Army of One

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

I fight against the onslaught of peer pressure
that wants trendy but impractical clothes
that wears flip flops in December
that thinks midnight movies on a school night is a good idea

I fight against the onslaught of teenage emotions
Unnecessary yet consuming drama
Poor manners
Disrespect and rudeness towards others

I fight against the onslaught of advertisement
that encourages purchases made on a whim
that makes you feel inadequate if you don't have it and superior if you do
that tricks you into believing you never have enough

I fight against the onslaught of technology
cellphones for young children
gaming systems of every size and shape imaginable.
televisions instead of books and sore thumbs instead of sharp minds

I fight against the onslaught of bad taste
food served through a window
music that hurts your ears and troubles your soul
movies without a plot

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

I get up and fight every single day
because I refuse to concede these battles.
My child is worth fighting for.

I get up and fight every single day
because there is no tag team. There is no hand off,
and my role must be "bad cop" every single time.

I get up and fight every day
because although I am not intent on winning every battle,
I am determined to face them and fight them with consistency.
How and when they end will be my decision
and only on my terms.

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

Although it seems my constant refrain is "No"
I hope that someday she'll understand.
And as indescribably difficult and exhausting these battles may be
I know my child is worth it.
And that more than anything else gives me the strength to fight another day.

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

Army of One

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

I fight against the onslaught of peer pressure
that wants trendy but impractical clothes
that wears flip flops in December
that thinks midnight movies on a school night is a good idea

I fight against the onslaught of teenage emotions
Unnecessary yet consuming drama
Poor manners
Disrespect and rudeness towards others

I fight against the onslaught of advertisement
that encourages purchases made on a whim
that makes you feel inadequate if you don't have it and superior if you do
that tricks you into believing you never have enough

I fight against the onslaught of technology
cellphones for young children
gaming systems of every size and shape imaginable.
televisions instead of books and sore thumbs instead of sharp minds

I fight against the onslaught of bad taste
food served through a window
music that hurts your ears and troubles your soul
movies without a plot

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

I get up and fight every single day
because I refuse to concede these battles.
My child is worth fighting for.

I get up and fight every single day
because there is no tag team. There is no hand off,
and my role must be "bad cop" every single time.

I get up and fight every day
because although I am not intent on winning every battle,
I am determined to face them and fight them with consistency.
How and when they end will be my decision
and only on my terms.

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

Although it seems my constant refrain is "No"
I hope that someday she'll understand.
And as indescribably difficult and exhausting these battles may be
I know my child is worth it.
And that more than anything else gives me the strength to fight another day.

I am a single parent. I am an Army of One.

My Kingdom for a Nook

As I continue to reassemble my bedroom (post-painting), I'm hoping somehow to eke out some space for one final, but very important thing. I really, really, really want a nook. Now, my bedroom is so small, this particular nook isn't going to be anything more than one empty corner where I could put a small comfy chair. But that, in and of itself would be perfection.

A nook would give me a place to read. What's wrong with reading in bed? Nothing, except I can't keep my eyes open. What's wrong with reading in the living room? It's too TVish, so that doesn't work. What about the basement? Don't even go there. What about the throne room? First of all, porcelain does not a nook make, and there are definite time limitations before body parts fall asleep and walking becomes extremely difficult.

A nook would also give me a place to do needlework or knit, grab a quick nap, or make a list that I'll never complete. A nook whispers, "grab a blanket and come snuggle for awhile." A nook is quiet. A nook is peaceful. A nook is a grownup tree house without the ants and the splinters.

I used to work in an office with four walls. It was less a nook and more a fortress, filled with potentially deadly piles of work ready to crush you without warning. When I moved to my Dilbert cubicle, the first thing I did was make my area a nook. I positioned my desk and chair in such a way that I am snuggled up in a corner as far from the entrance as possible. If I could put on slippers and wrap myself up in a blanket it would make it all the better, but even without those luxuries, I've made it as cozy as institutional office furniture allows.

Some people love wide open spaces with minimal furniture. Maybe a hard chair or two, and a sofa that isn't much more than an overstuffed bench with spindly legs. While I appreciate the sleek lines and the airy feeling, to me it comes off as cold. There is no place to curl up, and even a pillow or blanket would seem out of place.

So as I put things back in my room, I'm going to work hard for my nook. If I give myself the gift of a special place to be, maybe I can give myself the gift of a little time to be there. Unheard of? Maybe. Heavenly? Hopefully. Worth the trouble? Absolutely.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One year ago - I was crazy busy (lazy) a did a first-sentence-of-the-month meme.

Two years ago - I was crazy busy (lazy) and did a Friday's Feast meme.

Three years ago - I wrote on the temporary permanence of music.

Four years ago - In my world, if I'm not writing about Mince Pie, I'm writing about the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (6 minutes, 14 seconds). Oh, and Google. And Amazon. I don't consider myself shallow. Just consistent.

Five years ago - The mailman delivered the weirdest Christmas gift ever. Who knows? I still may have those Swiss Colony Butt Wipes around here somewhere.

My Kingdom for a Nook

As I continue to reassemble my bedroom (post-painting), I'm hoping somehow to eke out some space for one final, but very important thing. I really, really, really want a nook. Now, my bedroom is so small, this particular nook isn't going to be anything more than one empty corner where I could put a small comfy chair. But that, in and of itself would be perfection.

A nook would give me a place to read. What's wrong with reading in bed? Nothing, except I can't keep my eyes open. What's wrong with reading in the living room? It's too TVish, so that doesn't work. What about the basement? Don't even go there. What about the throne room? First of all, porcelain does not a nook make, and there are definite time limitations before body parts fall asleep and walking becomes extremely difficult.

A nook would also give me a place to do needlework or knit, grab a quick nap, or make a list that I'll never complete. A nook whispers, "grab a blanket and come snuggle for awhile." A nook is quiet. A nook is peaceful. A nook is a grownup tree house without the ants and the splinters.

I used to work in an office with four walls. It was less a nook and more a fortress, filled with potentially deadly piles of work ready to crush you without warning. When I moved to my Dilbert cubicle, the first thing I did was make my area a nook. I positioned my desk and chair in such a way that I am snuggled up in a corner as far from the entrance as possible. If I could put on slippers and wrap myself up in a blanket it would make it all the better, but even without those luxuries, I've made it as cozy as institutional office furniture allows.

Some people love wide open spaces with minimal furniture. Maybe a hard chair or two, and a sofa that isn't much more than an overstuffed bench with spindly legs. While I appreciate the sleek lines and the airy feeling, to me it comes off as cold. There is no place to curl up, and even a pillow or blanket would seem out of place.

So as I put things back in my room, I'm going to work hard for my nook. If I give myself the gift of a special place to be, maybe I can give myself the gift of a little time to be there. Unheard of? Maybe. Heavenly? Hopefully. Worth the trouble? Absolutely.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One year ago - I was crazy busy (lazy) a did a first-sentence-of-the-month meme.

Two years ago - I was crazy busy (lazy) and did a Friday's Feast meme.

Three years ago - I wrote on the temporary permanence of music.

Four years ago - In my world, if I'm not writing about Mince Pie, I'm writing about the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (6 minutes, 14 seconds). Oh, and Google. And Amazon. I don't consider myself shallow. Just consistent.

Five years ago - The mailman delivered the weirdest Christmas gift ever. Who knows? I still may have those Swiss Colony Butt Wipes around here somewhere.

Ah, Great Mysteries of Life

Things I could write about, but have no answers to:

• Why one cat demands to share my people food every night while the other one couldn't be bothered.
• Why I have so much junk mail.
• Why they called shoe trees when all they are are cheap, ill-fitting metal contraptions that scratch up my bedroom door.
• Why I'm always freezing at home but boiling at work.
• Why I cannot find anything I'm looking for in my house, but always find things in stores when I have no money.
• Why the price of newspapers keep going up, but the content keeps shrinking.
• Why the new Facebook layout really doesn't bother me, yet makes so many others downright furious.
• Why Mondays are always so hard, when in reality, Saturdays and Sundays aren't exactly days of rest, either.
• Why college courses were forever ago, but college friends were just yesterday.
• Why Herbie didn't want to make toys, but wanted to be a dentist.
• Why I will always sing "Hark, Herald the Angel sings" instead of "Hark, the herald angels sing" and always think I'm being funny.
• Why pandas make me smile, and bats make me panic.
• Why life often just seems to be one big lonely sock.
• Why putting the iPod on "shuffle" is the equivalent of playing the musical lottery.
• Why I never, ever play the lottery until the prize becomes obscenely huge. Evidently my plan is to wait until the odds are really, really, really, REALLY bad before I care to join in.
• Why I can never remember the twelve days of Christmas song when it gets higher than 9.
• Why I don't get, don't appreciate, or plain old don't care about vampires.
• Why I'm falling asleep at my computer desk and I'm not in bed.

At least I can solve that last one. Goodnight.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One year ago - I sang my fourth "Amahl and the Night Visitors" opera. Each performance and "Amahl" has been personal and special in its own way. This one was no different.

Two years ago - I bemoaned the educational flavor of the day, known as "Connective Math"

Three Years ago - TinyTuna sends me an email and regales me with stories of injuries at school, and rants that nothing rhymes with "Chromium".

Four years ago - I took a commercial break and whined about a few prime examples. Little did I know the Gastrointestinal Macarena was just around the corner.

Five years ago - I was hoping TinyTuna wouldn't get creative in church when answering questions about Advent during the sermon.

Ah, Great Mysteries of Life

Things I could write about, but have no answers to:

• Why one cat demands to share my people food every night while the other one couldn't be bothered.
• Why I have so much junk mail.
• Why they called shoe trees when all they are are cheap, ill-fitting metal contraptions that scratch up my bedroom door.
• Why I'm always freezing at home but boiling at work.
• Why I cannot find anything I'm looking for in my house, but always find things in stores when I have no money.
• Why the price of newspapers keep going up, but the content keeps shrinking.
• Why the new Facebook layout really doesn't bother me, yet makes so many others downright furious.
• Why Mondays are always so hard, when in reality, Saturdays and Sundays aren't exactly days of rest, either.
• Why college courses were forever ago, but college friends were just yesterday.
• Why Herbie didn't want to make toys, but wanted to be a dentist.
• Why I will always sing "Hark, Herald the Angel sings" instead of "Hark, the herald angels sing" and always think I'm being funny.
• Why pandas make me smile, and bats make me panic.
• Why life often just seems to be one big lonely sock.
• Why putting the iPod on "shuffle" is the equivalent of playing the musical lottery.
• Why I never, ever play the lottery until the prize becomes obscenely huge. Evidently my plan is to wait until the odds are really, really, really, REALLY bad before I care to join in.
• Why I can never remember the twelve days of Christmas song when it gets higher than 9.
• Why I don't get, don't appreciate, or plain old don't care about vampires.
• Why I'm falling asleep at my computer desk and I'm not in bed.

At least I can solve that last one. Goodnight.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One year ago - I sang my fourth "Amahl and the Night Visitors" opera. Each performance and "Amahl" has been personal and special in its own way. This one was no different.

Two years ago - I bemoaned the educational flavor of the day, known as "Connective Math"

Three Years ago - TinyTuna sends me an email and regales me with stories of injuries at school, and rants that nothing rhymes with "Chromium".

Four years ago - I took a commercial break and whined about a few prime examples. Little did I know the Gastrointestinal Macarena was just around the corner.

Five years ago - I was hoping TinyTuna wouldn't get creative in church when answering questions about Advent during the sermon.

Oh Laundry Tree, Oh Laundry Tree

I'm hoping this is my one Scrooge entry for the year, because I'm telling you, it's days like this when I'm ready for it all to be over, for it to be mid-January, and for me to have nothing better to complain about than no more work holidays until May.

The holidays are hard on lots of people for lots of reasons, but for musicians, December is tough. There are way too many concerts, way WAY too many rehearsals and way WAY WAY not enough not enough minutes and hours and days for all the regular holiday insanity, not to mention the day-to-day trivialities of oh, a JOB and BILLS and HOUSEWORK and WHY DONT I GO TO THE STORE AND BUY SOME MORE DISHES AND SOCKS BECAUSE LORD KNOWS NOTHING I HAVE IS CLEAN. So, please don't ask me about Christmas shopping, or baking, or a TREE or a shrub or anything else that is supposed to be assembled, decorated and on display. It hasn't happened. I'm seriously considering piling up all the detritus in the living room and tossing some tinsel on it and calling it good. Baby Jee would understand, and the cats would love it. The teenager, most likely, would complain loudly and dramatically, but since that's all she does these days, I'm already living it.

And here's my dilemma -- I know that I'm lucky to have a talent that I can share with others. I know that special events afford me that opportunity. I am humbled beyond words to be asked to perform. I really and truly am. And despite my complaining, I enjoy it. I really do. I am grateful for the opportunities, even if it sounds like all I want to do right now is crawl in a hole. But like many things, a musician's life is feast or famine, and although famine sucks, even feast gets tiring when you're shoving figgy pudding down your gullet all day, every day, you know?

But, I'm not just here to complain about life onstage. No! When I am Queen of everything, my first order of business would be to teach people how to behave in an audience. GONE! would be the crinkly wrapped snacks. GONE! would be the loud loud loud out of synch foot tapping. GONE! would be the cellphones. GONE! would be the ridiculously loud talking in the middle of a performance. GONE! would be the inappropriate concert attire. GONE! would be people who find it necessary to crawl over 45 people so they can leave two minutes earlier than everyone else (in mid-piece) so they won't get stuck in traffic. GONE! would be latecomers. GONE! would be the lovers of musk deoderant and cheap perfume.

And that's just off the top of my head.

I'm sure hoping that tomorrow when I wake up, my holiday humbug will be gone. Today was full of kerfluffle, and tomorrow represents a clean start. Here's to hoping that life calms down just enough so I can breathe deeply, look around me and be grateful for the right things.

Like that big pile of living room mess and that new box of tinsel. If that doesn't scream Christmas, I don't know-ho-ho what does.

Oh Laundry Tree, Oh Laundry Tree

I'm hoping this is my one Scrooge entry for the year, because I'm telling you, it's days like this when I'm ready for it all to be over, for it to be mid-January, and for me to have nothing better to complain about than no more work holidays until May.

The holidays are hard on lots of people for lots of reasons, but for musicians, December is tough. There are way too many concerts, way WAY too many rehearsals and way WAY WAY not enough not enough minutes and hours and days for all the regular holiday insanity, not to mention the day-to-day trivialities of oh, a JOB and BILLS and HOUSEWORK and WHY DONT I GO TO THE STORE AND BUY SOME MORE DISHES AND SOCKS BECAUSE LORD KNOWS NOTHING I HAVE IS CLEAN. So, please don't ask me about Christmas shopping, or baking, or a TREE or a shrub or anything else that is supposed to be assembled, decorated and on display. It hasn't happened. I'm seriously considering piling up all the detritus in the living room and tossing some tinsel on it and calling it good. Baby Jee would understand, and the cats would love it. The teenager, most likely, would complain loudly and dramatically, but since that's all she does these days, I'm already living it.

And here's my dilemma -- I know that I'm lucky to have a talent that I can share with others. I know that special events afford me that opportunity. I am humbled beyond words to be asked to perform. I really and truly am. And despite my complaining, I enjoy it. I really do. I am grateful for the opportunities, even if it sounds like all I want to do right now is crawl in a hole. But like many things, a musician's life is feast or famine, and although famine sucks, even feast gets tiring when you're shoving figgy pudding down your gullet all day, every day, you know?

But, I'm not just here to complain about life onstage. No! When I am Queen of everything, my first order of business would be to teach people how to behave in an audience. GONE! would be the crinkly wrapped snacks. GONE! would be the loud loud loud out of synch foot tapping. GONE! would be the cellphones. GONE! would be the ridiculously loud talking in the middle of a performance. GONE! would be the inappropriate concert attire. GONE! would be people who find it necessary to crawl over 45 people so they can leave two minutes earlier than everyone else (in mid-piece) so they won't get stuck in traffic. GONE! would be latecomers. GONE! would be the lovers of musk deoderant and cheap perfume.

And that's just off the top of my head.

I'm sure hoping that tomorrow when I wake up, my holiday humbug will be gone. Today was full of kerfluffle, and tomorrow represents a clean start. Here's to hoping that life calms down just enough so I can breathe deeply, look around me and be grateful for the right things.

Like that big pile of living room mess and that new box of tinsel. If that doesn't scream Christmas, I don't know-ho-ho what does.

Just for the Listening

The day after Thanksgiving has traditionally been known as Black Friday -- the day businesses sell enough merchandise to become profitable. Some shoppers love it and others hate it, but I'm always amused by those who make the biggest deal out of the whole day...by yelling about how they aren't going to buy anything. For the record: I marked the occasion by painting my bedroom.

The StoryCorps organization has also made a push to make the day after Thanksgiving The National Day of Listening. The idea was profoundly simple: Spend one hour talking to someone and listening to their story. It could be a family member, a neighbor, a friend, or someone in your community. The thought is, by listening to others, we become less isolated and more interconnected. Stories allow us to learn more about who we are as a people, and preserving them let the memories, and people attached to them, live on forever. It's a very cool idea.

Judging by the thousands upon thousands of stories this project has collected thus far, it seems everyone is ready, able, and willing to jump in front of the nearest microphone and start spilling the goods. For the rest of us, this is great. But if I asked anyone in my family (not counting the nephew, because as dear as he is, the world isn't ready for armpit-noise stories, and not counting the teenager whose daily refrain is YOU'RE NOT BLOGGING ABOUT THIS!) to tell me a story about themselves, their first response would be a Mince Pie Face. Their second response would be a loud "WHAT?" Their third response would be a very confused, "Why?" And the final blow would be a conversation halting, "Oh, I really don't have anything interesting to say."

Now I'm not here to diss my family, so let me explain. Why do I think this? Because I would do exactly the same thing. Stories on demand aren't easy for everybody, but I don't consider it a defect, it's just the way some people are, and being a pretty accepting person, I think it's alright. But it doesn't mean there aren't stories waiting to be told. Wherever there are people and life and living, there are stories. Lots of them. The trick is, you just have to learn listen all the time, in all sorts of ways.

My paternal Grandfather has been gone for many years, but I know some of his stories by things he did. He used to make small wooden replicas of things: table and chairs, china cabinet, a two-seater outhouse. There were no patterns or kits. He just made them, and they were beautiful. I still have a small grand piano that he made, and although he can't tell me stories about the piano, I listen to him ... I hear him and his story as I hold it in my hands.

Sometimes stories are told unawares. A drive through an old neighborhood. A picture. An old song. A favorite recipe. These ordinary prompts wake up our memories and shake them loose. If you're listening, you'll hear it, and be very, very lucky, because sometimes the unimportant stories are the best stories of all.

Today marks the first day of Holidailies. This is my fifth year of writing for this project, and as I look over list of participants, I recognize some old favorites, and look forward to discovering some new favorites as well. When I started writing back in 2003, it wasn't a conscious effort to begin recording my every waking thought for the entire world. I had a nine-year old, which meant I had automatic story fodder too good to forget. Over the years I've shared the funny, the heartbreaking, the isane as well as the inane. If you sat me down and demanded I tell you a story, I'd tell you I have nothing to say, but it seems this blog says otherwise. It's been my side-kick, my wailing wall, my psychiatrist and my thinking out loud place. For my daughter, my family and my friends and all of you who visit regularly or who just might be passing by, consider it an open gift. The stories -- the good, the bad and the ugly -- will always be there whenever you want them.

Just for the listening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One year ago -- I was having difficulty adjusting my new life in Cube hell. One year later? It's just as noisy down here as ever, but I CAN tell you everybody's current medication, political leanings, and vacation plans.

Two years ago -- I was bemoaning my upcoming Christmas gigs in Haiku. Considering what I'm facing this weekend, it's just about time to crank out another set.

Three years ago -- I was thinking up excuses as to why I didn't write a 30-day novel. Even my excuse was late. No posts.

Four years ago -- I was getting ready to sing a gig in YooperLand. Hey guess what? I'll be back up there again in April, 2009.

Five Years ago -- I was bemoaning the fact that I have horrible timing. Five years later, I'm here to report nothing has changed.

Just for the Listening

The day after Thanksgiving has traditionally been known as Black Friday -- the day businesses sell enough merchandise to become profitable. Some shoppers love it and others hate it, but I'm always amused by those who make the biggest deal out of the whole day...by yelling about how they aren't going to buy anything. For the record: I marked the occasion by painting my bedroom.

The StoryCorps organization has also made a push to make the day after Thanksgiving The National Day of Listening. The idea was profoundly simple: Spend one hour talking to someone and listening to their story. It could be a family member, a neighbor, a friend, or someone in your community. The thought is, by listening to others, we become less isolated and more interconnected. Stories allow us to learn more about who we are as a people, and preserving them let the memories, and people attached to them, live on forever. It's a very cool idea.

Judging by the thousands upon thousands of stories this project has collected thus far, it seems everyone is ready, able, and willing to jump in front of the nearest microphone and start spilling the goods. For the rest of us, this is great. But if I asked anyone in my family (not counting the nephew, because as dear as he is, the world isn't ready for armpit-noise stories, and not counting the teenager whose daily refrain is YOU'RE NOT BLOGGING ABOUT THIS!) to tell me a story about themselves, their first response would be a Mince Pie Face. Their second response would be a loud "WHAT?" Their third response would be a very confused, "Why?" And the final blow would be a conversation halting, "Oh, I really don't have anything interesting to say."

Now I'm not here to diss my family, so let me explain. Why do I think this? Because I would do exactly the same thing. Stories on demand aren't easy for everybody, but I don't consider it a defect, it's just the way some people are, and being a pretty accepting person, I think it's alright. But it doesn't mean there aren't stories waiting to be told. Wherever there are people and life and living, there are stories. Lots of them. The trick is, you just have to learn listen all the time, in all sorts of ways.

My paternal Grandfather has been gone for many years, but I know some of his stories by things he did. He used to make small wooden replicas of things: table and chairs, china cabinet, a two-seater outhouse. There were no patterns or kits. He just made them, and they were beautiful. I still have a small grand piano that he made, and although he can't tell me stories about the piano, I listen to him ... I hear him and his story as I hold it in my hands.

Sometimes stories are told unawares. A drive through an old neighborhood. A picture. An old song. A favorite recipe. These ordinary prompts wake up our memories and shake them loose. If you're listening, you'll hear it, and be very, very lucky, because sometimes the unimportant stories are the best stories of all.

Today marks the first day of Holidailies. This is my fifth year of writing for this project, and as I look over list of participants, I recognize some old favorites, and look forward to discovering some new favorites as well. When I started writing back in 2003, it wasn't a conscious effort to begin recording my every waking thought for the entire world. I had a nine-year old, which meant I had automatic story fodder too good to forget. Over the years I've shared the funny, the heartbreaking, the isane as well as the inane. If you sat me down and demanded I tell you a story, I'd tell you I have nothing to say, but it seems this blog says otherwise. It's been my side-kick, my wailing wall, my psychiatrist and my thinking out loud place. For my daughter, my family and my friends and all of you who visit regularly or who just might be passing by, consider it an open gift. The stories -- the good, the bad and the ugly -- will always be there whenever you want them.

Just for the listening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One year ago -- I was having difficulty adjusting my new life in Cube hell. One year later? It's just as noisy down here as ever, but I CAN tell you everybody's current medication, political leanings, and vacation plans.

Two years ago -- I was bemoaning my upcoming Christmas gigs in Haiku. Considering what I'm facing this weekend, it's just about time to crank out another set.

Three years ago -- I was thinking up excuses as to why I didn't write a 30-day novel. Even my excuse was late. No posts.

Four years ago -- I was getting ready to sing a gig in YooperLand. Hey guess what? I'll be back up there again in April, 2009.

Five Years ago -- I was bemoaning the fact that I have horrible timing. Five years later, I'm here to report nothing has changed.

Move over, Odysseus

Beware of the Doghouse...



Who needs morality plays when you have something like this?
Absolutely. Hysterical.

Move over, Odysseus

Beware of the Doghouse...



Who needs morality plays when you have something like this?
Absolutely. Hysterical.

Artful Dodger

Over the past few weeks and months, my lovable, wonderful, reliable, magnificent car
(I never EVER speak poorly of my lovable, wonderful, reliable, magnificent car because it predates TeenTuna)

has been getting progressively louder, and dare I say embarassing to drive in public
(only embarrassing because other, less-enlightened people wouldn't be able to look (listen?) past the noise to see the wonderfulness)

I finally took it in to the shop this morning to get it fixed
(praying to the patron Saint of cheap car repairs all the way)

before a law enforcement officer with a fix-it-ticket forced my hand.
(please refer to less-enlightened people, above)

I dropped it off and explained that it was noisy
(which was an understatement)

and had progressed in decibel level from old lawnmower to cranky snow blower.
(coincidentally, both made by Toro!)

I explained that while I needed to get it fixed before it reached low-flying jumbo jet
(hey! wouldn't it be cool if cars had tray tables?)

it was old and didn't need anything fancy-pants.
(because my car is practically perfect in every way RIGHT NOW!)

He explained exhaust work was exhaust work
(it must be exhausting! BaDUMPbump!!)

and would cost the same no matter how old my car was.
(DON'T SAY "OLD" OUT LOUD!)

The phone rang a little later at work
(rut roh!)

And I was told Christmas came early
(I panicked.....for WHOM???)

and it was just a disconnected gasket and some broken bolts
(Halleluia!)

and it would be ready just about immediately.
(Seriously? Good news from an automotive repair shop? Just doesn't happen. EVER)

and it was.
(it was)

and I was set back a whopping $54.
(sahWEEEEET!)

Thank the lord. And the Patron Saint of Cars
(Guess that must be St. Otto.....right?)
...
...
...
(just think about it)

Artful Dodger

Over the past few weeks and months, my lovable, wonderful, reliable, magnificent car
(I never EVER speak poorly of my lovable, wonderful, reliable, magnificent car because it predates TeenTuna)

has been getting progressively louder, and dare I say embarassing to drive in public
(only embarrassing because other, less-enlightened people wouldn't be able to look (listen?) past the noise to see the wonderfulness)

I finally took it in to the shop this morning to get it fixed
(praying to the patron Saint of cheap car repairs all the way)

before a law enforcement officer with a fix-it-ticket forced my hand.
(please refer to less-enlightened people, above)

I dropped it off and explained that it was noisy
(which was an understatement)

and had progressed in decibel level from old lawnmower to cranky snow blower.
(coincidentally, both made by Toro!)

I explained that while I needed to get it fixed before it reached low-flying jumbo jet
(hey! wouldn't it be cool if cars had tray tables?)

it was old and didn't need anything fancy-pants.
(because my car is practically perfect in every way RIGHT NOW!)

He explained exhaust work was exhaust work
(it must be exhausting! BaDUMPbump!!)

and would cost the same no matter how old my car was.
(DON'T SAY "OLD" OUT LOUD!)

The phone rang a little later at work
(rut roh!)

And I was told Christmas came early
(I panicked.....for WHOM???)

and it was just a disconnected gasket and some broken bolts
(Halleluia!)

and it would be ready just about immediately.
(Seriously? Good news from an automotive repair shop? Just doesn't happen. EVER)

and it was.
(it was)

and I was set back a whopping $54.
(sahWEEEEET!)

Thank the lord. And the Patron Saint of Cars
(Guess that must be St. Otto.....right?)
...
...
...
(just think about it)

What's It All About, Alfie?

It's the last week of class in the collegiate world, so I have two more teaching days before finals. Although the days are long -- NOBODY is sick the last week of school, even if they're sick -- this is one of my favorite weeks. This week each student does a full run-through of all their repertoire, so I get to talk a lot less and listen a lot more.

There's nothing better than being serenaded by a diverse sampling of voices, composers and poets. From English folksong to German lieder, French Melodie to Italian arias, I love them all. It can be Broadway or Jazz, Opera or Oratorio, Secular or Sacred. The genre doesn't matter to me, because I find that every poet had something to say, every lyricist had a character to develop, and every composer has a melody line that allows a thought to soar over the spoken word, a rhythmic structure that gives life and movement to the text, and a harmonic structure that brings color to each underlying emotion. The trick for the singer, of course, is to find all these gems that hide in plain sight on the printed page. Part of my job as a teacher is to help each student in their own personal discovery of interpretation.

I don't like to TELL a student what a song is about, or how they should interpret every single syllable and note in a song. It's not that I can't -- I can, and often do -- but I prefer to let them struggle for awhile and think about it for themselves, so they can arrive at their interpretation, not mine. While I sometimes point them in the general direction if they seem to be floundering, I prefer to let them come to their own conclusions. When they do, it's a great AHA! moment.

As a teacher, AHA! moments are what I strive for. To riff the Rolling Stones, I don't get no satisfaction in cramming a bunch of facts into students, even if they successfully recite them on command. Regurgitation isn't education. I want them to have AHA! moments -- moments of personal discovery.

Next week all my students will sing for me for a part of their final grade. As much as I care that the songs are memorized, notes and rhythms are correct, and proper vocal technique is demonstrated, I'm much more excited to hear what they have discovered. It's one thing to have an AHA! moment; it's quite another thing to open yourself up and share it with others. But when it happens, it's nothing short of magical.

And then all that's left to say is, "Encore!"
Teaching accomplished.

What's It All About, Alfie?

It's the last week of class in the collegiate world, so I have two more teaching days before finals. Although the days are long -- NOBODY is sick the last week of school, even if they're sick -- this is one of my favorite weeks. This week each student does a full run-through of all their repertoire, so I get to talk a lot less and listen a lot more.

There's nothing better than being serenaded by a diverse sampling of voices, composers and poets. From English folksong to German lieder, French Melodie to Italian arias, I love them all. It can be Broadway or Jazz, Opera or Oratorio, Secular or Sacred. The genre doesn't matter to me, because I find that every poet had something to say, every lyricist had a character to develop, and every composer has a melody line that allows a thought to soar over the spoken word, a rhythmic structure that gives life and movement to the text, and a harmonic structure that brings color to each underlying emotion. The trick for the singer, of course, is to find all these gems that hide in plain sight on the printed page. Part of my job as a teacher is to help each student in their own personal discovery of interpretation.

I don't like to TELL a student what a song is about, or how they should interpret every single syllable and note in a song. It's not that I can't -- I can, and often do -- but I prefer to let them struggle for awhile and think about it for themselves, so they can arrive at their interpretation, not mine. While I sometimes point them in the general direction if they seem to be floundering, I prefer to let them come to their own conclusions. When they do, it's a great AHA! moment.

As a teacher, AHA! moments are what I strive for. To riff the Rolling Stones, I don't get no satisfaction in cramming a bunch of facts into students, even if they successfully recite them on command. Regurgitation isn't education. I want them to have AHA! moments -- moments of personal discovery.

Next week all my students will sing for me for a part of their final grade. As much as I care that the songs are memorized, notes and rhythms are correct, and proper vocal technique is demonstrated, I'm much more excited to hear what they have discovered. It's one thing to have an AHA! moment; it's quite another thing to open yourself up and share it with others. But when it happens, it's nothing short of magical.

And then all that's left to say is, "Encore!"
Teaching accomplished.

And the rest

Old timers (and those who watch TVland and other classic/retro programs) remember the theme song from Gilligan's Island. It was a tricky little tune, because it had two endings, and you had to know if it was an early episode or a late episode in order to get the ending right.

The later version of the theme song rattled off the entire cast, so the line "The professor and MaryAnn" was included. The earlier version, however, just ended with "and the rest" forever condemning the nerd with his coconut radio-phone and the island's cutest pie maker to a life of obscurity. For those of you dying to be in the know, there is an explanation concerning the change of lyrics here -- but honestly, I'm not going to research this, so you'll have to either believe it or chalk it up to normal Internet nonsense. Either way, I'm good with it.

At the moment I'm surrounded by and the rest, and not at all in a good way. This and the rest arises out of necessity, because it would be an impossible task to try to name all the leftover things that have found themselves homeless. So I have and the rest piles EVERYWHERE. Sadly, I'm not going to have many options here as time goes on. I'll either have to go through it and make a decision to keep, to toss or to donate, or, I'll have to buy a couple of flamethrowers and arm the cats for the afternoon. Sadly, since they are lacking opposable thumbs that idea isn't going to work out too well, and I'm back to having to go through it all bit by bit.

This is the downside to cleaning and renovation. Once a space is cleared, the real temptation is to fill it all back up again as soon as possible, as if the most important thing in this world is to equalize the negative clutter pressure that formed during the cleaning. I'm trying very, very hard NOT to fall into that trap. Besides, when is it enough? I think it many areas of personal aquisition, I'm not only there, I'm well stocked into the next century.

This plan for this winter is the purge of 2009. That way (hopefully) when I'm done, I won't be surrounded and suffocated by and the rest . It will be hard making choices of what to keep and what to pass along, but it's time. It's past time. I just wonder if the professor could build me a coconut-powered flamethrower to give me a bit of a helping hand.

And the rest

Old timers (and those who watch TVland and other classic/retro programs) remember the theme song from Gilligan's Island. It was a tricky little tune, because it had two endings, and you had to know if it was an early episode or a late episode in order to get the ending right.

The later version of the theme song rattled off the entire cast, so the line "The professor and MaryAnn" was included. The earlier version, however, just ended with "and the rest" forever condemning the nerd with his coconut radio-phone and the island's cutest pie maker to a life of obscurity. For those of you dying to be in the know, there is an explanation concerning the change of lyrics here -- but honestly, I'm not going to research this, so you'll have to either believe it or chalk it up to normal Internet nonsense. Either way, I'm good with it.

At the moment I'm surrounded by and the rest, and not at all in a good way. This and the rest arises out of necessity, because it would be an impossible task to try to name all the leftover things that have found themselves homeless. So I have and the rest piles EVERYWHERE. Sadly, I'm not going to have many options here as time goes on. I'll either have to go through it and make a decision to keep, to toss or to donate, or, I'll have to buy a couple of flamethrowers and arm the cats for the afternoon. Sadly, since they are lacking opposable thumbs that idea isn't going to work out too well, and I'm back to having to go through it all bit by bit.

This is the downside to cleaning and renovation. Once a space is cleared, the real temptation is to fill it all back up again as soon as possible, as if the most important thing in this world is to equalize the negative clutter pressure that formed during the cleaning. I'm trying very, very hard NOT to fall into that trap. Besides, when is it enough? I think it many areas of personal aquisition, I'm not only there, I'm well stocked into the next century.

This plan for this winter is the purge of 2009. That way (hopefully) when I'm done, I won't be surrounded and suffocated by and the rest . It will be hard making choices of what to keep and what to pass along, but it's time. It's past time. I just wonder if the professor could build me a coconut-powered flamethrower to give me a bit of a helping hand.

Beautiful, Beautiful Yellow

I swore that my room was going to be painted by the end of this weekend. By a bit of luck and a bucket full of stubborn determination, my "failure is not an option" attitude won out and I'm now sitting in a freshly painted bedroom. It's about halfway put back together, which is no small miracle considering the adventures I went through with the new bed frame and the missing hardware. I have some new kick-ass window treatments, courtesy of the misfortunes of Linens 'n Liquidations 'n Things. I even got the employee to dismantle some displays to get me some hardware I wanted.

So, it will be a few more days arranging and rearranging furniture and getting things back in order. For now, I'm happy not to be spending another night on the couch, and I'm looking forward to putting this project in the "done" column.

Beautiful, Beautiful Yellow

I swore that my room was going to be painted by the end of this weekend. By a bit of luck and a bucket full of stubborn determination, my "failure is not an option" attitude won out and I'm now sitting in a freshly painted bedroom. It's about halfway put back together, which is no small miracle considering the adventures I went through with the new bed frame and the missing hardware. I have some new kick-ass window treatments, courtesy of the misfortunes of Linens 'n Liquidations 'n Things. I even got the employee to dismantle some displays to get me some hardware I wanted.

So, it will be a few more days arranging and rearranging furniture and getting things back in order. For now, I'm happy not to be spending another night on the couch, and I'm looking forward to putting this project in the "done" column.