First of all, Elly, if you think I don't have a good plaster cast story, you don't know me very well. Shall I tell you the story about how, the summer before 7th grade, I fell off my pink Huffy dirt bike and broke not one, but two arms? For those of you keeping track, that means I broke all of my arms at once.
Actually, I couldn't even do that right. I ended up needing to have surgery in order to "complete the occlusion" on my right arm. Even as a precocious pre-teen, I didn't know what that meant, so imagine my disbelief to learn that I was going under anesthesia so that they could FINISH BREAKING MY ARM. (Recently, I asked a doctor friend what kind of fancy procedure that would entail, and was a little horrified--but not that surprised--to hear that they basically just take your arm over someone's knee and...just...snap it.) Apparently, had it been allowed to heal the way it was, it would have been all twisty and gnarly. So scared was I of this surgery, I remember trying to convince my dad that I didn't care if my right arm was all S-shaped. I would just wear a lot of long sleeves. Luckily, my pitiful reasoning went unheeded and...snappo!
So, there I went, into the fall of 7th grade, with two plaster casts, one over the elbow. I had to buy shirts in the maternity section so that they would stretch enough to get my unbending arm through the sleeves. Good thing junior high is so forgiving of differences, huh? They cut a long slit in one of the casts to allow for swelling, and my dad labeled it "San Andreas Fault," which I totally didn't get. Remember when casts were plaster and you could draw on them? Or, you know, you could if your OTHER ARM wasn't also in a cast.
So, there you are, friends. Go ahead, gimme another one.
***
Not that I didn't appreciate this tumble down Embarrassing Memory Lane, but originally I'd planned on writing about (what else) the elections. Nothing remarkable, and nothing that probably hasn't been said better (and sooner) elsewhere, but...Jee-zus. A friend posted on Facebook, "Listened to future house speaker talk about how he can't wait to repeal the healthcare reform law and felt physically ill." I listened to NPR's coverage on the way in to work and can certainly attest to a visceral sense of unwellness that I don't know I've ever felt about politics before (I shamefacedly point out that, until the last six years or so, I basically avoided knowing anything about politics, which, while immature and tragic, was also waaaay easier). As someone who works for a publicly-funded agency, I'm so scared and outraged by all this "smaller government" crap. They keep cutting our services, when for many families, we are the only help for their kids with special needs. Where was all this brouhaha about cutting spending when were funding unjust war? Argh.
Another friend wrote, "Goodbye, middle class. It was nice knowing you." Indeed.
Huh. This is ending on kind of a downer. Go read the lovely story about gross bodily injury again.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Not Even A Little Bit About Vaseline
So, I'm not sure what it was last night, but I'd set this goal of starting a daily writing thing in November, and yet the very act of doing so just froze me right up. I kept thinking, what the hell could I write that anyone would want to read? Bless his heart, MOTH tried to help. He would suggest, "How about writing about hanging out with your pregnant friend?" and I would type, I saw my friend. She is pregnant.
"What about the play?" he offered. I typed, I saw a play. Eh.
"What about taking your son trick-or-treating for the first time?" I took Tankbaby trick-or-treating for the first time. It was really cute, but you don't care because you're not his mom, and I can't get the damn video oriented correctly to prove how cute and funny it was and why am I even writing this blah blah blah.
Good times, eh? I expressed my frustration to MOTH about being unable to write something funny and interesting. He tried to reassure me that I shouldn't put pressure on myself. He said, "Even if one out of five is any good--and with you it's more likely to be, oh, say, one out of three--that's something." (Pop Marriage Quiz: Where does that statement go horribly, if well-intentionedally, awry? Wives, you're not allowed to help your husbands.)
I'm very much afraid I growled unattractively.
But! It's a newday final two hours of the evening, and as a peace offering, I'm going to take up MOTH's helpful writing prompts and tell you about My Halloween.
I did, in fact, go see a play. And it did, in fact, leave me rather...eh. I went in with unfairly high expectations, because MOTH (who did the props and is a member of the company that produced the play) kept raving about it and how it moved him to tears each time. I will admit to a mild prickling about the ocular region at one point, but I wasn't swept up into it. In the first act, we meet a young couple who are just meeting each other for the first time and are instantly drawn to each other, although they're both dating other people. We are also introduced to an older couple who have a very active sex life and no compunction about passing on wisdom about life and love to young strangers. In the second act, we learn that this older couple is planning a suicide pact. The man has cancer and the wife has agreed to give him an overdose. She later reveals to him that she's planning on going with him, as she doesn't want to live without him.
There are some lovely moments throughout the play, as well as some wonderful lines (one of my favorites is when the young girl asks the old woman about the idea of knowing whether or not love will last, and the woman replies, "No one stands on the side of the dance floor and thinks, "He'll look good in dentures!"). But I didn't find myself lost in the stories of these couples, for a couple of reasons. First, I found the young woman rather...unlikable. I don't know if it was the actress or the way the part was written, but I had a hard time seeing what, outside of the physical attributes, the young man saw in her. Secondly, I had figured out the suicide pact angle early on (they drop increasingly obvious hints before revealing what's going on), so the long buildup to the (quite lovely) end dragged a bit. And finally, and probably mostly? I am ruined for cancer/parental loss storylines. I can sniff 'em out a mile away and I am unable to see them as isolated fiction. I detach from the story and become immersed in my own thoughts.
So, there you go: eh.
Considerably less "eh"? My pregnant friend! This is the same friend with whom I spent a night in the ER and received a call that she thought she was miscarrying. She's due in late March. And I just want to thank all of you for your good vibes/prayers/animal sacrifices back in the summer when I mentioned this, because clearly y'all are Very Powerful.
And trick-or-treating with Tankbaby (who, at nearly 20 months, will soon be in the market for a new moniker, one without the word "baby"--taking suggestions below) was pretty damn idyllic. He was dressed as...a mammal of some sort. What? I don't know. We had something figured out for a costume (the little suit that he wore to Aunt Benevola's wedding, plus a violin case and a fedora, possibly with a small mustache penciled in), but MOTH's mom had found this brown furry suit with ears and a head and paws and...we think it was a bear, but we also heard monkey, mole (side note: really? You think we dressed our kid up as a mole?), or beaver. Although the orientation is all wrong, I'm putting up this video I took of Tanky playing downtown. Just tilt either your head or your computer monitor. He falls down and begins to crawl, which actually works for the costume.
However, you can see where, when the kid's just wearing it, it has a little less...definition, shall we say. And a lot more...goiter.
But once you add a collapsible pumpkin bucket and a shuffling waddle through the fall leaves, it's a little ridiculous how cute he was.
Tank was quite uncertain about the whole thing for the first few houses, but once he got the hang of it, he became very enthusiastic. He'd start up a driveway, calling, "Teee? Teee?" and I'd explain that the "Trick or Treat" was really for once the door was opened, or at least when you were standing at the door. He knocked with ferocity, but then learned to take a few steps back to allow for door opening. On occasion, he would grab the hand of the treat-hander-outter, like, "You gotta get out here and try this. Do you know about this "treat" business? Also, look! A leaf!" I felt a little bad about the fact that he was never going to get to eat any of the candy he was collecting, but figured he didn't know what he was missing, and was mostly interested in the shiny wrappers and the whole meet and greet aspect of the evening. My favorite was the woman who exclaimed over his cuteness, and then looked at me and asked, "What kind of candy does Mama like?" before choosing something to drop in his bucket. I asked for a Reese's cup and appreciated her forthrightness. Because, really. Taking a toddler trick-or-treating? Is just a way to pimp out your kid for sugar.
Anyway, strange mammalian costume and baby-whoring aside, it was a lovely evening. The weather was perfect, crisp but not chilly. My kid was having a great time (although I did keep thinking about how disappointing our next neighborhood walk would be, what with significantly less candy and far fewer doorbell-ringing), and I had one of those moments where I was just struck that, wow, I'm a mom. What an iconic image, the adult crouched behind the costumed child, prompting the line, cuing the thank-you, and then, tiny paw in grown-up hand, trundling off down the street.
"What about the play?" he offered. I typed, I saw a play. Eh.
"What about taking your son trick-or-treating for the first time?" I took Tankbaby trick-or-treating for the first time. It was really cute, but you don't care because you're not his mom, and I can't get the damn video oriented correctly to prove how cute and funny it was and why am I even writing this blah blah blah.
Good times, eh? I expressed my frustration to MOTH about being unable to write something funny and interesting. He tried to reassure me that I shouldn't put pressure on myself. He said, "Even if one out of five is any good--and with you it's more likely to be, oh, say, one out of three--that's something." (Pop Marriage Quiz: Where does that statement go horribly, if well-intentionedally, awry? Wives, you're not allowed to help your husbands.)
I'm very much afraid I growled unattractively.
But! It's a new
I did, in fact, go see a play. And it did, in fact, leave me rather...eh. I went in with unfairly high expectations, because MOTH (who did the props and is a member of the company that produced the play) kept raving about it and how it moved him to tears each time. I will admit to a mild prickling about the ocular region at one point, but I wasn't swept up into it. In the first act, we meet a young couple who are just meeting each other for the first time and are instantly drawn to each other, although they're both dating other people. We are also introduced to an older couple who have a very active sex life and no compunction about passing on wisdom about life and love to young strangers. In the second act, we learn that this older couple is planning a suicide pact. The man has cancer and the wife has agreed to give him an overdose. She later reveals to him that she's planning on going with him, as she doesn't want to live without him.
There are some lovely moments throughout the play, as well as some wonderful lines (one of my favorites is when the young girl asks the old woman about the idea of knowing whether or not love will last, and the woman replies, "No one stands on the side of the dance floor and thinks, "He'll look good in dentures!"). But I didn't find myself lost in the stories of these couples, for a couple of reasons. First, I found the young woman rather...unlikable. I don't know if it was the actress or the way the part was written, but I had a hard time seeing what, outside of the physical attributes, the young man saw in her. Secondly, I had figured out the suicide pact angle early on (they drop increasingly obvious hints before revealing what's going on), so the long buildup to the (quite lovely) end dragged a bit. And finally, and probably mostly? I am ruined for cancer/parental loss storylines. I can sniff 'em out a mile away and I am unable to see them as isolated fiction. I detach from the story and become immersed in my own thoughts.
So, there you go: eh.
Considerably less "eh"? My pregnant friend! This is the same friend with whom I spent a night in the ER and received a call that she thought she was miscarrying. She's due in late March. And I just want to thank all of you for your good vibes/prayers/animal sacrifices back in the summer when I mentioned this, because clearly y'all are Very Powerful.
And trick-or-treating with Tankbaby (who, at nearly 20 months, will soon be in the market for a new moniker, one without the word "baby"--taking suggestions below) was pretty damn idyllic. He was dressed as...a mammal of some sort. What? I don't know. We had something figured out for a costume (the little suit that he wore to Aunt Benevola's wedding, plus a violin case and a fedora, possibly with a small mustache penciled in), but MOTH's mom had found this brown furry suit with ears and a head and paws and...we think it was a bear, but we also heard monkey, mole (side note: really? You think we dressed our kid up as a mole?), or beaver. Although the orientation is all wrong, I'm putting up this video I took of Tanky playing downtown. Just tilt either your head or your computer monitor. He falls down and begins to crawl, which actually works for the costume.
However, you can see where, when the kid's just wearing it, it has a little less...definition, shall we say. And a lot more...goiter.
But once you add a collapsible pumpkin bucket and a shuffling waddle through the fall leaves, it's a little ridiculous how cute he was.
Tank was quite uncertain about the whole thing for the first few houses, but once he got the hang of it, he became very enthusiastic. He'd start up a driveway, calling, "Teee? Teee?" and I'd explain that the "Trick or Treat" was really for once the door was opened, or at least when you were standing at the door. He knocked with ferocity, but then learned to take a few steps back to allow for door opening. On occasion, he would grab the hand of the treat-hander-outter, like, "You gotta get out here and try this. Do you know about this "treat" business? Also, look! A leaf!" I felt a little bad about the fact that he was never going to get to eat any of the candy he was collecting, but figured he didn't know what he was missing, and was mostly interested in the shiny wrappers and the whole meet and greet aspect of the evening. My favorite was the woman who exclaimed over his cuteness, and then looked at me and asked, "What kind of candy does Mama like?" before choosing something to drop in his bucket. I asked for a Reese's cup and appreciated her forthrightness. Because, really. Taking a toddler trick-or-treating? Is just a way to pimp out your kid for sugar.
Anyway, strange mammalian costume and baby-whoring aside, it was a lovely evening. The weather was perfect, crisp but not chilly. My kid was having a great time (although I did keep thinking about how disappointing our next neighborhood walk would be, what with significantly less candy and far fewer doorbell-ringing), and I had one of those moments where I was just struck that, wow, I'm a mom. What an iconic image, the adult crouched behind the costumed child, prompting the line, cuing the thank-you, and then, tiny paw in grown-up hand, trundling off down the street.
Monday, November 1, 2010
NaBlowMe
What, in this blog's recent sad history, makes me think I can post something every day this month?
But...the quilt is done. The kid goes to bed at a reasonable(ish) hour now (unlike last year at this time, when I wrote 90% of my blog entries while the baby was sleeping on the boob). I have no travel plans to make nor keep. And I miss this. I miss y'all. I'm missing out on brilliant words from smart, funny women. I'm tired of feeling like I need to start every blog post with an apology/excuse/explanation for why I haven't written more.
Now if I only had one Goddamned thing to say.
Seriously. I just spent twenty minutes staring at, variously, the screen, the fishtank, my socks, my shoes, Tankbaby's shoes, the screen again, and typing a tentative five letters before swearing, deleting and staring at my shoes again. I am just absolutely, totally uninspired to write ANYTHING right now, despite the inauspicious timing for writer's block.
So far, this whole NaBloPoMo is going swimmingly, wouldn't you say?
But...the quilt is done. The kid goes to bed at a reasonable(ish) hour now (unlike last year at this time, when I wrote 90% of my blog entries while the baby was sleeping on the boob). I have no travel plans to make nor keep. And I miss this. I miss y'all. I'm missing out on brilliant words from smart, funny women. I'm tired of feeling like I need to start every blog post with an apology/excuse/explanation for why I haven't written more.
Now if I only had one Goddamned thing to say.
Seriously. I just spent twenty minutes staring at, variously, the screen, the fishtank, my socks, my shoes, Tankbaby's shoes, the screen again, and typing a tentative five letters before swearing, deleting and staring at my shoes again. I am just absolutely, totally uninspired to write ANYTHING right now, despite the inauspicious timing for writer's block.
So far, this whole NaBloPoMo is going swimmingly, wouldn't you say?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Something for the Someone
I'm back! From the wedding! And the project that took me so many nights and naptimes that I'd disappeared entirely from the Interwebz. Have you been losing sleep over what it was? Have you been pacing the floor, wondering, what could be so important that she, previously so dedicated and consistent and prolific, could suddenly just disappear for months? And then you stop, angry, pounding your fist into your hand, crying, NOTHING COULD BE SO IMPORTANT!!
Well, I've got three words for you: Dead Mom's Quilt.*
See? See how I immediately play the Dead Mom card, thus neutralizing any impatience you might have felt? Hey, the gig is crummy, I gotta take the perks where I can get 'em.
Anyway, what I was spending literally every free moment on for the last several weeks (and many other moments on prior to August) was a quilt for my sister as a wedding/housewarming present. But not just any quilt, you see...several years ago my mom had decided she would make a quilt. My mom was an experienced seamstress, but hadn't quilted before. But, being who she was, this neither intimidated nor bothered her. My mom had a way of doing things, and that way was always, to quote Jamie Buchman, whole-assed. So, while you or I might say, "Gee, I've never made a quilt. I guess I should start with something simple," Mom would say, "Well, if you're going to make a quilt, MAKE a QUILT."
A Very Short Primer on Quilts That Will Provide a Frame of Reference: Quilts are basically blocks of fabric, sewn together. The simplest way to do this is to have x number of squares sewn in rows. More complicated is to sew together other shapes to make up larger blocks that then get sewn together. Then you get into the patterns and such. If you want to be very complicated, you take zillions of teeny tiny squares of fabric and arrange them by color, making an Impressionist, watercolor mosaic effect. Guess which way Mom went? Right. So I inherited two box lids of teeny tiny squares of floral fabric, sorted out into color families, arranged in tidy piles. Along with these were two books about watercolor quilts, and a pad of graph paper. So I thought to myself, I will finish my dead mother's quilt! I will continue her legacy!
Then I realized that Mom's true legacy was this: Mom liked to start projects. She always began them with gusto (and a full set of expensive supplies), but then she got busy. Or got distracted. Or, got cancer. So what I found was no pages marked in the books, nothing but a packing list on the graph paper, and no real clue as to what her quilty dream might have been. So, a lovely friend who knows quilts helped me pick out a pattern, and instead of Finishing My Dead Mother's Quilt, I settled for Making a Quilt Out of Fabric Chosen, Cut, and Arranged And Then Put In the Basement By My Dead Mother.
So (and yes, I realize it's daring, nay, outrageous to assume that, having not posted in weeks, I'm assuming that what you'd really like to read about is a sewing project that has already taken place), I sewed and sewed and sewed, and ironed and cut and ripped seams and counted and sewed some more. During naptimes on weekends, and each evening after Tankbaby went to bed, I would set up my ironing board, put the sewing machine on top of the dishwasher, pull out scissors, pins, and rulers, and work. I watched (well, listened to) countless episodes of The Daily Show, Louie, and Lie to Me, courtesy of Hulu.com. MOTH would go off to bed, pleading exhaustion, and I would whimper with envy. Sixty, ninety minutes at a time, before I'd pack everything up again (have I mentioned that my sewing studio is also my kitchen?) and trudge off to bed, hoping that tonight would not be one of the nights that Tankbaby decided to check in at 3 AM just to see if I was serious about that whole no-milk-between-10-and-6 thing.
Somewhere in here I also worked a whole bunch, started teaching another course of my parenting class, got eight inches of hair cut off (which all of five people noticed, as I started with approximately twelve feet of hair), bought a dress for the wedding, bought a bra for the dress that didn't actually work with the dress, and begged with Tankbaby to please, please, please learn to say "mama." (He's got a few words, like "dada" and "zebra," all the important ones.)
But I did it. Two days before we left, I finished the binding (the part that goes around the outside of the whole quilt and has to be hand-sewed), packed it into the top of my carry-on suitcase, and had a whole extra day free to really freak out about flying alone with a toddler.
I gave it to my sister the night before the wedding. She's going to put it in the front room of her new house, draped over the wooden rocking chair that we grew up with. I think she was appropriately moved, and I made her promise to use it and wear it out. I have fantasies of Tankbaby--as a Tankkiddo--coming to visit and curling up under the quilt and finding the three cat faces among all the flowers (WTF, Mom?) and running his fingers over the seams and knowing that Mama made this quilt for Aunt Benevola.
The cool part is that, the day before the wedding, my aunt came up for breakfast. I showed her the quilt and she told me that she thought my mom had also pulled fabric from my grandmother's stash to incorporate into the quilt. So you got your dead mom, you got your sister's wedding, and now you got the whole three-generations thing. Not too shabby, eh?
So, assuming you're still reading this and even politely feigning interest, here's the finished product. I'm really really pleased with how it turned out, although during one particularly long evening of seam-ripping, I will admit to shouting, "Screw it! We're getting her a fondue pot!"
*If you just muttered to yourself, "I used to play bass for Dead Mom's Quilt," then we are BFF. Or possibly, you're my dad. Hi, Dad!
Well, I've got three words for you: Dead Mom's Quilt.*
See? See how I immediately play the Dead Mom card, thus neutralizing any impatience you might have felt? Hey, the gig is crummy, I gotta take the perks where I can get 'em.
Anyway, what I was spending literally every free moment on for the last several weeks (and many other moments on prior to August) was a quilt for my sister as a wedding/housewarming present. But not just any quilt, you see...several years ago my mom had decided she would make a quilt. My mom was an experienced seamstress, but hadn't quilted before. But, being who she was, this neither intimidated nor bothered her. My mom had a way of doing things, and that way was always, to quote Jamie Buchman, whole-assed. So, while you or I might say, "Gee, I've never made a quilt. I guess I should start with something simple," Mom would say, "Well, if you're going to make a quilt, MAKE a QUILT."
A Very Short Primer on Quilts That Will Provide a Frame of Reference: Quilts are basically blocks of fabric, sewn together. The simplest way to do this is to have x number of squares sewn in rows. More complicated is to sew together other shapes to make up larger blocks that then get sewn together. Then you get into the patterns and such. If you want to be very complicated, you take zillions of teeny tiny squares of fabric and arrange them by color, making an Impressionist, watercolor mosaic effect. Guess which way Mom went? Right. So I inherited two box lids of teeny tiny squares of floral fabric, sorted out into color families, arranged in tidy piles. Along with these were two books about watercolor quilts, and a pad of graph paper. So I thought to myself, I will finish my dead mother's quilt! I will continue her legacy!
Then I realized that Mom's true legacy was this: Mom liked to start projects. She always began them with gusto (and a full set of expensive supplies), but then she got busy. Or got distracted. Or, got cancer. So what I found was no pages marked in the books, nothing but a packing list on the graph paper, and no real clue as to what her quilty dream might have been. So, a lovely friend who knows quilts helped me pick out a pattern, and instead of Finishing My Dead Mother's Quilt, I settled for Making a Quilt Out of Fabric Chosen, Cut, and Arranged And Then Put In the Basement By My Dead Mother.
So (and yes, I realize it's daring, nay, outrageous to assume that, having not posted in weeks, I'm assuming that what you'd really like to read about is a sewing project that has already taken place), I sewed and sewed and sewed, and ironed and cut and ripped seams and counted and sewed some more. During naptimes on weekends, and each evening after Tankbaby went to bed, I would set up my ironing board, put the sewing machine on top of the dishwasher, pull out scissors, pins, and rulers, and work. I watched (well, listened to) countless episodes of The Daily Show, Louie, and Lie to Me, courtesy of Hulu.com. MOTH would go off to bed, pleading exhaustion, and I would whimper with envy. Sixty, ninety minutes at a time, before I'd pack everything up again (have I mentioned that my sewing studio is also my kitchen?) and trudge off to bed, hoping that tonight would not be one of the nights that Tankbaby decided to check in at 3 AM just to see if I was serious about that whole no-milk-between-10-and-6 thing.
Somewhere in here I also worked a whole bunch, started teaching another course of my parenting class, got eight inches of hair cut off (which all of five people noticed, as I started with approximately twelve feet of hair), bought a dress for the wedding, bought a bra for the dress that didn't actually work with the dress, and begged with Tankbaby to please, please, please learn to say "mama." (He's got a few words, like "dada" and "zebra," all the important ones.)
But I did it. Two days before we left, I finished the binding (the part that goes around the outside of the whole quilt and has to be hand-sewed), packed it into the top of my carry-on suitcase, and had a whole extra day free to really freak out about flying alone with a toddler.
I gave it to my sister the night before the wedding. She's going to put it in the front room of her new house, draped over the wooden rocking chair that we grew up with. I think she was appropriately moved, and I made her promise to use it and wear it out. I have fantasies of Tankbaby--as a Tankkiddo--coming to visit and curling up under the quilt and finding the three cat faces among all the flowers (WTF, Mom?) and running his fingers over the seams and knowing that Mama made this quilt for Aunt Benevola.
The cool part is that, the day before the wedding, my aunt came up for breakfast. I showed her the quilt and she told me that she thought my mom had also pulled fabric from my grandmother's stash to incorporate into the quilt. So you got your dead mom, you got your sister's wedding, and now you got the whole three-generations thing. Not too shabby, eh?
So, assuming you're still reading this and even politely feigning interest, here's the finished product. I'm really really pleased with how it turned out, although during one particularly long evening of seam-ripping, I will admit to shouting, "Screw it! We're getting her a fondue pot!"
*If you just muttered to yourself, "I used to play bass for Dead Mom's Quilt," then we are BFF. Or possibly, you're my dad. Hi, Dad!
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Assuming a Picture is Worth A Thousand Words, This Should Make Up for a Few Posts
So I'm only about twelve behind.
Once again, the kids at the school where we have a classroom are making those PSA posters. The current movement is about recycling batteries. Or...
Once again, the kids at the school where we have a classroom are making those PSA posters. The current movement is about recycling batteries. Or...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
A List is TOTALLY as Good as a Real Post
Things I've Been Doing That Have Distracted Me From Blogging (and, Occasionally, Showering):
But enough about me. What have you been up to?
- Working on...Something. That I can't tell you about yet, because it's for Someone. Someone who reads this blog. I've already said too much.
- Trying to find the time to participate in this puppety-performance art thing (oh, yes, you read that right) so that I can be Doing Something Creative for the first time in two years.
- Taking my first stab at making Indian food (thanks, Kitchen Witch!)
- Making mad lists of things that must be done before I travel to Chicago in October for my sister's wedding. Yep, Aunt Benevola's getting hitched, and I am flying with Tankbaby by myself (MOTH to join us later). Eep. So far I have: bought a dress and airline tickets. I have not yet: begun to hoard prescription pain meds to survive the flight. (Not for me, you understand, I would generously share with those around us.)
- Obsessively, raptly, constantly listening to this song, and really, this whole album. What's not like to love about British bluegrass? Gorgeous harmonies, foot-stomping bass lines, and cute boys in suspenders. Am swooning.
- Trying to process the swarm of thoughts and feelings I had when MOTH took me on my birthday date: going to see Rufus Wainwright in concert with the symphony. The first half of the concert was selections from his opera (His opera. That he wrote. In French, no less.), which is not my genre, despite the fact that more than one voice teacher has tried to steer me that way (I am a lyric soprano who wants to be a gutsy alto). But the second half, when he sang and the strings and the horns swelled in the background...ah. It made me want to stand up and sing along--frowned upon at the symphony, sadly. But it all made me think about music and how it's missing from my life these days and how most people in my life now don't even know that I sing. I was taking voice lessons for a while, but stopped when it got prohibitively expensive. I don't miss the lessons, per se, but I miss singing being a priority in my life. But even as all of these thoughts were bubbling up, I was also swept away by the gorgeousness of Wainwright's voice, along with developing a big ol crush on his sweet, flamboyant, self-effacing self (see also, this song, which is what he opened with, and I have been singing it for a week now). And then he sang songs for his mom, who passed away earlier this year, and I cried. And then he sang "Hallelujah." And I cried. Altogether, a really lovely, if emotionally overwhelming, evening. All hail MOTH, Best Birthday Gift Giver!
- Making gallons of homemade chicken noodle soup, the process of which nearly drives me to veganism every time.
- Consuming my weight in chocolate brownie frozen yogurt.
- Wondering why I don't need a belt suddenly.
- Getting really worked up over things like midterm elections and insurance deductibles, and realizing that I am officially a Grown-Up, and kind of a boring one at that.
- Obsessing over whether 35 is too old to put a purple streak in my hair.
- Getting really excited about my friend's pregnancy--the one that we thought might have been ending at the ER one night, and then the next day, but that your collective good voodoo saved and is now almost twelve weeks along! I'm also hoping to help her plan her shotgun wedding (the official theme), and just generally revel in the fact that sometimes Good Things happen.
- Teaching Tankbaby to make claw hands to request Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"
But enough about me. What have you been up to?
Saturday, September 4, 2010
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