My husband discovered my blog last week.  (waves at hubby who is certainly reading this)  This space wasn't exactly a secret from him, being in a public forum, but I certainly didn't tell him about it.  I wrote things here that are embarrassing to me and to him, and dear, I apologize for that.  I love you very much.  I've deleted some of those entries and I'll be deleting others soon.

I wrote here month after month as a way to work through problems, have some fun, share with friends, and just to keep my writing skills limber.  I enjoy putting electronic pen to paper and unfortunately those close to us are the subject of much writing...both biography and fiction.  So dear, know that I love you and that you are the crucial part in my world....and know that I love you more than anyone or anything. 

When we talked, he told me, ""I'm glad I'm not married to an author....I don't think I could take that."  This is rough enough for him, reading thoughts that were never meant for his eyes.  Dear one, you are always welcome here, when you enter this forum you will be my honored guest.  Always feel at home in my thoughts and in my heart.  What will be splayed out in this blog is for all to see, but most of all you.  Please read, enjoy, and comment.  I hope I never make you cringe with this blog again.

Gandalf warned me....he said that if entered Second Life I could be sucked down the rabbit hole never to return.  Yes I have been sucked down that rabbit hole, and yes I spend way to much time on Second Life, but this blog entry is proof that there is life after Second Life. 

My real life continues: raising daughters, giving sermons, working for the dreaded law office.  I still go to operas, symphony, and chamber music, and I still find time to read books (the novel 2066) right now.  But I have missed my daily blogging and my MSN friends.  It seems that my fingers can still tap a keyboard and my mind can still put together a coherent sentence.  Hopefully I will find the inspiration to return here again and again to explore and share the goings on in my life.

It's late August...back to school time.  I'm waking up earlier to wake up daughter Ashley and to make her lunch.  The dreaded, "Do you have any homework?" has crept back into my conversations.  My morning drive to work is peppered by yellow buses and I find myself paying more and more attention to the fashion ads in the newspapers.

My inner soccer mom is awakening, stirred by the pull of orchestra committees and school registrations.  Yesterday I attended an all day church retreat. (I'm a member of my church's board *curtsey*)  On Wednesday I'll be sitting in on orchestra auditions and on Thursday Ashley has her first concert.  It's less relaxing to sit under the sun by the pool when one is followed by a cloud of duties and a storm of commitments.  I'm tempted to retire my bikinis for the season....just tempted.

But after yesterday's church meeting I was ready to move poolside permanently.  The morning session was scheduled to run from 8:30 until noon.  The final prayer and hymn were said and sung closer to one.  In between we were treated discussions on building use policy, tax exempt letters (make sure they're up to date),  team building, and whether the thermostat should be set at 76 or 78 degrees.  Here are selected quotes from my notes:  "Suggested agenda.....Checkin....get meeting over ASAP...check out."  "Interminable discussion of building use.  10:15...20 mins. into building usage....UGH!  Poster child for nightmare meeting.  People upset about the FORM!  Give me a gun!  GAK."  At about 12:30, as the meeting should have been winding down or over already for god sake, a board member started the thermostat discussion.   76 or 78....68 or 70....turn up or down during services....I don't even know how to work the thermostat.  That's when I got up, went to the bathroom, and failed to return.  Nature called....the nature that I couldn't take this anymore.  It's terribly bad form to swear at other church leaders in the sanctuary.

So I survived...even survived the afternoon session.  And this morning I'm going to services.  I am a glutton for committee work.  I am Soccer Mom
So if you see me in my Town and Country Van....please don't ask me where my thermostat is set.







 

It's a rainy day and it's Monday.  I should be down, but not today.  I'll be giving another sermon this Sunday and today is a research day.  My topic will be "home." 

It seems to me that everybody has a different conception of home.  For some its their dwelling, others feel more home at work.  Some people feel at home at the golf course or at a neighborhood bar.  Others feel at home at a certain store or spa.  Church is a home to many and the ancestral home may be as repellent to some as it is attractive to others.

The common thread is that each of us feels a yearning for a place we can call home.  This is a place where we feel safe and connected.  Where we can be ourselves without fear of judgment or expectations that push us to be someone else.  Thus the ancestral home that is anything but a haven.

Heaven may be a yearned for home for many, but I wonder how many would feel comfortable living in what is the popular conception of that place?  Harps and clouds and bliss all day all the time.  For who would that be home?  I suspect even Mother Theresa would soon chafe at the lack of variety.  No, I think more people would agree with Max Tucker's's conception of a spiritual home.  Mr. Tucker is a self confessed hedonist and is the author of, "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell."

I'd love to know what place others see as "home."  Is it where you grew up, a favorite concert hall, a college, your house, or workplace?  Please let me know.

It's the weekend, about time.  My husband and I are fighting over the television.  I want to watch the Tour de France, he wants to watch the British Open.  He's watching other men chase a white ball right now, freeing me up to blog.  Pretty soon I'll push him off the couch so that I can watch Chrstian Vande Velde climb an Alp.

I'm even more excited about Le Tour since learned that Vande Velde is from the Chicago suburb of Lemont.   I'm sure I've driven over the same roads he has used to train.  Hurray--a local boy to root for.  Go Christian!

I've been biking more lately.  My typical ride is 20 miles, two or three times per week.  I finally broke down and bought myself a pair of those tight and padded bike pants.  The kind that make you feel like you're wearing about four sanitary napkins.  I may feel like the Michilin Woman down there, but my  ride is so much more comfortable.  I even  bought one of those colorful jerseys with the pockets in the back.  I only wish I were an adept enough biker to use those pockets.  That reach behind while pedaling still throws me off. 

It's raining like crazy today, so probably no biking.  Even after the rain stops the water thrown up by my tires from puddles would give me a wet stripe up my back.  Definitely not a good look.  It looks like more indoor exercise today, probably the stair climb with arms full of laundry.  And yes I have avoided Lifetime Fitness.  The last time I went there I almost didn't come out.

Oh how I've missed blogging.  In my last post, ages ago, I was heading for a workout at Lifetime Fitness.   No, I didn't slip off my aerobics step and suffer some grave injury.  No, I didn't meet a rich handsome man and run away (that I would have blogged about).    I just got lazy...fell out of the blogging habit.

It's not like my life has become terribly busy.   I still go to my daughters' concerts,  I'm still working at the same law firm,  the same piles of laundry and dust bunnies still occupy my house.   My garden is blooming and my tan is deepening.  Life is pretty good right now.

The most existential drama I've had to contend with is dealing with the lack of money that comes with a child in college and one about to go to college.   For a while I felt trapped and deprived.   Trapped because I couldn't travel as much as I would like.  Deprived because all my money goes to my girls' tuition, music lessons, or instruments.  I guess I'm not totally deprived...I bought two new bras the other day. 

I snapped out of my funk last Saturday.  As I sat on my upstairs porch in a really tiny bikini reading a book and sunning myself I heard the sound of Ashley practicing cello.  She was playing Bach's Second Cello Sonata...a lovely piece.  She played boldly, and well, and the sound resonated from our living room into the neighborhood.  The scales and arpeggios spread like the breeze over my garden, amongst the trees,  and through the neighbors' yards.  The birds must have been jealous.  And I finally realized this is what it's all about.

We pursue peace and beauty every minute of our lives.  We're lucky when we find it, but we're luckier when we can create it.  I'm doing my part to help make the world a little more beautiful.  I doing so I find peace.

The best thing about painting is that while doing a mindlessly repetitive activity you get to listen to great music.  Yesterday I heard "Pearl" by Janis Joplin, Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks," "Please Please Me" by the Beatles, "Raising Sand" by Allison Kraus and Robert Plant and CD's by Radiohead, the Strokes, and Steve Earl.  I was a Radiohead virgin...it was my first time listening to them..."OK Computer" was bleak but awfully good.

Yesterday we prepped and painted trim.  Today we roll.  Or that's the plan.  My back, legs, butt, arms, and even my hands are tired from yesterday's workout.  I swear even my boobs are tired from painting.  And I'm still feeling twombly from my many drinks around the fire pit while we celebrated turning off the lights.  Mike is still asleep; he was doing the real work with both the painting and drinking.  I don't think he'll be rolling until mid-afternoon.

What I enjoyed most about yesterday was that my husband and I worked together.  Usually we work in separate parts of the house.  When we have tried to do a major project, like painting a room, it ends in disaster.   He takes something I say as criticism and gets defensive,  I feel like I can't work at my own pace, and we both bristle when one asks the other to do something.  Something was different yesterday.  For once we were singing off the same page and between my alto and his lovely tenor we made some great music.

Happy Friday Everyone!  We're going to the symphony tonight, my favorite black dress is back from the cleaners and I'm wearing it, and today is a short day at work.  It doesn't get better than that.

Call me simple.  A little sunshine plus my favorite outfit equals one happy Carol.  Yesterday I wore an older suit which I'm starting to not like much and I grumped through the whole day.  I don't know how many times I was accused of PMSing.   I was, and I still am, but that's besides the point.  A nicer outfit makes me feel better whether I'm having my period or not, whether I have a cold or not, or whether or not I'm mad at the world.

If only I could make my husband understand just how important the right clothes are.  After 20 years of marriage he still looks over my shoulder at every clothing purchase.  I've even take to doing that cliche wife thing of just buying the shoes or the dress or whatever and hiding it.  (Who doesn't?) "Oh that old thing?" is coming out of my mouth more and more.

Men are from Mars when it comes to clothes.  They don't understand just how perfect is the perfect bag.  They don't understand just how necessary those new shoes are because they have an open toe and chunky heel.  I'm tired of pointy toed shows.  I love the comfort and the look of curved toes.   And just try to explain to them why you need three swimsuits--impossible.

So right now I'm dressed and ready for dinner and a concert.  I got at least three compliments on my outfit, one even from one of the (male) attorneys.  I live for those compliments.   Work is breezing by today.  Maybe it's the sunshine, maybe it's my outfit, maybe it's that my Motrin finally kicked in.  Whatever it is, I'm feeling fine.

Is Barak all hat and no cattle?  Is Hillary desperate, will she weep?  Will Bill stay on his leash?  Tune in for the next installment of the soap opera that is the Democratic race for the Nomination.

I haven't been a Hillary supporter, and I was greatly offended by her "3am phone call" spot.  Are the people of United States sleeping children who are to be watched over by Mother Hillary?  Obama says that by pulling together we can change this cynical culture.  Clinton tells us that she will watch over us and keep us safe.  Playing on fears and infantilizing the populace may be a way to win an election, but it is a terrible way to govern.  That's exactly the formula that resulted in the invasion and continued occupation of Iraq.

I'll be watching tonight.  In fact, I'll be glued to the tube--I can't wait to see what happens.   And tomorrow I'll read the Times and the Tribune and the Washington Post and the blogs to get the spin on why it happened.  There's something disquieting about my zeal to know.  Something distasteful.  I feel like I'm watching E! or reading People or the National Enquirer, not following a pivotal National Election.  I'm so caught up in the personalities of Hillary, Barak, and Bill that I refer to them by first name.  Even the candidates are doing it:  Hillary campaigns as "Hillary" because she figures campaigning as "Clinton" would be a sure loser.

I so want it all to change.  I want people to trust their government again.  I want big business to forced to be responsible--the marketplace and profit motive just encourages malfesance.  I want people to take responsibility to pay their own way and to realize that taxes are the price we pay for good schools and roads and parks.  I want cities and states to not have to lease their airports and roads to private companies for quick cash and I want to see an end to gambling as a revenue quick fix. 

Some people criticize liberals for even wanting Utopia.  They say the dream itself is dangerous as it invites limits on our "freedom."  If my freedom is to drive to a nearby casino where I can lose money to pay for the roads I drove over--I don't want it.  Nor do I want to be free from the tyranny of pubic schools or zoning laws or EPA Regulations or the myriad social protections the conservatives want to do away with.

Yes I want change.  And the biggest change I desire is for the restoration of a noble and uplifting word and idea--"liberal."

I have been so unmotivated lately.  I haven't felt very good about myself, my work, or anything.  So today I told myself, "Just show up...That's half the battle."  I went to work and started one thing and then another and I ended up having a pretty productive day.  I'm actually feeling pretty good about myself for the first time in awhile.  "Just show up."  It sounds pretty trite but pretty much everything is dependent on first showing up.  The next step, "Just follow through."  Is a lot more daunting.  I think I'll stay with just showing up for now.

Thank you Mssrs. Lincoln and Washington.  Although Presidents day isn't as meaningful a holiday as Veterans' Day, it's still nice to have a day off from work with the house to myself.

First things first, Put some music on my computer and write.  Right now I'm listening to and loading Stan Getz' "Serenity"--Mr. Getz was a Sax great who came up during the be-bop era.   I so wish I had seen him play live.

Today is an unusual day.  The house is clean, I'm not in the midst of any household projects, (even the laundry is done) and the only thing I absolutely have to do is bake a cake by 4 this afternoon.   Lets see....seven hours to bake a cake...I think I can handle that.  I wonder if this is what retirement will be like, each day a blank slate to be filled in however I please.

I'm thinking yoga or meditation or tai chi will be a must for the retired me in 20 years.  No more aerobics for granny Carol.  Cooking and baking has been and will be a constant.  Maybe a class or two will help me expand my repertoir.  I'll still play piano and without work I'll have much more time to practice at my beloved Yamaha.  Maybe I'll even fill in at church when the musician is sick or on vacation.  I know that I'll never want for a time filler as long as my church is in existence.   Even though Unitarian-Universalism has no dogma or dictates it still has pot lucks, coffee hours, cards to write, landscaping,  and committee work.  

I don't know how people have the energy to retire.  I haven't even mentioned book clubs, card and scrabble games, theater groups, watching the grandkids, the symphony and opera on those great $20 senior tickets,  "early bird" dinners, hanging around Starbucks for hours drinking Vente Lattes.  Whew, I think I'll work until I'm 70.

Today, in my "aspects of retirement" day, I'll be content to watch the shadows move from left to right in my sunroom.  I'll be happy to learn one more line of Beethoven's Pathetique Piano Sonata.   I'll put  The Modern Jazz Quartet's "Last Concert" and Golijov's opera "Ainadamar' on my computer.  And I'll bake a cake.  I think of it as "retirement lite."

Every year, with varying degrees of success, I try to see all of the films nominated for best picture.  So far I'm at my usual average of three...I've seen "Michael  Clayton,"  "There Will Be Blood," and last night I saw "Atonement."  I'm pretty sure I'll make it out to see "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" but I think husband Mike will have to drag me to see "No Country for Old Men" much like I dragged him to see "Atonement."  (I spared him 27 dresses...I saw that one with a girlfriend.)

All I can say about "Atonement" is, I love Keira Knightly's green dress!  The rest of the movie is good...very good in fact, but that green dress is spectacular!  It's a Gatsbyesque symbol of passion and yearning.  For her, a yearning for freedom from the constraints of her social system, for him a desire for the freedom that he believed his education would give him.  Forget about all of that water and those windows and mirrors as symbols.  They're too confusing.  The green dress is straight forward and as I watched the film I thought about my yearning to look like Keira Knightly and to wear a dress like that.

My husband liked the wartime scenes in Dunkirk and London.  He also liked the set for the family mansion.  Did we see the same movie?

I'm disappointed that "Atonement" is on the Best Picture list instead of "The Darjeeling Limited."  That Wes Anderson film really moved me.  It was funny, heartbreaking, lyrical, and ultimately too precious for Oscar voters' tastes.  But "Atonement" is Oscar's type of movie.  It's a lovely film;  big, historical, accessible, and rich in culture and detail.  But it's smaller than "Titanic" in emotional breadth and depth and that's why my guess for Best Picture Winner goes to"There Will Be Blood."   

This week has been quite a cultural whirlwind.  On Monday I went to see "There will be Blood," the new film by PT Anderson.  On Tuesday Ashley and I went to the Lyric Opera to see "Falstaff."  Yesterday I listened to the opera "Susannah" by Carlisle Floyd on my car's CD player while driving all over Chicagoland for work.  "Blood" and "Susannah" are as tragic as they get.  Thank goodness they were sandwiched around a comic opera.

"There Will Be Blood" is unrelentingly grim.   It tells the story of the rise of an American oilman, a Mr. Plainview, played by Daniel Day Lewis.  Plainview is the prototypical capitalist.  Everything about him, family, work, ethics, is about making money and finishing on top.  His road to the top is through the bowels of the earth--where the black pitch blood of the earth--oil comes from.  Even the vibrant Brahms Violin concerto seems strangely off key.  It's a wonderful film and I was transfixed for the entire show.

If the NBA can have its dog days of February, I guess the Lyric Opera can also.  "Falstaff" is an enjoyable opera, full of gorgeous late Verdi melodies, but as Ashley said, "It's not Triviata."   It certainly is not!  It's light, airy and fun and quickly forgettable.

On Wednesday I listened to Floyd's "Susannah."  It's an opera based on an apochryphal writing of the bible set in turn of the 20th century Tennessee.  Sounds dull, but the opera had sex and violence and vengeful crowds.  Like any good operatic tragedy, it ended badly for everyone.  The story involves a pretty girl who is shunned by jealous church members and the preacher who tries to save her soul even while lusting for her body.  I was so enthralled by this story I was reading the libretto while driving the car.  Not as dangerous as doing mascara, but still pretty bad.   No more books on tape for me on long drives, it'll be operas on CD from now on.

Next week I have Mara's school symphony concert on Monday and the Chicago Symphony performing Bartok's 3rd Piano concerto on Thursday.  I'm a glutton...I can't wait.

I was telling my husband the other day that we're not that unlike the raccoon that lives in my back yard.  He immediately made some sort of crack about me rooting through the garbage again and after we calmed down...I only root through the garbage when I think I've lost something...I explained my reasoning to him.

These last few snowy mornings I've come out my back door and found fresh raccoon tracks.  Around the back of the house, over to the shed, behind the garage, between the garbage cans...like the trail Jeffy leaves in that awful cartoon "Family Circus."  After a few days I noticed that even if the snow was fresh the tracks were in the same places.  Around, back, over, behind and between.  Our raccoon has a routine.

A few minutes later I got to my parking deck and started to walk to the office.  As I walked through the snowy area between the two I saw my bootprints from yesterday.  They were mine alright...rectangular, thin heel, size eight, a little pigeon toed.  As I looked close I saw my prints from the day before;  same boot, same gait.  And going down the same path over and over... same as the raccoon.  Even leaving the house I went down the same path.  When I pulled out of my driveway I went down the same streets as always and even saw some of the same people.  Not unlike the raccoon.

I knew we are creatures of habit and I've written here before about how much I cherish our habits.   I had just never realized just how hard wired our habits are.  I have friends who retire to Florida or Arizona, not realizing just how hard it will be to readjust to an entirely new environment.  It' not surprising many of them are unhappy.  Just imagine taking a raccoon and plopping him down in a forest fifty miles away.  Panic city for that poor raccoon.

Now I'm off to the library to drop off some CDs.  Then It's off to the dry cleaner's to pick up a skirt I had altered and to drop off a couple suits.  I imagine I'll take the same route as always, but maybe, just maybe today I'll get a Tall coffee instead of a Vente.  Watch out, this girl is living dangerously!

If we couldn't live vicariously through our daughters, how could we live?  I can imagine myself wearing a pair of cute low rise jeans and a really tight top because I can see how Mara looks in that outfit.  I can relive my prom dresses and dates through Ashley's prom plans.  And I can experience my frustrated musical dreams whenever I hear my daughters play their violin or cello.

But where I was once a supportive orchestra mom, now I'm a jealous one.   Last Friday night Mara called me, bubbling over with excitement.  She had gone to see the Chicago Symphony concert that night--Boulez conducting Stravinsky and Berio--and I thought she as calling to give me a review.  No no.  She was able to go backstage after the concert, thanks to her violin teacher.  There she met not only Maestro Boulez, but also the mezzo-soprano Susan Graham.   I am so happy for her, but also so jealous.

I never had musical training as a girl.  I did the normal girl stuff, Brownies, Girl Scouts, cheerleading, but what I really wanted was to play a musical instrument.  I wanted to be able to read those mysterious black marks with the little flags, I wanted to be part of an ensemble that created something together.  The only ensemble my culturally challenged mother and sports addicted father approved of was the cheer squad.  Ouch.  So instead of singing I danced.  When I was on the football field in my short skirt and tight top leading a cheer I really longed to be in long pants and a structured sexless jacket in the band.  I so wanted to be a band geek.

So now my older daughter is at the conservatory studying violin and having great musical adventures.  My younger daughter is in two orchestras and a trio.  I've been studying piano for ten years now, but I can't even come close to knowing what has become instinctual to them.  I have to be content with having expanded my knowledge of music and music theory, if not my ability to make music.  Just now Bruckner's 7th Symphony has come up on my I-tunes shuffle--I'll take that as a sign.

 I am so proud of both my daughters;  and even though I'm a bit jealous of them, it could be worse.  At least I'm not jealous of them for being young and pretty.