Archive for February, 2011

We are blessed in our household to have 2 February birthdays, my Hubby’s and one of my daughters’, who just turned 15.

Long ago, when I loved Facebook, I would often send a silly birthday video around on friends’ birthdays, but I gave that up after Facebook morphed into something beastly and uncontrollable and generally not to my liking.

Here’s one of my favorite birthday songs. A perfect rendition doesn’t seem to exist on youtube, which is fitting because birthdays aren’t about perfection. Even I can’t sing this song, of course because I can’t do all the different parts by myself, and partly because my daughters haven’t learned the other parts to sing it with me. You have to bear through about a minute-and-a-half of jabbering at the beginning, but then it picks up okay. It’s a little too white for me, but I do think it was written by a white guy, so there.

Of course the best birthday songs around here are the ones we sing out loud on the actual day (this includes not only the traditional birthday song, but also the Waldorf-learned “We Wish You a Happy Birthday,” which is refreshing and can be sung in a round, like so many songs Waldorf).

I posted a poem the other day also in honor of my oldest daughter’s birthday. The poem was certainly prompted by that yogic body memory, stored inside my intelligent cells and brought to the fore by some deep posture, but also by my daughter’s not infrequent plaint “Why did you have kids if it’s so hard?”

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You would think that after serving as Production Manager for my daughter’s  7th-Grade production of “Mary Poppins,” I would post “Jolly Holiday” or “Steppin’ Time.” Not so, me laddies and lassies. While I loved being around the students and their play, my head rang with the phrase and accompanying tune of “A British Bank” far too often. For the last six, intensively busy weeks, I have not been able to attend my weekly Sacred Harp sing. Every Tuesday night, from 7-10 pm in Northampton, MA at the Helen Hills Hills Chapel (the chapel so nice, they named it twice), a group gathers to sing from “The Sacred Harp.” This is the longest stretch I’ve gone in the last 6 1/2 years without singing on a Tuesday night.

Here’s a fine example of a song from The Sacred Harp led by David Ivey of Alabama.

I still don’t understand what “the third Heaven where God resides” is. Anybody?

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My Valentine is far, far away.

Happy Valentine’s Day, I miss you baby!

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Can you say “Kegels?”

Enjoy and dream, peeps.

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We will be happy to help you as soon as you’re done with your call” –sign at The Black Sheep Deli, Amherst, MA

On Monday, I took my mini-van to Firestone to have the broken housing on my rear-door taillight replaced. This broken housing was one of three reasons my car failed inspection. Now it is all behind us and we can travel together again, my mini-van and I. Actually, we are not legal until we get re-inspected, but the Amherst cops are pretty chill and would probably give me a warning for starters. Technically, I have two months to get re-inspected, but I have the red capital “R” sticker which basically means: YOUR CAR IS GOING TO IMPLODE. Last year, my car failed inspection, too, but it was failure of a milder variety—maybe the sticker was a different letter and color?

The previous week, I also spent an hour at Firestone, having a brake light repaired and getting two new tires put on in the front. The waiting room of the Firestone in Northampton, MA doesn’t really have any interesting magazines if you ask me–it’s all cars, sports, and business, and those aren’t really very sexy topics, are they? There was a copy of Latina magazine and it was pretty engaging, but it wouldn’t have been my first choice.

For Monday’s appointment, I decided to splurge and buy A WHOLE BUNCH of magazines before my car repair—whatever I wanted. I got Cape Cod Life for things to do on the Cape, of course; People, for the trash; Country Living because certainly, though I am in my upper 40s, I will have my dream house and dream kitchen soon; The Wall Street Journal, for the human interest story on the front page and to jeer, mentally, at the letters to the editor.

As I was settling into my comfy couch seat, learning about a descendant of some of the first European settlers on the Cape, I was shocked to hear my waiting-room mate’s intercom-level voice as she blared it into her cell phone. I now know much more about Rebecca than I would like. I know her last name (starts with an “S”). I know her son’s name (starts with a “J”). I know that there was a school committee meeting that night. I know that she had to cancel two daytime appointments. I know that she could not attend the school committee meeting as planned.

She made at least three calls out and received one, though I tried hard to avoid knowing even this much about her goings-on. In a different frame of mind, I might have asked her to go outside or at least to lower her voice, but I refrained. Though it was hard to concentrate on the article about Martha’s Vineyard’s idiosyncratically evolved sign language, I had bought the magazines to engage myself, and I did my best to ignore her.

My experience of cell phones, of late, is that the demographic with the rudest behavior is exhibited by the over-50 set. I think them young’uns are all texting, so there’s no volume, just an apparent disregard for personal safety when crossing the street and a complete lack of knowledge of the fine points of verbal, face-to-face conversation. What I consider appropriate behavior while dining has also fallen by the wayside, with texting being an apparently acceptable form of dinner conversation between parties of two or more.

Last summer, I went to see a movie in the local art-house cinema and, lo and behold, the 60-something woman next to me flipped open her goddamn Blackberry DURING THE MOVIE! I’m kind of thick and slow, but I’m starting to get it. The over 50-set, dinosaurs though they may be, have something in common with the rabble-rousing teens—technology, by gum, and they will shove it in your face so you know that they are important, savvy, and relevant.

I know, Rebecca S, that you and your schedule and your friends and your son and your clients and your car repair and your general fucking life are really important. But next time, so help me God, I will ask you to take it outside.

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Each Monday, for a while at least, I will post something music-related. Here’s my first Music Monday post, in the form of a video. I can’t get enough of this song and my only complaint it that it doesn’t last long enough.

Because this video is somehow controlled by vevo, you have to click through to youtube and you get an ad at the beginning to boot. I don’t know a way around it. However, all of the live versions that I found on youtube were equally mind-blowing, so check them out. This band is TIGHT!

Put your high-heeled sneakers on and remember that the only one who looks foolish in front of a computer playing Raphael Saadiq is the one who’s sitting down.

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This is fairly self-explanatory. It was performed at The Amherst Cinema in November, 2010. Sketch written by Hubby, performed by Pam Victor and Mosie McNally. But you’ll know all of that from the end credits. Grab your wheat popcorn and settle in. This is gonna be good!

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A Stupid Poem for Winter

What is this stuff?
What is this snow?
Why is it white?
We just don’t know

It covers our feet,
it covers our toes,
it hangs from the branches,
it hangs from our nose

It causes our hubby
to climb on the roof
We fear he will fall
and chip off a toof

It causes fat ice dams;
our windows start leaking
and husband on ladder
a-starts me to freaking

The kids have been home
for nigh 30 days,
Ergo my new wrinkles
and so many new grays

Do they go outside
to build a snow fort?
Do they learn how to ski,
start a new winter sport?

No, it’s the digital age,
they are plugged into their iPods,
They watch Netflicks and Hulu
and get very soft iBods.

I really am tired of bad winter luck,
If the snow doesn’t stop,
you’ll hear me scream “I’m moving to Florida!”
But I hate it there, too.

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