Things That Happened Last Night:

1. My son's class party at big, local park
2. Woman not associated with our party losing child, and consequently, almost all teachers and parents fanned out over said park looking for little girl. She was found about 2-3 blocks away.
3. Went over to walk in the Light the Night event (for Leukeumia/Lymphoma research)
4. Ran into elementary/high school/once-was-roommate/lifetime friend who was walking in memory of her friend (an acquiantance of mine) who battled Non-Hodgkins last year.
5. Said goodbye, started walking.
6. Around mile two, I run into friend who is frantically looking for her son.
7. Friend and I bactrack a ways, and find him standing alone, looking a bit sheepish.
8. Celebrate, and Friend remarks I must be wearing my lucky undies as I've helped find two missing kids.
9. Complain about blisters on my feet as we're walking back to the car, that we almost didn't find, but that's another story.
10. Go home.

The end.

When I was (close to) four-years-old, I started taking piano lessons.

I remember the wife of one of our farm hands coming over to give me lessons.

"Curve your hands, don't let them lay flat like a pancake!"

I still have all my old piano books. They are stored in a box, along with my dolls and stuffed animals that I couldn't give up.

I kept playing as I grew up, but I didn't really have a choice in the matter. My mom never played, and always wished she'd learned. My father had been given lessons early on (by his mother), and he finally took up stick ball and didn't keep up with the practice. He also said his hands got 'too big'. I believe this. At 49, he was 6'5" and 240 lb.

Me? I hated theory. I hated practicing. I hated giving up afternoons to drive to a nearby towns to practice. yet. again. And oh, how I hated the recitals. Getting up to play "Fur Elise" in front of a crowd full of bored parents and crying siblings? Ugh.

And then church! Living in a small town, if you could play, you'd get stuck playing anything from "specials on Sunday" to "ooops, can you play for the Choir?". I would give up my Wednesday nights to sit in the Church Fellowship Hall, playing another round of "How Great Thou Art". By playing those 'specials', though, you earned a sweet little note from Pearl or Mabel. They would tell you what a wonderful job you did, and how you absolutely made the Lord very happy. I still have those notes saved. Pearl passed away recently. She was my 3-4 year old Sunday School teacher, as well.

I loved the piano, but I hated it, still. I wanted to do other things. I wasn't necessarily GOOD at those other things, but anything other than sitting down, back straight, hands curved. And I'm not even sure I was good at that. In fact, I wasn't. I liked playing the piano with a leg up on the piano bench ...

In High School, my dad saw a poster on the school wall advertising for a piano player for a local family museum. Not just any museum, of course. This museum required you to dress up like a Can-Can Dancer and play Ragtime tunes. Had I even in my life played Joplin? No. But I'm great at bullshitting. During my audtion, I sight read "12th Street Rag" and got the job.

And for the new few summers, I dressed like this and played the piano in the summers for the Can-Can shows:



My Junior and Senior Year in High School, I drove an hour and half north to a small town to meet with a woman who would later become my maid of honor in my wedding. She taught my voice and piano lessons. And yet again, I hated Theory and chose to sight read my way through all of my music. Much easier that way, I deducted.

And with that thought process, I won a lot of competitions and knocked out some pretty big piano pieces. I went to college. I got a nice piano, vocal and (okay) theater scholarship. I got to college, and thought, "You know, I don't want to do this". And I think had I been bold enough to tell my parents this, they would have shot me dead.

I was tired of playing the piano.

There was a classmate of mine who played Billy Joel. And she blew me away every time. I remember listening to her play during a school Talent Show, and I cried. I'd never seen such passion in piano playing. (Sidenote: Dinah died two years ago in a horrible car accident, but when I wrote her parents to express my sympathies, I talked about that night she played). My dorm roommate played like an angel, too. Still does. Leads the music worship team for the church she attends in Kansas

I didn't have that. To them, it just came naturally. To me, I wanted to have fun, play what felt right, not be told what to play and how to play it. In a way, I felt like Tori Amos. And why? She went to school, she didn't dig the vibe, she got kicked out. She was my hero. And around this time, she had just released "Little Earthquakes". So, of course, every song spoke to my 'tortured soul'.

"You see, I'm not music theory smart. To me, it's an internal, instinctive thing. It's like, I don't care if this is making mathematical sense, I am not creaming. If I'm really honest, looking back, I wanted my father to be proud of me. But I couldn't do it in that way, because it has to be in your soul to be a great concert pianist." ~ Tori Amos

I decided to give up on piano, but stick with vocal. I got a part in the musical "Into the Woods" during Iterim Break, and I had a blast. I also met a very cute college boy with a sweet Oklahoma draaaawl who told me "you got nice eyes". My knees buckled, the Earth moved, and I fell a tiny bit in love then with a guy named Matt from Oklahoma.

Fast forward a few years - I am out of college. I still played for weddings.

But, only one funeral was for a very dear, old friend of mine named Melvin. He drove the CO-OP truck, would come to our home and refill the propane, etc. We'd see him coming and say, "Sweet Melvin!". He'd bring suckers to myself and my brother. Sweet, of course, because he was sweet, but that was his last name, as well. He was a deacon in my church. And the last time I saw him before he died, he said, "Please sing and play for my funeral". I told him I would. Was one of the hardest things I've done, but I did it for Melvin.

I started writing music. I started expressing myself through lyrics and song. I spent hours at the piano, making music I thought someday would turn me into the next Tori, the next someone.

And one day ... I just quit. I put together my song books and I put them away. I had a beautiful piano to play, but I didn't. I burned out again. I got busy with a new baby and keeping up with life. Sitting down at the piano didn't feel right. I felt forced again to make right with something I'd let go.




But lately ...

I've been feeling the need to sit, and introduce myself to my piano. Quietly. Sometimes in the middle of the day, when the house is silent, I sit down on the bench and think. I don't play; I just think.

I think about the time I was playing "Sea of Love" and my dad stood in the doorway of the room in my old house, against the door jam, just listening. He'd gotten up from his office chair, walked down the hall, to my room to listen. And I'm reminded that even through all the wrong notes and "apologies" for the obvious technical mistakes I was making, he didn't care. He loved listening to me play.

And I'm reminded that at one time - a long time ago - it was therapeutic to play. That it was a conversation between myself and an instrument, that my hands would play the notes and my mind would think of other things, and make sense of those things.

And that words moved the heart to move the pen and write songs that made me feel better, to put said emotions into perspective. And that now - maybe again - those feelings are stirred and need to be recorded once more...

Labels: dad, love thursday, piano, tori amos

My husband came home last week and said (and I quote), "It's so sad. My colleague's wife's mother died. SHe was like, 90, I think. You should send them a sympathy card".

Dutifully, I go down to the card shop, pick out a card, tell them how sorry we are, and mail it the other day.

Yesterday, my husband has an email from the guy's wife. Turns out, her mother is DY-ING. My husband MISUNDERSTOOD THAT somehow. And instead of taking that hit, in the email he reply he put, "sorry for the miscommunication". Like, MAYBE MY WIFE HEARD ME WRONG.

Hello. No.

I didn't hear anything wrong.

I will be composing an "I'm sorry, I have a jackass for a husband" reply to her somehow. But, I'm really afraid of sending it in the mail.

Labels: hdh is a jackass, i'd like to crawl under a rock party of one.

Last week, the Bug came down with a virus of some sort. Between coughing, hacking, sniffling and generally feeling like crap, he wasn't feeling all that stellar. I mused that not only does he LOOK like me, but he certainly has other traits of mine, too.

What are those, you ask?

Missing your first school pictures because you are SICK!

Bug's school pictures were scheduled for last Thursday. And because he had a fever and felt like hell, I didn't drag him into school for the event. My first class pictures are noticeably absent from the scrapbook: I managed to get chicken pox about then.

(I also missed our first field trip because I had - seriously! - chicken pox AGAIN.)

I wonder what else my son will 'get' of me ... will he muse later in life he should live in a big bubble with padded walls because he runs into everything? I currently have a bruise on my leg that for the life of me I can't place how or when I get the damn thing ...

For now, I'm packing up a lunch, promising him all mornings will indeed suck this bad, but that soon he'll be with his buddies, talking over Danimals and PB&J.

Labels: memories, sick bug

"If a child lives with criticism, he learns to condemn.
If a child lives with hostility, he learns to fight.
If a child lives with fear, he learns to be apprehensive.
If a child lives with jealousy, he learns to feel guilty.
If a child lives with tolerance, he learns to be patient.
If a child lives with encouragement, he learns to be confident.
If a child lives with praise, he learns to be appreciative.
If a child lives with acceptance, he learns to love.
If a child lives with approval, he learns to like himself.
If a child lives with recognition, he learns it is good to have a goal.
If a child lives with honesty, he learns what truth is.
If a child lives with fairness, he learns justice.
If a child lives with security, he learns to have faith in himself and those about him.
If a child lives with approval, he learns to like himself.
If a child lives with acceptance and friendship, he learns to find love in the world."

(Dorothy Nolte)

I hate bad days.

And I hate bad days that turn into a bad week.

I'm pretty sure that if I were in a cartoon, there would be a little cloud over me. Not quite raining, but threatening to rain.

I know I'm in a rough spot when I have visions of moving it all back to my hometown, where life is quieter, less hectic and centered. I need my center.

Granted, I'm pretty sure it's a combination of many things, but I am inspired.

Therefore, allow me to vent:

I am tired of defending myself. To him, to her, to them. Always. It never ends and it's getting nighty old. I like who I am. I like the way I am, but I don't like myself this angry and unhappy. It's not fair to many, but mostly, it's not fair to ME. To borrow a line from Kathleen Edwards, "I'm tired of playing defense and I don't even have hockey skates".

And in that same vein:

I am tired of people making ridiculous assumptions. It's impressive to me how narrow-minded people can be. Because I live in this house, then I must have everything? Hardly. And what is 'everything'? Things are always greener on the other side. I wish for many things in my life that aren't. But I'm learning that you can spend just as much time into being miserable as you can into being happy, and the last one sounds like a better freaking option.

There are things I do when I have days/weeks like this. I listen to music, specifically lyrics, that makes me think. Lately, I've had an affection for Brandi Carlile.

And on that really happy note:

I told a friend once that 'perspective is just about how you choose to look at things'. I am taking my own advice, putting my hands over my ears, putting the blinders on and taking care of me now.

(I'm still gonna post, it's just gonna be bareboned honest)

Labels: bad week

Oh. God.

Getting my son out the door for school in the morning is absolutely AWFUL. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize publicly to my mother and father for all those years of being a complete pain in the in ass in the morning before school. My wakeup call would come at 6:15, with the bus showing up at 7:30. Plenty of time to get ready, eat breakfast, get my shit together and out the door.

No.

I remember my dad busting in, pulling up the shades, threatening me with anything he could think of.

I'm still that way. I HATE MORNINGS. I can completely relate to my son who would rather stay up late and sleep in. I can truly sympathize with him, but damn. We have to be out the door at 7:55 to beat traffic, secure a place in the "car line" at school, unpack the back pack, etc.

This morning was worse than usual. The Bug must still be on Hawaii time. I put him to bed at 8:30 last night and he was still up, trying to play with his toys at 10:30. You can imagine 7:15 this morning came awfully early for both of us.

When I finally got him to school - after fights about the following things (not getting to wear pajamas to school, the shirt I picked out, the shoes, the socks, the car seat, the car, the backpack, the cup, the cup he threw that I wouldn't retrieve for him, the parking lot, the tree, the price of tea in China among about 234289 other things) - we walked up to his teacher.

And God bless this woman. She sweetly said, "Oh, hi Bug! It looks like you are having a hard morning. Come on, Friend, let's go play together".

My child wiped his tears. Gave me a hug and kiss and headed out to play with his buddies.

Every. Single. Morning. Until. He's. 18.

I just know it. I'm getting paid back, I can feel it ...

Labels: herding cats, the bug, waking dead

We flew from Kona last Tuesday into Honolulu. Now, I'm a big fan of all places tropical. I love the ocean. I love the beach, but I really don't like Honolulu. Waaay too crowded. But, we tacked on the stay in Honolulu so we could visit HDH's mom's best friend who lives about 15 minutes outside of the city.

I booked our hotel in Honolulu with "partial ocean view" because, well, why the fuck not. They put us on the 26th floor, and HDH (I learned) isn't a big fan of heights. Together almost seven years, and I just learned this!



One day, HDH took the Bug to see the Pacific Air Museum. I was going to have some time to myself to do some lounging by the pool and shopping. An hour or so later, they reappear in the hotel room. Turns out, parking wasn't good at all and they couldn't find anywhere to put the car hereby causing a rant about public parking, the government, and few other things by my husband. (I did get some clothes, though, at a cool boutique. Suh-weet)

Because the museum that day didn't pan out, we hit the pool:



And I got burned, but at least I got burned in Hawaii.

Over the next few days, we had some fun dinners, went back to the museum (Pearl Harbor) and got parking (amazingly). During the museum tour, we had to ride a bus over to Ford Island. The bus driver said something inappropriate about how he'd better be careful driving over the bridge or he'd be underwater with the sailors. Hi, inappropriate much?? Idiot.

We also went to the Polynesian Resort one afternoon. HDH and I fought. A lot. All the way there. Started out about pulling over for directions, ended up with a whole helluva lot worse. Yay for vacations.

We came home bright and early the next day. On one flight, had the chance to see/talk to Harvey Keitel sitting in First Class. We came home, and I was never so happy in my life to see my own bed, and not live out of a suitcase anymore.

The end.

Labels: hawaii, part two vacation story

A recap of the last week of our lives?

SURE!!

To begin with, we almost didn't make it to the local airport. Some asshole garbage truck driver on Pena Blvd didn't secure his load (mmm, jokes abound here) and crap went flying off the truck. HDHusband dodged it, pulled up along side and we both flipped him off. And The Bug was in 'a mood' heading to the airport. I suggested we consider sending him UPS to Kona. HDH agreed.

But once in Hawaii?

Lovely.

We had a week full of adventures. Stayed on the Big Island for the first few days. HDHusband had a meeting at a swanky-danky resort. They had a private-ish lagoon and beach you could swim at. Bug and I went out every morning for a swim, and one morning, happened to be the first ones out (time change kicking our ass and all). We were greeted by a few of the wild sea turtles out for their morning swim. Someone asked me if they scared the Bug, but considering his response was, "I need to kiss the turtle on the head!" - I think he was okay with them, just as they were with us.

A few shots of the lagoon:






On Sunday night, they had a reception for the guests of the meeting. They had a guy on hand to paint some tribal looking art. A few of the kids had their faces done and swear, they turned into crazy little Lord of the Flies creatures. Their shirts were off, they'd taken branches from trees and made this "me vs. you" kind of game. Hysterical, really, until I saw one pulling my kid into the "jungle" of palm trees and back into the darkness, and I threw down.

Oh, and that night, a bug the size of a SMALL CAR climbed up my pant leg. I kicked it off. And when I didn't see it on the ground, I realized it was climbing up the INSIDE of my pant leg. I screamed like a little girl.

We also packed up the car and drove to the other side of the island to see the volcano action. The Bug was sure we'd see dinosaurs while at the volcano (I'm guessing from Land Before Time movie?). We didn't see any of the flow, but the Bug loved the lava rock. In fact, he loved it so much, he picked out a necklace for me at a little roadside stand the next day.

While asking him which necklace to pick (between one with a turtle and one with a flower), Bug said, "Wava Wock!". I tried to guide him back to the other ones, he insisted, "No, mommy! This is a special one for the mommy!". So it was decreed ... my new favorite necklace:




OH!

And on the last day, Bug and I were standing in line, waiting to be seated for breakfast. A couple walks up behind us, and they have a small baby. I appropriately ooh and aah, Bug is very interested, we smile, say their baby is beautiful, and walk off.

As I'm sitting and eating, I look at this couple and think, "That guy looks familiar ... " and ponder it a bit. HDH shows up, and I say, "I think that guy over there is PyschoExGirlfriend's Ex Boyfriend?".


(After my husband broke up with PyschoEx, she immediately started dating this guy - who had been after her for awhile. They dated, got engaged, she called it off 20 minutes later, they tried to buy a house, that didn't work, they broke up, and she sent emails to her friends cc'-ing my husband into them, about why this guy sucked so bad)


Yup. It was this guy. With his beautiful wife and adorable baby. So, yeah. Total coinidence. And really, REALLY amusing to me. Very.

And then ... we got on a plane and went to Honolulu, Land Of A Billion Tourist and Broken Sewer Pipes and Overpriced Shit.

Part Two coming later. For now, I must go watch the Broncos crush the Raiders.

Labels: hawaii, part one vacation story, wava rock

We're off to Hawaii - or as my grandmother refers to it as, "Huh-WHY-yuh". (And if you happen to live in Missouri, it's "Miz-ZUR-uh")



HotDoctorHusband has a meeting until Tuesday in Kona. The Bug and I will be firmly planted on the beach, building sand castles and talking about such deep subjects as: How To Avoid Sand In Your Crack and Get Mommy A New MaiTai (Run Quick Like a Bunny).

Or something.

The second half of the trip, we will be hopping to another island to visit my husband's mother's best friend. His mother died in '01, and her friend hasn't had a chance to meet The Bug yet. The reunion should be very sweet, and am looking forward to seeing her and her family very much.

I'll be back next weekend - possibly tan, certainly red.

Labels: hawaii, september 2007, vacation all I evvvvvvver wanted

I was digging through a stack of photos today (while I should be packing for our trip tomorrow, but whatever) and came across this photo:



The picture has three of my very favorite things:

1. My dad
2. My doll
3. My (new) cowboy boots

You'll notice the HOT outfit I have on. And by "hot", I mean, "My mom made my clothes". It was most certainly a rarity to find Little HDW in anything other than that ensemble. I would trudge around in the muck and mud on the farm, behind my dad. He was dirty, so I should be dirty, too.

I also found this picture, taken the night before my high school graduation:



The father of a daughter is nothing but a high-class hostage. A father turns a stony face to his sons, berates them, shakes his antlers, paws the ground, snorts, runs them off into the underbrush, but when his daughter puts her arm over his shoulder and says, "Daddy, I need to ask you something," he is a pat of butter in a hot frying pan. ~Garrison Keillor

Labels: daddy, love thursday

After this post about my very bad, no good Sunday morning, my good buddy Kath came over that night. She brought me roses (beautiful, too!), booze and her friendship. What more can you ask for?

We had a great time.

I did a lot of this:



And after I'd had enough of that, I was inspired to do this:




All in all, I fan-tabulous evening. And certainly, one I needed after the shitty start to my Sunday!!

(PS The auto body shop is estimating repairs at around 3200 bucks ... yowza, and yay for insurance!)

Labels: friendship, healing, kath b, piano

Earlier this morning, Bug and I were in a hit and run car accident. The details are really not important, except to say a teenage kid ran a red light at top speed, and on my green light, my car hit the back end of his. And with that force, it bumped his car up onto a curb, and he continued to drive off extra fast.

And I'm obviously not happy he hit me. And I'm not happy he had his music up and wasn't paying attention to what he was doing or where he was going.

This is the front end of my car:



You can see the hood is jacked up, light is messed up, bumper has been assaulted. There's a line of bumper missing, not sure what that was from. And it's 'just a car', yes. And this car can be fixed right up.

But, MAN! I had a three-year-old in the backseat. What if he'd been hurt? What if we'd both been injured? And the kid just drove away.

HE DROVE AWAY. I'm sure he was scared, absolutely. You own up to that stuff, though. You do. I would have commended him mightily for pulling over to see if we were okay. And the parents? I hope it's their car. I hope they see it was fucked up this morning and call him on it, as I know my parents would have if it'd been me.

When I was on the phone with my insurance company - and they asked if there were 'any other passengers in my car other than my son', I said, "Apparently quite a few guardian angels".

So, here's where I'd like to thank mine.




Thanks for keeping us .....


... safe and sound this morning.

Labels: angels watching over me every move I make, bumper cars, daddy, the bug and mommy