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27 febbraio Social SphereLast night I told my husband that I wanted to have a dinner party with a couple from church, my piano teacher, and the girls' orchestra director and her husband. Mike's response was, "We have enough friends, we don't have time for them." You'd have thought I invited a family of zombies for dinner. "No Carol, they can't come to dinner. They might eat us." What a strange reaction. I don't think you can have too many friends and I certainly don't think that a few new dinner companions will crowd out our oldest friends. We see Mike's letchrous college buddy who loves me a bit too much and his long suffering wife at least every six weeks and I think he's afraid of losing time with them. We see my girlfriend and her husband a few times a year and we go to movies and plays with another couple once every couple of months. We don't have big families, so we don't have frequent obligations for birthdays, graduations, etc. I think we have plenty of time to expand our social sphere. Mike's glass is half empty. It's amazing how we can look at the exact same situation and come out with entirely opposite opinions. Mike is shy and jealous. I'm more outgoing and maybe too much of a flirt for my and Mike's good. Maybe he gets nervous around new people. Maybe he's anxious that the party won't go well or the guests won't mix. Maybe he's afraid that I'll get drunk and mistake an attractive man's lap for my chair. Mike, I give lap dances to only one man. Oh, that's you. In the continuous negotiation that is marriage, Mike and I discussed this problem last night. We agreed to have two dinner parties in the near future, one for his college friend and wife and our theater friends. Here's hoping they get along. Maybe Mr. Letch will glom on to my theater friend and leave me alone for a night. A few weeks later we'll have my girlfriend and her husband over. Once we've taken care of those obligations and Mike has painted the kitchen and refinished the kitchen floor we can then plan for a dinner party with the church couple and the orchestra director. I think I got the short end of this bargain. In the future, maybe my boss should negotiate for me. 20 febbraio Gods Walk Among UsWhat would it take for me to shave my head? Maybe a bout of insanity. Perhaps an insatiable craving for attention. Lice. The ancient Greeks and Romans had quirky, sometimes irrational gods. They were like us, only larger than life. They had the same foibles and nobilities. When they were great and generous they were hugely so. They could be monstrously insane, ferociously lusty, or frighteningly small and petty. Their human qualities made the gods understandable and approachable. People could identify with Zeus' lust, Poseidon's fury, Hera's jealousy, or Adonis' vanity. In our enlightened age our God is beyond perfect. He is Perfection itself. Talk about unapproachable. Jesus' role as the human embodiment of God the father is to mediate between humans and god. But the only humanity Jesus exuded was when he angrily threw the money changers out of the temple or when he suffered on the cross. Where is the laughing, lustful, playful Jesus? Where is the Jesus who was a friend, son, citizen, or lover with whom we can connect? The bible tells us that Jesus was a man but its interpretation of his life drain him of his humanity. It's as impossible to connect emotionally and humanly with Jesus as it is with that vestigial appendage, the Holy Ghost. So out of a need for something greater than ourselves, onto whom we can project our fantasies and foibles and see them tragically or triumphantly played out, we have created demigods. Our demigods are prettier, stronger, wiser, and better dressed than us. They are given godlike monikers that separate them from the rest of humanity: Beyonce, Bennifer, Prince, J-Lo, The Donald, Madonna, Oprah, George Clooney. When they are good they near perfection: Bono fighting Aids and world hunger, Oprah building schools in Africa. And when they are bad they plumb the depths of lunacy: the torments of Jennifer Aniston, Mel Gibson's anti-semitism, Tom Cruise's couch jump, and marriage, and anti psychiatrist rants, and now the shearing of Britney Spears. We care about their antics not only because the fan magazines and studios and publisists tell us we should care. We care because we need to see gods fall. We need to see their human side, to be reassured that these people who can do such great things, can be even more unstable, more human, than us. That is why we can give them permission to be great, that is why we can raise them on their high pedistals. In a perverse way, their foibles and failures give us hope that we, too, can do great things. 16 febbraio Musical DisabilityI can barely walk and chew gum at the same time, how does my piano teacher expect me to count and play? I can play, or I can count, pick one. Once I try to do both I get distracted and everything falls apart. My teacher also has suggested that I pay attention to the dynamics and pedal markings. Oh she is a true sadist.
I started taking piano later in my adult life, at the ripe age of 37. Some things are a lot harder at that age, like getting pregnant, learning a foreign language, and playing a musical instrument for the first time. My brain won't recognize the notes, my fingers won't do what they're told, my arms get tired, and there's no one to force me to practice. My fifteen year old daughter, Ashley started piano lessons at the same time as me, with the same teacher, on the same piano. And she's ten times better than me. She can sight read, she can memorize, she can whiz through scales, etudes and exercizes. I am proud and envious at the same time--prenvious. I've been on "Little Prelude in F" by Bach for at least four months. On those rare occasions where I'm playing the piece fluidly and flawlessly there is invariably a moment where I realize that I'm playing well and I feel surprised. I immediately begin to fumble and play poorly. Piano requires a delicate balance of self awareness and unconscious grace. My balance is always tilted to one side or the other. I can play or I can count. Not both, not at the same time. Occasionally I have tried to accompany Mara on her violin or Ashley on her cello. Each attempt ended with my daughter sighing, groaning, and wondering aloud whether she was adopted. I assure her that I am indeed her mother and that musical ability has been known to skip a generation or two. At least I'm grateful that my girls gravitated to music. If they were in sports, this walking and gum chewing challenged gal would really have been in a mess. Volleyball? Go ask your father. 14 febbraio Dollar coinOur Canadian friends may think we're loony for not accepting dollar coins in this country. Our wise Northern Neighbors have been using one and two dollar coins for some time with no damage whatsoever to their national sovreignty. I love Canada's "loony" and their two dollar coin is very attractive, with a polar bear on a bronze background encased in a silver rim. I'm suffering from coin envy.
The United States Mint is once again trying to get Americans to replace paper dollars with metal dollars. Some time ago they introduced the hideous Susan B. Anthony dollar that was silver colored and the size of a quarter. If people weren't turned off by Susan's grim and judgmental visage they were soon infuriated by spending dollars as quarters. I would reach into my purse and pull out a couple of quarter-like things to pay for a newsaper. After paying $2 for a paper a couple of times and purchasing several $3 muffins, I swore off Susan. I don't think I was alone.
Next came Sacagewea. I congratulate the Mint for putting another woman on the coin, but Sacagewea? She was way cuter than Susan, but even Abraham Lincoln is way cuter than Susan. How about Rosa Parks? She would have been good. Amelia Earhart, so so. Ayn Rand, appropriate, but not American and even grimmer and more judgmental than Susan B. Anthony. I wouldn't know whether to hoard or spend her money. Jane Adams, social worker and founder of Hull House in Chicago, probably too socialist to be on any kind of money. The Sacagewea dollar failed everywhere but Bolivia. I don't think people ever really connected with Sacagewea. After all, how many Lewis and Clark junkies are there?
So in another step backwards for women the United States Mint is rolling out its "Dead Presidents" dollar coin. First we lose a Supreme Court seat, then we have Hillary running on her disgraced husband's coattails, and now this. Five new presidents a year. I can't wait for next year's coin of William Henry Harrison, our ninth president, who spent 31 days in office.
I love the idea of a dollar coin, and a two dollar coin, for that matter. And get rid of the dollar bill while you're at it, Mint. I just hate the gimmick of the Presidents on the coins. It's too conservative, too predictable. We should look to the US Post Office for inspiration. They have whimsy, they have imagination. Why is a Superman stamp OK but not a Superman dollar coin? He's strong, handsome, patriotic, so what if he's not real. Half the Presidents weren't real. Ella Fitzgerald or Miles Davis would be great on the two dollar coin. We could do a Disney series with five coins each year of Disney characters. Or National Parks, or great buildings. C'mon Mint, think outside of the box here.
Or is our money too serious a subject? The Almighty Dollar may be laden with too much symbolism to invite any whimsy. After all, could the Most Powerful Country In The World and the Last Great Imperial Power and Imposer of Worldwide Capitalist Democracy represent itself with a coin with a loon on one side and a queen on the other? I think not. 13 febbraio 5 of 101My favorite outfit combines a short black sheath dress by Jones New York with a long black jacket. I wear it with nude hose and slingback black pumps with a deep vamp, pointy toes, and a three inch heel. I wear this outfit whenever I can; to the office as often as I can get away with it, to the opera, to dinner. I have to say that I enjoy the compliments I get when I wear this outfit, but what I like the most is how it makes me feel. With this one outfit I feel intelligent, sexy, strong, and confident. They say clothes make the man, but that comment is so much more appropriate for women.
I don't doubt that appearances are important to men, but how we look is everything to a woman. My husband doesn't understand why I take five times longer than him to get ready in the morning. When I say I have nothing to wear he reminds me that I have twice as many clothes and four times as many shoes in my closet as him. What I spend on jewelry, makeup, manicures, and hair could fund a small army. Am I more vain than my husband? He seems to think so, making comments whenever I look at myself in a mirror. I consider the mirror glances as just checking in, making sure my hair and makeup aren't crazy and that my skirt isn't resting at some strange angle. That's not vanity.
Is it insecurity that drives my need to look good? My foot in mouth hubby has suggested this--many times. What a hypocrite! I want to look good for the very same reason he wants me to look good. And for the same reason I want him to look good. Sex. I enjoy being in shape and dressed well. It makes me feel attractive. The bloated, hungover Saturday me in old ratty jeans doesn't look or feel so sexy. And hubby is no turnon in his unshaved weekend paint encrusted jean mode. But we both clean up very well and when we do there is an undeniable spark. It's too bad we have to wait until we get back from the dinner, dance, or show for the fire.
I like to dress well for the same reason I like a clean house or an orderly office. It feels right. It feels right to wear an outfit that's pulled together, shoes to jewelry. It feels right to have a fresh haircut and polished nails. And yes, I can take this to insane levels, like when I go on an OCD house cleaning binge. Matching bra and panties, ultra sheer hose, silk dress, real diamond necklace and earrings. I can feel not just right, but incredibly right wearing that. But most of the time I settle for a house that's pretty clean, an office without clutter, and a look that's attractive but not extravagent. Anything more wouldn't be worth the effort.
12 febbraio BarakOn Saturday Barak Obama formally announced his candadacy for the President of the USA. Now begins the hard work of raising $250,000 PER DAY to fund his campaign. Call me a cynic, but this money won't be coming in 5 and 10 dollar increments in envelopes from people like you and me. To get money like that Mr. Obama has to reach into the deep corporate pockets and the coffers of the rich and well heeled. And the wealthy corporate interests will view this as an investment, expecting some future return.
I like Obama. I like his fresh approach and his gospel of hope, although hope is a politician's stock-in-trade. I like the way he infuses his message with a secular religiosity. I like his stance on the war and his down to earth manner. I like Edwards too, and I also like Hillary, as much as I can like a moderate Republican in a Democrat's tailored pantsuit. If she was a man I probably wouldn't like her.
Perhaps it's too much for me to expect democracy to function in a country of 300 million. Democracy is more suited to a condo association or a county board. Even there I have my doubts. When we say our President is democratically elected, we mean that we choose a person from one of two parties who has become a viable candidate by amassing money and attention from success in Iowa, New Hampshire, and other primaries. Even then our vote is filtered through the Electoral College which virtually guarantees that one-sided states such as California, Texas, Illinois, and New York will be ignored in the campaign, except as a source of funds to pay for ads in Ohio, Florida, Virginia and other swing states.
We have more choice in the supermarket than at the ballot box. At least there we can pick between apples and oranges. In the last Presidential election we could choose from the rich Democrat or the Republican son of a president. Granny Smith or Red Delicious? The prior election offered us the son of a senator as the Democratic candidate. Before that Clinton or Dole? Both were moderate Republicans, as were Clinton and Bush Sr.
Just as my cynicism is about to crest into a tsunami, a strong wind blows, tempering the wave. In today's mail arrived a letter from Mr. Obama, addressed to me, which begins, "Dear Carol, I am running for President of the United States." After that six paragraphs of meaninglessness. But then the fresh breeze, "...it's not the magnitude of our problems that concerns people the most. It's the smallness of our politics." OK...I'm softening a little. "It's the idea that there isn't much we can agree on or do about the major challenges facing America. It's the tendency for the Washington skeptics and partisans...using fear, divisiveness and other cheap tricks to win their argument, even if we lose our solution in the process."
"There is a sense in America today that politics has lost its purpose--that government can no longer make a difference. That...politics has stopped speaking to what matters in the lives of the American people." Mr. Obama closes by quoting Dr. Martin Luther King Jr: "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." Obama agrees, but, "..his (Dr. King's) words are a challenge, not a prophecy, for justice is not a self-fulfilling creed. It is up to each of us to place our hands on that arc, to bend it toward the promise and possibilities of our moment in history--and toward the America we know in our hearts we can achieve."
I know that our president's primary role is symbolic. He or she is a figurehead representing the present moral and political state of 300 million Americans. On him are focused our hopes for the future and through him we are educated, indoctrinated, and transformed. Twenty six years of Republican governance (including Clinton's eight years) have left us with a distaste for, and a distrust and fear of government. We have been told too long to not pay taxes, that we should "starve the beast." Too much has been outsoursed and too much trust has been placed in the private sector's ability to accomplish public good. And we have been willing accomplices in this corporate scam.
Thank you Barak for this message of hope. Hope may be what you're selling, but I'll willingly buy hope for a government that governs and doesn't abdicate it's responsibility. Hope for a government that regulates to preserve the environment and foster safe workplaces. Hope for a government that tells large corporations what to do instead of vice-versa. Hope that this country will not remain the world's largest bully, fighting a never ending "war" against against a faceless terrorist enemy. And hope that my $100 along with the donations of my friends and neighbors will pay dividends for decades to come.
11 febbraio OberlinI'm back from a 750 mile whirlwind round trip to Oberlin College in Ohio. Daughter Mara had a violin audition there Saturday morning, so we hopped in the car on Friday with fiddle and munchies and my complete Ring Cycle CDs. I was hoping for some good mother-daughter bonding time, and bond we did. Can that girl talk! Over the six hour drive we discussed college plans, her friends, music, her pecadillos, literature, and more friends. We listened to all of "Das Reingold" and followed that with a two hour lecture on CD by Noam Chomsky, from Mara's I-pod, about whether the USA has ever been a democracy. (emphatically not, according to Chomsky) How appropriate. We were after all going to Oberlin, the tiny midwestern college that's politically to the left of Berkley.
We arrived at Oberlin just in time to check in, but too late to attend the presentation of a paper on "Racism, Classism, and Economic Segregation" given by a woman from the Wharton School. We did manage to spend 15 minutes at the faculty meet and greet where potential students were shoehorned into a tiny room with current students and faculty members. Ugh. After that Mare and I caught a recital of the students of one of the violin professors. He and his students performed all 24 of Pagannini's caprices. It was great to hear so many different students playing in one place. It was a huge confidence builder for Mara who realized that she is on track to play this well. She could handle Oberlin!
After the recital Mara and I split up. She to a practice room and I to the highlight of my weekend. A production of the opera/multi media re-imagining of David Lynch's film "Lost Highway." Only at Oberlin would there be a pre-New York tuneup of something this nightmarishly decadent, performed for three nights to sold-out audiences. The show is ostensibly about a couple where the man may or may not have murdered his girlfriend. After a trial and death sentence he transforms into another person and has an affair with a woman who may be the dead wife. The production is really about our reactions to ninety mind-blowing minutes of violence, sex, cacaphoniously modern music, atonal singing, jumbled identity, duplicity, and a femme fatale and villian straight out of film noir.
The composer and co-librettist is Olga Neuwirth who, in the program notes, stated, "I want to open petrified brains." According to Neuwirth, musical theater should be, "...without beginning, middle, or end; countless inner and outer rooms, both literal and figurative; the commonplace next to the mystical; all human expressions from howling to screaming, laughing to despair, existing alongside each other." The program notes warn that the audience should feel experimented upon: I was a most willing guinea pig. My brain is no longer petrified.
I still don't know what I saw. But what I saw made me feel. Fear, anger, despair, joy, lothing, wonder. It was all there. As was confusion. What little plot there was made no sense. After awhile I had to tell myself to stop trying to make sense of the story and just to experience the incredible music and singing and the the visuals and acting and to be in touch with what it was doing to me. How Lynchian. I haven't felt this way since my first viewing of Eraserhead in the 70's. "Lost Highway" is such an emotional touchstone. I can't wait to see the film.
Saturday was a gloriously sunny day, perfect for Mara's audition. Mara believes she "nailed" the audition and hopes for a large envelope are high in the Davis household. Per Mara's request, our ride back was entirely on two lane roads. 350 miles through rolling Ohio countryside, small downtowns ravaged by Wal-marts, the Indiana Amish country, and industrial northwest Indiana. No lost highway for us. Just a mother and daughter enjoying a recording of Turandot and each other's company.
08 febbraio 3 of 101I have never owned a pet and I don't understand the attraction of pet ownership. My daughters went through the fish phase (beta fish, died after 3 weeks) and the lizard phase (geko, ate a bunch of crickets, lasted maybe three months) but we haven't had any other amimals in the house. Except of course the occasional wild rodent; mice, rat, bat, and bird in the bedroom.
My dad grew up on a farm and thought that animals belonged outdoors. Therefore no creatures were allowed in our house. My husband had a dog, but was traumatized when, at six years old, he was present when his brothers called the dog from across the street causing Buster to jump into the path of an oncoming car. Buster lived, but had many surgeries and was never himself. No more pets for Mike's family.
I think more of my neighbors have pets than don't. There's Vanessa the doberman next door. Bosco the white lab lives down the street. Four doors down is a retriever that runs out to fetch the morning paper as if the blue plastic bag were a downed duck. Peanut Butter the roaming bird chasing cat is no longer with us, nor is "bell kitty" who had a bell around his neck to protect birds that otherwise would be his prey. But the neighbor across the street still has his dangerously obese cat that is never allowed outdoors. Every day dogs of every shape and size parade before our house. In the summer my husband and I sit on our porch drinking gin and tonics and wave at the owners. In the winter we watch them make a quick frigid scamper out and in.
On our little 75 foot by 150 foot lot we have wild "pets," if they can be called such, since we neither feed nor house them. There are the owls who return to the same hole in the tree next to our bedroom each year. Last year they fledged four owlets and for four glorious weeks in April we had owls swooping over our yard every evening, owls in the maple during the day, and owl calls all night. Several families of large brown fox squirrels call our trees home. Last week I saw eight of them playing. Racoons and possums pass through and at least one skunk lives under our yard shed. I know this isn't the same as owning and caring for a pet. I have no emotional attachment to these creatures, nor them to me. They amuse me, and perhaps I amuse them.
I think that one is either an animal person or not. I guess that I'm not. I know Mike isn't. "I raised kids, I won't raise a dog," he says. I have to say I agree with him.
07 febbraio Scary Apocalyptic DreamsLast night's dream was a strange one. We were by the sea, at an amusement park, a place like Cony Island. My entire family was there: my husband, my two daughters, and myself. We were being told of strange and frightening apocalyptic predictions. There would be great storms, great tribulations. We were told to go hide in a "time capsule" hidden in a ladies room underneath the pier and to come out after all the mayhem was over. We never made it into the capsule. A huge storm arose and we watched from the restaurant window as the sky grew red over the water and all the dolphins flew into the sky and away into space. (Apologies to Douglas Adams. My dream didn't mean to plagerize.) Lightning and winds scoured the pier. When we left the restaurant the girls happily ran down to the end of the pier which was cleared of the rides and tents that had been there before. I was thinking that we should get into that shelter because something still could happen. Although I'm not religious at all, I was wondering if this was the rapture, if people would start disappearing. I was frightened and anxious.
Earlier in the dream there was someone who died who was to be placed into a capsule. We were told he was placed in the capsule, but we never saw it and we had doubts whether he died. The capsule had simply disappeared. The person in the capsule was an older man, I think it was my father.
I'm anxious about something. I fear that everything can come falling down around me. It could be this is in response to the Lisa Nowak story. She had it all and in a flash of insanity lost it. And I've lost something. Astronauts were gods to me. Perfect in every way, and their reward was to fly to the heavens. They were smarter, nobler, more focused and driven and saner than I could ever be. Now I know this is clearly not so. You're never too old to lose some more of your innocence. But it still hurts.
My oldest daughter is auditioning her violin talents at colleges. On Saturday she auditions at Oberlin. She'll be away at school next year. Her younger sister is hoping to attend Interlochen for high school next year. Her audition is in early March. I could lose both my girls by September. The pier of my family will be scoured clear by the winds of time and change. No wonder I'm anxious.
My parents are in their early eighties. They seem to be more frail each time I see them. I fear that they won't be around forever. I see them whenever I can, at least three times a month, but it doesn't seem like enough.
Everything in life is transcient. Our families, our friends, ourselves, good times, bad times, work, play, that concert I hoped would never end, that play that couldn't end too early. I want everything to stay just like it is, all the time. I want us all to live in the same house and never age. I want all that even though I know it would be a huge mistake. Everybody would be straightjacketed into one role, one personality, and nobody would have the opportunity to become. The world is better when I and the persons around me can grow and change and leave. It's just that growing is difficult, changing is burdensome, and dying is unthinkable. I am so anxious. 06 febbraio Love Amongst the StarsHow tragic is the story of Lisa Nowak, and astronaut the mother of three who is being charged with the attempted kidnapping of another woman. What makes this story, this love triangle, so bizarre is that it's a triangle between three astronauts. A woman's life and career are crashing in flames and we watch this as intently as we watched replay after replay of the destruction of Discovery.
This sort of thing happens all the time in the offices and factories and workplaces of our world. Especially since so many women today work alongside men. One person becomes obsessed with another. He or she gets rebuffed or gets jealous and goes into revenge mode. Threats, harassment, stalking, a nine hundred mile drive, pepper spray, concealed weapons. When you visit Domestic Violence Court you realize this happens all the time, every day. But it doesn't happen to astronauts. They're supposed to be better than us, the best of the best. They go through decades of education and training, batteries of psychological and physical tests, and at the other end we expect them to come out perfect.
No human is perfect. We have a manned space program because we want a human presence in space. If we wanted a perfect presence we could send robots. Astronauts on long missions sometimes refuse to talk to each other for long periods. They chafe at the close contant and sometimes even refuse to cooperate for the good of the mission. Astronauts are, in short, just like us. It should not surprise us when astronauts who train together for months and live like gods floating above us form a special or romantic bond.
Lisa Nowak's demise is Operatic in its scope. Last summer she flew to the stars in a space shuttle mission. She was the pinnacle of human achievment. But she was flawed, she was human. Despite being married, she fell in love with a fellow astronaut. She fell so deeply in love that when her love was threatened by another she unthinkingly threw away her career, her family, and her life among the stars. Some people say that they would do anything, sacrifice anything to fly into space. But the pull of love, the tug of human need is even stronger than gravity. Lisa Nowak was brought to earth by the elemental human need for another. We all feel that need and now we know why outer space really doesn't matter. 05 febbraio Birthday PresentTomorrow is my husband's birthday and I still haven't bought him a gift. It should be easy if I follow a few simple guidelines:
It should plug in, use batteries, or be golf related. I've found that if I deviate from this simple rule I can be in a heap of trouble. A few years ago I gave him a new, very nice and expensive, wallet. No reaction. Another year I gave him a mag light flashlight. One of those big heavy ones that cops use to club people of interest over the head. You'd think I gave him a Lexus with a big red bow. He loved that flashlight and he still uses it whenever he can. He shows it off to his friends. I'm still looking for a rechargable golf ball washer, I think that would be Mike's ideal gift.
The gift cannot be practical, or something that he would buy for himself. It can't even be something that he theoretically could buy for himself, but which I usually buy for him. Like a shirt, sweater, or any other article of clothing. Except for maybe a real garish golf sweater that he could wear to try to out-peacock the other golfers. He swears that's not the point, but a magenta sweater, spikey two-toned shoes, and a bag of big sticks say a lot about a man.
The gift must reinforce his self image as masculine, intelligent, and competent. No Calculus for Dummies books, no double hinged golf clubs that are supposed to teach him a better swing but instead sit unused in the basement until I throw it away. I think no man wants to be seen with a double hinged stick. That would violate the golfer-as-peacock principle. The gift can be some esoteric book or jazz disc by an author or artist I have never heard of. The problem being if I've heard of the book or disc in question it's too plebian for my masculine, intelligent, and competent husband. I am likewise incompetent to choose cigars or power tools, as my gender renders me incapable of understanding the subtle nuances of Costa Rican or Cuban or 3/4" or 5/8".
The gift must have a WOW factor. As much as he says "I don't need anything" or "You shouldn't have" he most certainly desires something that blows him away with its thoughtfulness, its impracticality, and its "I know you and love you" sentimentality. And the strange thing is cost is no object. Sometimes the cheaper the better. I can see how he loved the mag light flashlight. It's black, heavy, masculine, totally impractical, in short it's perfect.
Having said all this I'm going out on a limb gift-wise. I know where I can find several albums by Ornette Coleman. These are real vinal, so there's some real snob appeal there. Coleman plays an atonal, inaccessable brand of jazz, more snob appeal. The records are totally impractical, they're played on an electronic gizmo, and they smell like they've been in somebody's basement for years. What's more masculine than that? Or I could buy him a new driver.
04 febbraio #2I have decided to write individual blogs about my 101 in prime number sequence as the spirit, or lack of otherwise good inspiration, strikes me. Oh where is my muse? To my horror #2 on the list is "I was a cheeleader in high school." I try to think of high school as little as possible, so I can't imagine what Freudian reason made this pop up #2 on my list. High school memories are better left undisturbed, high school reunions are better left unattended.
I enjoyed cheering. I loved the routines and the comraderie with the other girls. I thought the outfit was really fun to wear. I finally made the varsity squad in my senior year. What I lacked in athletic ability I made up in zest and perkiness. I was quite the perky one back then, even before I discovered caffein and amphetamines. Our captain was a beautiful, bright, and supremely bitchy girl we'll call Diana. Diana was anything but perky. She was more like a drill sergent, Adolph Hitler in a cheerleading outfit. She didn't like me and did her best to alienate her friends from me. So Diana did the usual bitchy stuff, hoping I would drop out. She put me on the bottom in the pyramid, she insisted that I try flips that were way beyond me, she even started rumors that I was sleeping with my boyfriend. At least I had a boyfriend, Diana.
Thanks to the encouragement of my mother and a few good girlfriends, I made it through that year. It didn't kill me and it definitely made me stronger. I learned how to work for an impossible boss, I learned that you can't possibly please everyone, I learned how to do the splits. All in all, I'm glad I did it. It prepared me for the Dianas in my college sorority (you know who you are) and in my work life. It taught me the value of teamwork and the importance of showing up. And it showed me who I could trust and who I couldn't, for most of the girls on the squad were great. Some of them still implore me to go to the high school reunions. I haven't gone, and I won't go, but that's another story.
Odd thing about this 101. Writing so many things about myself so quickly turned into something of a Roarschak test in itself. The stream of conscousness that led me to follow one item with another turned up some really unexpected items. Oh and....GOOOO BEARS!!!!!!!!! 02 febbraio My 1011. I enjoy swimming laps.
2. I was a cheerleader in high school.
3. I have never owned a pet.
4. I drive a Chrysler Town and Country mini van.
5. I like to wear short skirts with long jackets.
6. I saw my first classical concert in college.
7. My first boyfriend was in 8th grade. His name was Ben and he gave me his ID bracelet to wear.
8. Ben never kissed me, although I wanted him to.
9. My house is 80 years old.
10. I was in a sorority in college.
11. I am almost computer illiterate.
12. I once won a wet T-shirt contest.
13. I enjoy an occasional martini.
14. I met my husband in small claims court.
15. Both my parents are still alive.
16. I like to watch Storm Stories on the Weather Channel, especially Animal Storm Stories.
17. I love to ski, especially cross country.
18. I enjoy flying in small airplanes.
19. My favorite composer is Elliot Carter.
20. My favorite conductor is David Robertson.
21. I hate shopping for bathing suits, but I love shopping for evening dresses.
22. My favorite shoes are my black slingback pumps with a very pointed toe.
23. It's worth everything you have to go through to wear heels.
24. I prefer grapefruit over oranges.
25. I love to cook.
26. My daughters are vegitarians.
27. My best girlfriend flirts with my husband.
28. I don't flirt with hers.
29. Netflix is a brilliant idea.
30. Cliches are a dime a dozen.
31. I enjoy cleaning house.
32. I was raised Catholic.
33. Catholic grade school, plaid skirt, AT THE KNEE!!!!!, red sweater.
34. My favorite nun was sister Leona, she would throw erasers at the bad boys.
35. So far I enjoy getting older. I'm getting smarter.
36. I like nightgowns, not pajamas.
37. I have one sister.
38. I wish my sister lived closer.
39. My aerobics instructor is a sadist.
40. I'm glad my girls are in high school.
41. I love to garden.
42. I do not grow vegetables.
43. I'll go 100 miles out of my way to visit a Japanese garden.
44. My mother still treats me like a little girl.
45. I notice dirty windows.
46. I'm not naturally a blond.
47. My husband likes me as a blond.
48. A bath, a candle, and Norah Jones--perfection.
49. I keep my toenails polished in winter.
50. I have four pair of boots.
51. My favorite month is April.
52. I still have my Barbies.
53. I watch very little television.
54. I'm fluent in Spanish.
55. I can't get my husband to do anything around the house.
56. My birthday should be a national holiday.
57. My favorite holiday is Veteran's Day.
58. My second favorite holiday is the Vernal Equinox.
59. The lawyers in my office are very sexy.
60. I would love to go to law school.
61. I got my first kiss in high school.
62. I hated wearing my cheerleading outfit to class.
63. I refuse to use the dishwasher.
64. The only food better than Thai is Indian.
65. I cry at movies, the opera, the symphony, and while reading certain books.
66. I started taking piano lessons deven years ago.
67. I have a baby grand in my living room.
68. I can watch "Groundhog Day" over and over and over and over.
69. Snow days are a gift from the heavens.
70. I have way too much jewelry.
71. I don't get botox.
72. I was a tomboy when I was young.
73. My house has bare floors and rugs.
74. I think Amy Tan and Toni Morrison are brilliant.
75. Loud shouting and angry verbal fights in live theater scare and excite me.
76. I lied on my MMPI.
77. I did inhale, often.
78. I flew in a glider, once.
79. I refuse to wear anything but a two piece bathing suit.
80. Except my speedo, when lap swimming.
81. I broke my ankle slipping in the gym shower, two girls had to carry me out.
82. I used to fish with my father.
83. I refuse to golf with my husband.
84. Christmas is the cruelest holiday.
85. I took a Roarschak test, once.
86. I can't wait for summer.
87. I watch the Super bowl for the commercials.
88. I can juggle.
89. I tried on my wedding dress last year. It fit!
90. My cell phone does not have a camera.
91. I change purses frequently.
92. I feel naked if my nails aren't done.
93. I like to swim in lakes.
94. I'm a Cancer.
95. I once lost my wedding ring.
96. I loved being pregnant.
97. I studied English Literature in college.
98. I never wear a watch.
99. I love to stand in the rays of a full moon.
100. Dolphins are perfect creatures.
101. We create life.
01 febbraio I, GoddessI just took an on line test to see what kind of a goddess I am. I expected Vesta to pop up at the end of the quiz. I've always thought of myself as a hearth-and-home kind of a girl and Vesta, the goddess of the hearth, was always the goddess for me. Instead I was surprised to find that I was a Muse. That's OK, Calliope, Euterpe, Erato, Inspiration and their sisters have alwas been among my favorite Greek Goddesses.
Calliope is the muse of epic poetry. Erato is the muse of music. I think I'm Erato, with all the music coming from my house. But does a muse take lessons? Today is my piano lesson, is my teacher my muse? Can a muse have a muse? My piano playing is so poor I would love to have a muse. Especially if my muse could do dishes, laundry and house cleaning, run errands, pay bills, and finish painting the basement too. That would be a sight, my muse in her thin greek gown with a paint roller in her hand.
Now that I think of it, a muse may be nothing more that a glorified cleaning woman or executive assistant. For how can the artist concentrate on his or her art if they're tied down by mundane chores? I'm sure Alma Schindler helped with Gustav Mahler's scheduling and bills, in addition to inspiring him to write beautiful love themes, "Songs on the Death of Children," and the tragic 6th Symphony. (Apparantly a muse doesn't provide only happy inspiration.) As far as my husband is concerned, I've been a failed muse. That is unless I can be considered the muse of golf, inspiring him to play three rounds weekly so as to keep his handicap below ten.
No, my musehood is for my children. I've always played music, providedquality liturature including symphonic scores, and taken the girls to museums, resataurants, and shows. They've been going to the Chicago Symphony since age five. I juggle the bills to pay for music lessons and for camp and I run the car pool to concerts. I work with other orchestra moms (muses) to raise funds and sell tickets. You should see us at board meetings, all in our transparently sheer flowing gowns and golden sandals.
I've just finished working on the FAFSA forms and tonight this muse will be driving her daughter to Evanston. She has an audition at Northwestern tomorrow morning. The car is warmed up, my gown and sandals are packed, and I'm bringing my CDs of Wagner's Ring Cycle to listen to in the car. My daughter thinks I'm such a dork. It's hard being a muse.
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