the most enjoyable concerts I have ever been to.  Mr King, of course, sang the below song, which is a wonderful antidote for grey and gloomy day.

For a few minutes, even I can pretend that the space under the boardwalk is NOT filled with broken glass, used prophylactic devices, and needles.  It's a respite from the hot sun and, apparently, a great spot for dancing with my baby. 

That's-a-where I wanna be...

Christmas Joy

Tis the time of year to dance around the kitchen to the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir.

Procrastinating...

I have a deadline today, as evidenced by the 45 minutes I spent learning this song on the stupid Google guitar:

http://goo.gl/doodle/2G8TG

If you can't tell what song this is, all is lost.

A Taste of Honey

I started spontaneous storytelling during Caleb’s baseball game two weeks ago.

It was cold. Ella was cranky. Ben wanted to go home. Caleb was hitting doubles and looking generally adorable on the field. I stuck the younger three in the car and turned on the latest craze in the Jennings’ minivan: the Beatles’ debut album Please Please Me.

It is Beatlemania all over again. My four-year old son can sing all the words to “I Saw Her Standing There.”

Everyone’s favorite song, however, is “A Taste of Honey.” Every time Paul belts out the title lyrics, they laugh hysterically. Personally, I don’t get the joke. Apparently I lack their refined sense of humor.

The baseball progressed slowly, and after the CD had looped through 1 ½ times, the car battery died. I guess I only turned the ignition half way. And lucky for me, John was out of town and my cell was… that’s not really important. Suffice to say, it was not on me.

It started to drizzle.

My plan was to look pathetic and ask the parents of Caleb’s teammates for help once the game was over. In the interim, I had to find a way to amuse my demanding children with the refined senses of humor since the fabulous four had left the vehicle.

So I told them a story, one I made up off the top of my head. And they sat there, quiet, for twenty minutes, and took in every word. And the coach of the team had jumper cables. On the way home, I sang “Do You Want to Know a Secret,” and they sang the background vocals, which consist of “oooh oooh oooh” and “ohhh ohhh ohhh.”

Overall, I deemed the evening successful.

Tonight, on the way home from my dad’s, Ben demanded another story. And let me tell you, it is hard to think up a plot on the spot like that. I took inspiration from their favorite song and told a story about a world without… honey.

The population of honey bees has disappeared. A fabulous foursome including Caleb, Ben, Dan, and Ella, live at the edge of a great forest, because every good children’s fairy-tale starts at the edge of a great forest. The gist of the story is as follows: Children find the world’s last remaining beehive, and it’s as big as a Buick. It’s the middle of July, but the children need protection from the bees in order to extract honey from the gigantic hive, so they sneak into their own house as their mother is doing something domestic and important.  The put on snow pants and winter jackets and buckets with holes for eyes over their head so that the bees won’t sting them. The children climb a great oak tree and successfully extract the honey without getting stung.

Little do they know that a lone bee follows them home, and when the children remove their winter gear and feel the cool breeze come in over the trees of the great forest, the angry bee stings Caleb on his hand. He is so startled that he spills some honey. The honey lands on his hand, and his wound is immediately healed. Not only is it the last honey on earth, but it’s magic honey.

The children rush into the house to tell their mother about the magic honey. Instead of being happy, she is angry they sneaked off to do something so dangerous. She tells them all to go to their rooms, but to leave the honey with her. While they are upstairs sulking, she makes herself a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and eats it alone.

I thought the ending was funny. Caleb didn’t like the ending.

“I don’t like how you got mad. It wasn’t fair. We brought you honey and you put us in time-out. Why did you do that? Did you even save honey for the rest of us?”

Daniel added an epilogue.

“I KILL all the bees.”

“But then you would never have honey again,” I said. “So I don’t think you should kill all of the bees. You wouldn’t want to run out of magic honey, right?”

"I kill them,” he whispered.

Ben fell asleep.

Ella broke out into song: “A TASTE OF HONEY! Doo doo doo doooo!!!”

Caleb sulked, Daniel schemed, Ben slept, Ella sang.

Mom fell asleep early. She had a lovely dream about 1960s Paul McCartney.

Prelude to Insomnia

So, last week, I set my turkey baster on fire while cooking my homemade tomato sauce. The reason my turkey baster was lounging there next to the burner isn’t really relevant. I may have panicked a bit and blown at the fire, which only fanned the flames. My next course of action was to throw a washcloth on it and sort of half-yell, “Um- fire situation here! Small fire!” The husband came in on his white steed, took over, and then gave me his “intense” look.

This is why I don’t cook.

The family eventually made it to the table, and John attempted polite dinner conversation.

“Did you hear about what’s going on in Wisconsin?”

“Yes, they won the stupid Super Bowl. I was present at the game, if you recall. The women were sitting on the floor while the men were sitting on the couches? Remember?”

“I don’t recall that, but that’s actually not what I’m talking about.”

“Well then please proceed and tell me what’s going on in Wisconsin.”

“The new conservative governor is pushing new legislation, trying to make it illegal for government workers to unionize, and people are totally freaking out. 25,000 protested.”

“That’s quite a few people for Wisconsin.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Guess the Super Bowl afterglow is over.”

“Indeed.”

“They make cheese in Wisconsin.”

“That’s true.” Pause. “You don’t really care about what’s going on in Wisconsin, do you?”

“Not at this particular moment. I’m still mourning the loss of the turkey baster.”

“Yes, with all the basting you do, I understand your grief. So. What did you do today?”

“I’ve been working on the ultimate workout playlist. Speaking of which, I have a question for you. Is there an easier way to scroll up and down on the iPod? I put my thumb across the circle, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Let me see this- this is how you work it.”

“Oh! You scroll up and down by going AROUND the circle! The middle of the circle doesn’t do anything!” Pause. “You know who would really enjoy my kickass workout playlist? Those people in Wisconsin. It was would totally pump them up. Great protesting songs. Like, for instance…” I scrolled through the songs like I’d been doing it for years, “"Right Now" by Van Halen.”

“Van- Van Halen?”

“Yes. 'Right Now' by Van Halen.” More “intense looks” commence. “Are we not a fan of Van Halen?”

Apparently we are not.

Later that evening, I curl into bed with my tattered copy of Great Expectations. (You think it is tattered because I have read it over and over again. Not the case. It is a used Penguin copy I “borrowed” a very long time ago when I was a substitute teacher. Imagine what the Wisconsin protestors would do with that piece of information.)

John yawns and gets ready to turn off his light.

“Y’know?” I say, “Reading Dickens is a definite aphrodisiac.”

John perks right up.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You just said reading Dickens is an aphrodisiac.”

“I said no such thing. Why on earth would I say that? Stop looking at me that way.”

“Here are your words, verbatim, ‘Reading Dickens is a definite aphrodisiac.’”

“I said reading Dickens is a great soporific device.” (Pointed yawn.) “See? I’m sooo sleepy.”

(Sometimes I confuse words with others. Aphrodisiac might be one of those words.)

“Just admit that you said aphrodisiac.”

I consider this.

“It’s been a long day, what with the compiling of great eighties hair band songs, nearly burning the house down, and now I’m trying hard to work my way through this enchanting but sleep-inducing tale of redemption. We’ve had a trifle misunderstanding! I’m not even sure why you married me, anyway. I obviously have the IQ of a gnat.”

John mumbles something about the reason he married me into his pillow, and it sounds like it had nothing to do with my brains.  I read to him in a British accent, because reading Dickens in a cockney accent is just so fun, and he's asleep in five.  I’m left alone to ponder what the heck Pip sees in Estella when he could have the perfectly lovely, warm, and hardworking Biddy. The house still smells faintly of burnt rubber, and I can’t get Van Halen out of my head. I'm so sleepy, but won't drift off for another three hours.

Van Halen and Dickens, by the way, don’t mesh very well. 

Sometimes, that’s just the way things are.

A December Post with a Wintery Song

Kiah got spayed today. It had to be done. There’s a male beagle down the road with a nefarious reputation. Kiah doesn’t seem to mind that we took her lady parts away, though it is a strange feeling to have completely removed a beloved member of the family’s right to reproduce. I guess she lost that right when we, well, paid for her. I don’t think she’d be a good mother, anyway. I mean, who am I to judge, but she is a compulsive thief. I’m concerned she may have sociopathic tendencies. Last night she stole my bagel as I was holding it. I suspect she ate the remainder of my sandwich the other day, too. It’s quite possible I finished it, but one can’t be certain. It was turkey and as I recall, it was quite delicious.

I am so not ready for Christmas. We just got our tree. I mean, like a half hour ago. It smells so good. Before John and the boys left to get it, I told Daniel to make sure they chose a tree that didn’t have any birds in it. He took his mission seriously, I think. When they came in, he announced it was a bird-free balsam. No nests or anything.

We caught the mouse, finally. I was sick at the beginning of the week, violently ill as a matter of fact, and had not been diligently checking the mouse traps. Yesterday, a repugnant smell emanated from beneath the stairs, and sure enough, it was a very dead mouse rotting away in a trap. There was great rejoicing in the land, followed by an onslaught of Febreze.

I feel off. Not quite with it. Christmas shopping? Haven’t begun. Christmas cookies? One batch. Christmas cards? Not so much. I left my camera at my in-law’s and have been taking lousy pictures with my cell phone. We will have little photographic record of the Christmas of 2010. Visit to Santa? Nope. Snow? Oh yes. Tons of snow. In fact, I thought it was time to teach the twins an important informational snow song:

Snow is pretty
When it’s white
It falls down
A graceful flight.


I catch snowflakes
On my tongue
It tastes like sugar
When you’re young.


But there is one thing
Mom said I should know
I should never ever ever
Eat the yellow snow.


OHHHHH!
We don’t eat yellow snow!
No we don’t eat yellow snow!
I want you all to know
That you don't eat yellow snow!


The song's message is all that more pertinent when you have a dog.

Please tell me there’s someone else out there who hasn’t gotten much Christmas shopping done. Please. Someone. Out. There.

Bells on Christmas



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


I’m back in the choir for Christmas and hopefully beyond, and guess what? I’m a soprano this year. I’m in full-fledged diva mode. I’ve been listening to my Mariah Carey Christmas album and yesterday, in a moment that nearly sent the dog into a full-fledged panic attack (the Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!), I hit a high C. It’s all about air, people. Air in the gullet. (I’m not going to say it sounded pretty, or even socially appropriate, but it was a high C.)

I was pleased to find out that we are singing “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” which is my husband’s favorite carol. I wrinkled my nose when I saw it was NOT the original version, but some newfangled adaptation by the band Casting Crowns.

Blah.

It is possible that I was born with a very old and cranky soul. Why take a perfectly gorgeous melody and toss it aside for something that is, in my not-so-humble opinion, mediocre? (For the record, the 50’s adaptation by Johnny Marks, who is most notably the author of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” is okay, but Calkin’s melancholy version written in 1872 is the original, and I think, the best. And I’m not even going to tell the story of the day I found “Adagio for Strings” set to techno music on YouTube. There was a hissy-fit of epic proportions.)

The words to “Bells on Christmas Day” were written by the great American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow at the tail-end of the Civil War. Several years before, in 1861, Longfellow lost the love of his life, his wife Fanny, in a tragic accident. After cutting her daughter’s hair during a heat wave, Fanny Longfellow decided to preserve the cuttings in some wax, which dripped onto her dress. A breeze from the window set her dress on fire, and in order to protect her children, Fanny ran into the next room, where Henry frantically tried to extinguish the fire with a small rug. When this failed, he threw himself around her, burning himself in the process.

Fanny died the next morning. Henry, recovering from his own burns, was too injured to go to her funeral. His beard remained full and long because his injuries kept him from ever being able to shave his face without excruciating pain.

Longfellow’s journal, Christmas 1861: How inexpressibly sad are all holidays. I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace.

Longfellow’s journal, Christmas 1862: A merry Christmas' say the children, but that is no more for me.

In 1863, Longfellow received word that his oldest son had been severely injured and permanently disabled in battle. His journal that Christmas is silent.

In 1864, on Christmas day, he writes the poem “Christmas Bells":

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 Then from each black accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

 And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

 Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

I have never known such sorrow. I can’t imagine what went on in his heart that would bring him from bitterness and misery to hope and faith. It was, in short, some sort of miracle.

And you should all probably know that as I write this, I am listening to Adagio for Strings and crying like a baby. (I have a very sentimental, cranky old soul.)

Here's hoping your have a blessed start to the Christmas season!

Johnny Cash actually sings the Calkin melody; so do the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They seem to be in the minority.

My Debussy Girl

I saw a preview last week for the television show Parenthood. A father is in the supermarket with his autistic son, who is throwing an absolute fit over some trivial matter. A looker-on tells the father he should get control of his kid, and the father, who was possibly not having a good day, decks the guy. In the face. It was maybe an overreaction. I kind of want to know what happened to the father.

Ella is not autistic, and has only been labeled with a “severe speech delay” and an “information processing disorder.” Yet, she has quirks. Supermarket quirks. Screaming-for-no-reason-in-the-supermarket quirks.

She hates loud noises, which I find ironic, because of her immense capability for creating vociferous noise. She also hates what she deems “scary music.” Apparently, Mahler’s 3rd symphony falls into this category. She shrieked and carried on so that I had to turn it off. With her lip out (she is an extremely proficient pouter) she requested “Busey.”

And my mind immediately went to… Gary Busey, of course.

“You wanna watch Speed?” I asked.

She marched to the piano and handed me my Debussy music. So I played a shoddy version of Clair De Lune while she happily played with her My Little Pony at my feet.

So to the people who give us reproachful looks at the supermarket, in the church foyer, and at the play museum-

We are doing our best here with what God has given us.

And if they ever cared to know, Ella, I would tell them that you are

Golliwogg’s playmate,
Jimbo’s friend,
You are a jaunty cakewalk
And a Saturday afternoon reverie.
You are
The siren who dwells
Within the sunken cathedral
And the muffled song beneath la mer.
My petit… blanc.
You are dissonance
And melody,
You are dancing snow
And every nocturne that
Sways me to dreams.
The light of my moon,
My Debussy girl.

Call me Al

Because I'm feeling soft in the middle and have a short little span of attention today:

Alone

In honor of my slight crush on Kristin Chenoweth, and also in honor of my husband being gone for pretty much a freaking week thank you very much, a Glee song:



Yay to the makers of Glee for turning Heart's catchy but slightly creepy song into a kind of sexy duet! Really, the addition of the male singing as well makes a difference. Consider the lyrics:

"I hear the ticking of the clock, I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark. I wonder where you are tonight, No answer on the telephone."

"And now it chills me to the bone. How do I get you alone?"

Probably not by singing him this song, chickie. You're kind of a stalker.

Pomp. And Lots of Circumstance, Too.

So Ben graduated from preschool last night. At least four different people told me (as I was sniffling) that I at least had two more to go. But what about when they graduate in two years? I will have an EMPTY NEST! At least from the hours of 9-4. Sometimes, I think this will be the most glorious event that will ever happen to me. Other days, I feel like rocking back and forth and singing “Dust in the Wind.”

Which brings me to a complaint. “Pomp and Circumstance” (the song, not the individual words, which are lovely) should be banned from graduations. Someone hums the song and I tear up. To hear it playing while my little baby is walking solemnly down an aisle in a miniature graduation gown is enough to send me over the edge.

I do have alternate processional suggestions: “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper would be good, or maybe the theme to the television show Justified (by the gentleman Tone Z) for an edgy, life is going to get hard keep on truckin’, kid, kind of vibe. (This song has got to be the coolest television theme song ever in the history of the world. And I don’t even like rap.)

Then they can all recess to a Sousa march.

I’m feeling especially weary that Ben is moving on thanks to a recent letter I received from our Superintendent. I will highlight some of the good parts:

… there is an activity some kids have engaged in that involves deliberate fainting.

… serious physical and neorological ramifications. This act depletes the brain of oxygen and could result in injuries due to falling, concussions, severe headaches, brain damage, seizues, and possibly even death.

… the reason for engaging in this behavior is to experience a floaty, tingling or high sensation that results from limiting oxygen to the brain.

… warning signs to look for include: frequent severe headaches, inexplicable bruising or lacerations due to falling, bloodshot eyes and/or Petechiae (tiny red dots) on face, changes in attitude (overly aggressive), disorientation and or/ grogginess.
Oh my gosh teenagers are so stupid. I don’t mean to make a blanket statement about all teenagers- of course there are some who are relatively reasonable human beings- but as a group of peoples, they are dumb.

And as an honest-to-goodness fainter, one who has passed out NOT OF HER OWN VOLITION, I take offense to this behavior. It’s kind of like pretending to have cancer when you don’t. Okay, it’s not really like that at all. Still though.

This is why I don’t teach high school. I’m not sure why I majored in Education. I didn’t like high school when I was in high school. Why did I think I’d ever want to go back?

I mean, what do you say to a kid who is purposefully holding his breath until he passes out for a short tingling sensation? Or deliberately choking himself or allowing someone else to choke him until he passes out? For the love of all that is holy, how could this EVER sound like a good idea?

What do you say to a kid who uses Meth on a regular basis? Because apparently “you’re probably going to need your kidneys and liver later in life” isn’t working.

Once, in high school, a "friend" offered me a can of Butane to inhale. I think I said something like, “Um, no. No no. I’d rather not suck dangerous chemicals into my body this evening. But thanks so much for the offer! Really generous.”

Statistically, most people begin engaging in heavy drinking and smoking and drug use between the ages of 10 and 22. If you make it past this age, you are unlikely to ever develop an unhealthy love of pouring dangerous chemicals into your body. This is because as we mature, we become more rational, wary human beings. It is why young gymnasts do so much better in the Olympics than older gymnasts- they have yet to develop that fear of injury. They are still living in the moment.

Combine this fearlessness with a tendency to succumb to the tiniest bit of peer pressure, and Houston, we have a problem.

It’s why, despite everyone telling me how dangerous the sun is (especially on pale skin), I developed countless blistering sunburns in my youth. And now I am about to get my second basal cell carcinoma removed from my face. (Let that be a lesson to you.)

There was never even a chance I was ever going to be tan.

You know what Ben did the other day? He tried to skateboard down the slide. I nearly peed my pants. Fearless.
Though I’m compelled to keep them in a protective bubble for the next 15+ years, I know that is the fear inside me talking. Somehow, parents have to reconcile their fear with their child’s fearlessness. And therein lies the complicated relationship that is between the parent and the child. Everyone just breathe.

I see them long hard times to come.

Three Parts

I

On Friday evening, I headed off to my once-a-year singing gig with at the Conservative Party Banquet right here in Rochester, New York. The Conservatives, being relatively conservative, do things the same way year after year. Therefore, I know every May I can make $100.00 singing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes at the Rochester Riverside Convention Center. I get to sing with my dad, which is lovely, and Joe, a saxophonist who was also best man in my brother’s wedding, and this year a bass player I’d never met before. I’d love it if we were a real band. Sadly, we’re a once-a-year phenomenon. My dad is threatening to quit altogether, even though I came up with a great name for our would-be jazz ensemble. It’s… wait for it… Improversations! (Improvisation and conversations put together.) It came to me in a dream. I thought I was incredibly witty for coming up with it on my own; I then found out Michael Scott from The Office first coined the term. (The subconscious is a strange vault of information.) Nevertheless, I think it’s a name that would look good on a drum. (On a related note, Improversations could use a drummer.)

This year we made the evening news.

I am famous. Again. Surprisingly, the phone calls aren't pouring in.

You can see me and Joe a few seconds into the segment. I am singing Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave,” which is always an appropriate pick for any political event. (Though our gigs so far have been limited to right-wing political events, don’t be fooled. We would be happy to play at your wedding or bar mitzvah.)

II

On Saturday, Caleb and I went with my dad and stepmother to see Peter Pan in Stratford. This was Caleb’s first theater experience, and he loved it. After every scene ended, he turned and asked if the play was over. He wondered if the pirates were actually real pirates, because they certainly looked real. He clapped loudly when Peter Pan implored the audience to help save Tinkerbell’s life. He gasped when it appeared the Jolly Roger would sail right into the audience, and stared amazed at the starry sky from which Wendy, John, and Michael flew home.

It was a fantastic performance, despite the fact that Tiger Lily and her Indian friends were turned into Amazons. (Political correctness is destroying the theater!) The Amazons were all female and looked an awful lot like Xena Warrior Princesses.

It was a treat to spend the whole day with Caleb. Speaking of treats, my dad and Sigrid stuffed that kid full of sweets- cookies, hot cocoa, ice-cream, and candy. And, when Caleb had to use the potty five minutes after we left Stratford for home, my dad didn’t scold him. Not even a little. I’m only mentioning this because it’s not how I remember my dad acting when Holly-of-the-very-wee-bladder had to stop some place to use the potty on car trips.

Before the play, we took a walk by the river. This couple was making out in a disgusting fashion. So I took a picture. (That'll learn 'em.)

Caleb, oblivious to the couple on the bridge, is excited about feeding a mass of swans.

Here's the boy in action.

III

Yesterday, we had a full day of church, naps, and an evening visit from friends. I went to bed last night feeling full of warm fuzzies. I love my children. They are good people.

It is my job to check on them before I start my own getting into bed process, which is long and complicated. Sometimes, I don’t check on them. I climb into bed, start the process, and John says, “Did you check on the kids?” I sigh and get out of the warm covers and take a peek at them. Inevitably, Ella is stripped down to her diaper, though on occasion, her diaper is off completely and that, of course, needs to be remedied.

Why doesn’t John check on the kids? I’m not sure. He seems to think it’s his job to remind me to do it. It’s strange how over time couples get relegated to specific, inane roles. For instance, it’s John’s job to fill up our nighttime cups. When he’s out of town, I reach for my cup and feel disoriented and confused when it’s not filled with fresh, cool water.

My bedtime process consists of adjusting the covers just-so, applying hand-lotion, taking my happy pills, drinking my cool water, flossing my teeth, and then reading until I get sleepiesh. I must wear pajama bottoms to bed and the sheets must be tucked in correctly.

This is why I don't get my kids. When I go to check on them, they look like this:

Daniel has completely removed his sheet, and is lying on top of, instead of under, his quilt. His feet aren't even on his bed.

Ella's feet are hanging out of the crib. Note that she has stripped out of her pajamas. Her blanket, at least, is not covering her face like it usually is.

So, last night I dressed Ella, put Daniel in a position that made me fairly certain he wouldn't wake up with a neck cramp, and went to bed, still filled with the warm fuzzies. A lovely weekend.

Sopranos vs. Altos: Yes, I go there...

A few months ago, I joined the church choir. This was very proactive of me. We meet to practice on Sunday afternoons and sing during two services Sunday mornings. It is what you might call a commitment.

The choir director is an enthusiastic professional musician who attended the church I grew up in, so I’ve known him quite a while. He has great dreams for us; I think he wants us to be the next Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. He challenges us to sing complicated four to five-part harmony pieces. He recently procured a set of tympanis off of Ebay. He’s really gung-ho about the whole thing.

When I joined the choir, I was sent off to the alto section, which isn’t necessarily the section with women who have lower voices, but rather the section with women who can read music. Being named an alto was quite a shock to me. I’ve always been a soprano. Though my voice has gotten lower since the birth of my children, I can still hit a high A on a good day. Good days happen once every six months or so, but still.

Sopranos get the best parts. This is simply a fact. They almost always sing the melody and they get more solos. Being forced to sing as an alto has been quite a blow to my inner-diva.

However, if sopranos are prima donnas, then altos are snobs. As an alto, I’ve found myself sighing impatiently during the occasions when the sopranos sing harmony. So used to singing the melody, they need their part played over and over again. Altos think sopranos are helpless and needy and sopranos don’t think about the altos at all. Music is all very politically complicated.

I began to embrace my new alto status. I made notes in my music and learned how to find my pitch based on what the basses and tenors had been singing. I enjoyed alto camaraderie as we all rolled our eyes together after the sopranos screeched out a high-pitched, very flat b flat. We met beforehand in the practice room to go over the music, and divvied up the high and low alto parts.

Yes, life as an alto was satisfying. And less taxing on the old vocal chords, too. That is, until we started practicing the Hallelujah Chorus for Easter Sunday. My inner-diva came out in full throttle.

The Hallelujah Chorus is awesome. It might be my favorite composition in the history of compositions. Whenever someone tells me they don’t believe in God, I look at them, astonished, and say, “Have you never listened to the Hallelujah Chorus???” The Hallelujah Chorus makes me want to jump up and down and run around the room like a Pentecostal. And the sopranos, as usual, have the best part in the piece. They, alone, sing King of Kings (while everyone else sings forever and ever, hallelujah, hallelujah) and Lord of Lords! The tension slowly rises, and the focus is all on the sopranos.

Let’s not forget the final hallelujah at the tail-end of the song. Again, it’s all about the sopranos. One analysis of the piece states that “it ends triumphantly with trilling tympani and a huge plagal cadence on the word ‘Hallelujah.’” I don’t know about that (true sopranos care little about technicalities and music jargon- it is of diminished importance when compared to our soaring vibrato voices), all I know is that singing the alto part seemed… lame (in comparison to the soprano part.) I submit than when anyone thinks of angels singing in the sky, they think of the soprano part and not the alto part, or even the tenor or bass parts.

Like a true quasi-professional, i.e. a person singing in the local church choir who happens to read music, I sucked up my enormous soprano pride and learned the alto arrangement. And it was maybe a little bit fun. However, on Easter morning, I knew (with true soprano egotism)that the plagal chord at the end would have been all that more triumphant if I had been singing as a soprano.


Here are some pics of the kids on Easter:

Ella: Future Soprano