I have two wonderful dogs who fancy themselves defenders of the home. Often in the middle of the night one or both will wake me with a growl or a few barks as they respond to noises outside the house they believe could be menacing to us. All too often they respond to a door knock that isn't, storming the front door and windows like they are intent on ripping apart anyone they don't know who dares step foot onto the front porch. There is rarely anyone at the door when this occurs. Sometimes when a visitor walks through the door without a knock they don't even react.
Early this morning, well early every morning, the neighbors' rooster started crowing. It usually starts about 5:00 am. I believe that the chicken pen is located in the apartment"complex" two yards south of me. Yes, we are well within city limits. We are located in the center of town, between the West & East sides.
The rooster is a bit of a controversy on my block. I have heard one or two neighbors complain about the early morning crowing. The all-day-long Tourette's-like crowing is not terribly pleasant either. One day I came home to a "letter" in my mailbox asking that if I had a rooster I get rid of it or the anonymous neighbors would call the police and animal control. That was weeks ago and until this morning the rooster was still living nearby.
I am likely the only neighbor it does not really bother. Our windows are situated so that most of the noise from that side of the house is of low-key annoyance (except the really loud polka music). I also have very fond memories of a pet rooster when I was a kid.
His name was Maestro and he was very smart. He only crowed later in the morning and not often at all during the day. He would take his hens (of which there were two) for daily walks and would come home when called. All three would eat grain from our hands. I loved hearing him crow. Yes, we also lived in town, it is Petaluma after all: The Egg Basket of the World, the Chicken Capital of the World. It was generally tolerated. We did have to get rid of Maestro because our next door neighbor had a rooster that crowed far more and was mistaken for being ours. Shortly after Maestro left and the rogue rooster continued his daily ruckus, the neighbors and cops realized their mistake and then there were no more roosters. Sadly, Maestro was not allowed to return home.
All this to say that when I hear a crowing rooster is makes me smile. And my dogs ignore it.
But it doesn't have the same effect on everyone and this morning someone snapped.
I was awakened by yelling at about 6:40 am. It wasn't loud enough to wake Joe, nor my dogs apparently. There wasn't even a throaty growl to acknowledge that there slumber was being disturbed. Out the bathroom window I could see a man I didn't know yelling and throwing things at the building near the unseen chicken pen. He was screaming "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" punctuated by several obscenities. I heard him yell at the rooster, "Hey rooster. Why don't you crow?! Huh, COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" And so on.
Still my dogs were silent.
The next time I looked out the window, the angry man was chasing the rooster, chair menacingly in hand, into the yard next to us. By now Joe was awake and getting dressed; Molly was still curled up on the bed and Max Bear (nicknamed Jethro for moments like this) was sitting up but leaning against my side of the bed.
We went downstairs and the rooster was standing atop our pergola, and then the angry man was walking away from our house in our driveway. Joe dialed the police department and while listening to the menu looked outside again to find that the rooster had disappeared. He had been ready to report the angry man who had not only awakened us in a manner FAR worse than a couple of ignorable crows, but was trespassing and moving fowl into our yard.
During all this the dogs were still upstairs in our bedroom on or next to the bed. Neither has barked nor growled once.
The rooster and the angry man disappeared before the Petaluma Police answered the phone, so Joe hung up. We waited for more ruckus. Nothing. The neighbors next door slowly came out of their apartments to survey the damage. We rehashed the incident a bit, theorizing that if we had been able to nab the rooster we could have called the police and animal control to take it away, solving several problems at once.
But when Joe said that we could have let the dogs out back to deal with the rooster I laughed. The dogs had waited until the coast was clear before slowly making their way downstairs hoping to follow their normal morning routine of potty and breakfast.
And they call themselves watchdogs!
Lake Mendocino
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Blast from the Past
As long as I have had home Internet access I have spent some portion of my time attempting to track down old friends. I have had some success, which is cool. I spent roughly 10 years looking one long lost friend and reconnecting was not a disappointment; in fact I can safely say it has enriched my life.
When my bio-dad died three years ago, my step-sister fed me names to track down so that she could let them know that Dad was gone. In fact I used the Internet to almost reconnect with said bio-dad just before he died. In attempting to track down his other daughter I discovered that she had passed away several years before. With the Internet I can keep track of my estranged father-in-law, keep an eye out for my other long-lost sister, and continue to track down people I would like to see or talk to again. The last year or so Facebook has made my hobby quite a bit easier.
Then someone tracked me down. Turn-about is fair play I suppose.
It was a good thing, though, and a pleasant surprise to see a name in my in-box that I had only seen on envelopes back when we wrote the occasional letter. Jessie used to live next to my grandparents. Their neighbor had a little apartment in the back of her property; Gram and Grandpa had a habit of befriending the inhabitants. Jessie is the sole reason why I passed Algebra in my sophomore year. She was a single mom with a young son. I have no clear recollection of his age at the time, except that he was younger than me and he was fun to hang out with.
Jessie's note was simple and sweet; in a few short lines she reminded me of some genuinely wonderful memories of my grandparents that had been buried far below the anger I still sometimes feel towards my grandfather six years after his death. It was flattering that someone would be interested enough in my life to do a Google search and contact me.
So Jessie, when you read this, thank you. And write soon.
When my bio-dad died three years ago, my step-sister fed me names to track down so that she could let them know that Dad was gone. In fact I used the Internet to almost reconnect with said bio-dad just before he died. In attempting to track down his other daughter I discovered that she had passed away several years before. With the Internet I can keep track of my estranged father-in-law, keep an eye out for my other long-lost sister, and continue to track down people I would like to see or talk to again. The last year or so Facebook has made my hobby quite a bit easier.
Then someone tracked me down. Turn-about is fair play I suppose.
It was a good thing, though, and a pleasant surprise to see a name in my in-box that I had only seen on envelopes back when we wrote the occasional letter. Jessie used to live next to my grandparents. Their neighbor had a little apartment in the back of her property; Gram and Grandpa had a habit of befriending the inhabitants. Jessie is the sole reason why I passed Algebra in my sophomore year. She was a single mom with a young son. I have no clear recollection of his age at the time, except that he was younger than me and he was fun to hang out with.
Jessie's note was simple and sweet; in a few short lines she reminded me of some genuinely wonderful memories of my grandparents that had been buried far below the anger I still sometimes feel towards my grandfather six years after his death. It was flattering that someone would be interested enough in my life to do a Google search and contact me.
So Jessie, when you read this, thank you. And write soon.
It's Just a Jump to the Left (or it should be)
A few weeks ago my hubby, daughter and I met a fairly large group of friends for a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Menlo Park, CA.
I must say I was mightily disappointed.
I was disappointed by the need of the cast to re-invent the envelope and then push on through: the need to add flesh where there previously was none; the need to badly pantomime the entire movie while the movie was playing. Well over a dozen years ago (which was the last time I saw Rocky in the theater) some cast felt that adding a stripper during the opening credits would make the movie sexier. I beg to differ.
Now before you label me a prude, there are a few things you should know: I have seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the big screen over 150 times. I cut my adolescent teeth on fishnet stockings, homemade and refurbished corsets and running up and down the aisles in my 4" come-fuck-me-pumps.
I know my Rocky Horror.
Which is why the current incarnation of casts drives me nuts. From what I have gathered there are several in the state that go from one theater to the other putting on their own show before and during the movie. They have their own pretty authentic make-up, costumes and props. Some of the actors are pretty amazing. The rest simply suck.
When I was a regular midnight madness inhabitant I didn't own copy of the movie. (Admittedly this was before it was available on either VHS or DVD.) We had to learn the movie BY WATCHING AND MEMORIZING IT. The casts I have seen thus far look over their shoulder at the screen far too often, and even more often blow lines, lyrics and movement. In my mind there is no excuse. Buy the damn movie, study the moves at home and be able to produce a completely replicated live show during the movie.
I can point out a redeeming quality or two: During the Time Warp/Sweet Transvestite, three live Transylvanians stood in front of the screen with flashlights and performed some original choreography for the audience. This was a wonderful little tidbit amongst a whole lot of crap. The idea that a cast could elevate their work beyond the screen in a creative and non-icky way is terrific. The fact that each of the players looked bored brought the production value down a bit. I have to say, though, that the young man playing Brad was absolutely awesome. He was in character from the time he was spotted outside the theater and all the way through.
I applaud the concept of a cast when showing the movie. I do. I just wish the cast acted like the professionals they profess to being. Website after website touts these wanna-be actors as hard-workers who are trying to make a living, or partial living, on the weekends. In my mind they have the power to elevate the entire genre to something more, but instead they get caught up in their own excitement and arrogance and lessen the experience. The "barker" for our showing had great promise. But by the end of the movie his insistence on shouting lines at the screen, sometime repeatedly because he was drowned out by the chaos of voices he had encouraged, nearly brought on an audience fed lynch mob and beating.
The last time I saw the movie on the big screen was about a dozen years ago. I'm not sure I'll be going back again quite as quickly.
I must say I was mightily disappointed.
I was disappointed by the need of the cast to re-invent the envelope and then push on through: the need to add flesh where there previously was none; the need to badly pantomime the entire movie while the movie was playing. Well over a dozen years ago (which was the last time I saw Rocky in the theater) some cast felt that adding a stripper during the opening credits would make the movie sexier. I beg to differ.
Now before you label me a prude, there are a few things you should know: I have seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the big screen over 150 times. I cut my adolescent teeth on fishnet stockings, homemade and refurbished corsets and running up and down the aisles in my 4" come-fuck-me-pumps.
I know my Rocky Horror.
Which is why the current incarnation of casts drives me nuts. From what I have gathered there are several in the state that go from one theater to the other putting on their own show before and during the movie. They have their own pretty authentic make-up, costumes and props. Some of the actors are pretty amazing. The rest simply suck.
When I was a regular midnight madness inhabitant I didn't own copy of the movie. (Admittedly this was before it was available on either VHS or DVD.) We had to learn the movie BY WATCHING AND MEMORIZING IT. The casts I have seen thus far look over their shoulder at the screen far too often, and even more often blow lines, lyrics and movement. In my mind there is no excuse. Buy the damn movie, study the moves at home and be able to produce a completely replicated live show during the movie.
I can point out a redeeming quality or two: During the Time Warp/Sweet Transvestite, three live Transylvanians stood in front of the screen with flashlights and performed some original choreography for the audience. This was a wonderful little tidbit amongst a whole lot of crap. The idea that a cast could elevate their work beyond the screen in a creative and non-icky way is terrific. The fact that each of the players looked bored brought the production value down a bit. I have to say, though, that the young man playing Brad was absolutely awesome. He was in character from the time he was spotted outside the theater and all the way through.
I applaud the concept of a cast when showing the movie. I do. I just wish the cast acted like the professionals they profess to being. Website after website touts these wanna-be actors as hard-workers who are trying to make a living, or partial living, on the weekends. In my mind they have the power to elevate the entire genre to something more, but instead they get caught up in their own excitement and arrogance and lessen the experience. The "barker" for our showing had great promise. But by the end of the movie his insistence on shouting lines at the screen, sometime repeatedly because he was drowned out by the chaos of voices he had encouraged, nearly brought on an audience fed lynch mob and beating.
The last time I saw the movie on the big screen was about a dozen years ago. I'm not sure I'll be going back again quite as quickly.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
My Weird Daughter and I
(originally posted on my blog at RedRoom.com)
When my daughter was six-years old she often spent her afternoons with her best friend Brianna. Brianna’s grandmother was a nice enough lady who often carted the girls around on errands after school. One day during a particularly lively play date Brianna’s grandma said to my daughter, “Melia, you are weird!”
My first reaction was to belt the woman. Who did this cleaning lady think she was to say something potentially hurtful to my lively, funny, beautiful daughter? The violent reaction, thankfully, faded very quickly. In its place was the reality I had long ago learned to embrace: weirdness doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
I had felt like a social outcaste in my two-parent, multiple-child, no-divorce neighborhood all through elementary school. My parents were not only divorced, but they left me to be raised, alone, by my grandparents. I felt as though I spent my entire childhood trying to apologize for my weirdness by doing whatever I could think of to fit in. Very little of it worked, and I probably seemed even weirder and I know I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
By the time I arrived at Junior High and met many, many other weird kids, I began to finally see that not everyone was normal. In fact that was the same year that the divorces began in my neighborhood and within a few years there were new families blending on every street.
By the eighth grade I was almost completely comfortable in my own skin, or at least I knew how to fake it very well. My best friend and I even wore leprechaun costumes to school for St. Patrick’s Day, complete with giant, green homemade top hats. We were very well received as most kids were in awe of our willingness to appear silly in public. In high school I discovered the drama department and the Rocky Horror Picture show and my comfort level with my own weirdness was nearly complete.
When it came time to raise my own daughter, I wanted her to feel comfortable with herself from the onset. I hoped to surround her self-esteem with the kind of mental cement that would keep her safe and secure even when she traveled outside of home So when she told us the story of being called weird, I told her that the next time someone called her that to thank them. After all, weird was a good thing, a compliment really. It meant she was an individual, not the same as everyone else, but in a good way.
It worked. Many people since have hurled the weird comment her way. Each time she accepts and embraces it, it deflates them and empowers her.
She has been called weird many times since and thanked every single person. By copping to and embracing her differences willingly, she doesn’t waste time apologizing for being herself or wallowing in the worry that people won’t like her for who she is. Despite the normal adolescent bumps, she is pretty comfortable in her own skin and the mental cement is intact.
My daughter and I are both weird, thank you very much.
When my daughter was six-years old she often spent her afternoons with her best friend Brianna. Brianna’s grandmother was a nice enough lady who often carted the girls around on errands after school. One day during a particularly lively play date Brianna’s grandma said to my daughter, “Melia, you are weird!”
My first reaction was to belt the woman. Who did this cleaning lady think she was to say something potentially hurtful to my lively, funny, beautiful daughter? The violent reaction, thankfully, faded very quickly. In its place was the reality I had long ago learned to embrace: weirdness doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
I had felt like a social outcaste in my two-parent, multiple-child, no-divorce neighborhood all through elementary school. My parents were not only divorced, but they left me to be raised, alone, by my grandparents. I felt as though I spent my entire childhood trying to apologize for my weirdness by doing whatever I could think of to fit in. Very little of it worked, and I probably seemed even weirder and I know I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
By the time I arrived at Junior High and met many, many other weird kids, I began to finally see that not everyone was normal. In fact that was the same year that the divorces began in my neighborhood and within a few years there were new families blending on every street.
By the eighth grade I was almost completely comfortable in my own skin, or at least I knew how to fake it very well. My best friend and I even wore leprechaun costumes to school for St. Patrick’s Day, complete with giant, green homemade top hats. We were very well received as most kids were in awe of our willingness to appear silly in public. In high school I discovered the drama department and the Rocky Horror Picture show and my comfort level with my own weirdness was nearly complete.
When it came time to raise my own daughter, I wanted her to feel comfortable with herself from the onset. I hoped to surround her self-esteem with the kind of mental cement that would keep her safe and secure even when she traveled outside of home So when she told us the story of being called weird, I told her that the next time someone called her that to thank them. After all, weird was a good thing, a compliment really. It meant she was an individual, not the same as everyone else, but in a good way.
It worked. Many people since have hurled the weird comment her way. Each time she accepts and embraces it, it deflates them and empowers her.
She has been called weird many times since and thanked every single person. By copping to and embracing her differences willingly, she doesn’t waste time apologizing for being herself or wallowing in the worry that people won’t like her for who she is. Despite the normal adolescent bumps, she is pretty comfortable in her own skin and the mental cement is intact.
My daughter and I are both weird, thank you very much.
Monday, July 5, 2010
To Sing or Not to Sing, That is the question
My first singing lesson, that was supposed to take place last week, was rescheduled for this week.
Strangely enough I think that I knew it would be canceled as I was driving to the lesson last week, unnaturally calm. I say unnaturally because I expected to be fighting the panic back, to be talking myself down out of my metaphorical anxiety tree. I arrived earlier than was required and managed to walk in to the building breathing normally.
The actual first lesson day was another story. I didn't make it out of the house because I needed to use all of my energy and focus to fend off the expected panic attack.
As the anxiety rises within the body, the mental capabilities are tipped off balance. The mental steps that I think we all walk down as we attempt to follow our logic begin to spiral back up on themselves, covering the same ground over and over again. Isn't that the classic cliche definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again in hopes of finding a different outcome.
Getting out of that head space means switching metaphors from a staircase to a tight rope. It is very important to walk that tight rope carefully and deliberately in order to make sure to keep the thought processes linear, in line and straight so as not to veer off and go back to the circular motion and returning to the same outcomes over and over again. Sometimes it takes a voice from the outside to get off the stairs and onto the line.
It is my signal to myself that I am fighting to stay sane when I know that the thoughts that concern me are becoming great fears and the solutions in turn become less and less flexible. I can't give a logical explanation as to why I was feeling panicked. Lord knows that I tried to put my finger on a scenario that I could attach to. The hope was that if I had been able to attach to a scenario I would have been better equipped to find a definable solution earlier.
I tried to remember the explanation I had been practicing for more than a week as to why I wanted to take voice lessons: I used to be a decent back-up singer. I used to be able to carry a tune. I want to learn the discipline it takes to return to those skills. (What I really want is to have the ability to sing strongly enough for a vibrato and solos, but I'm not sure I would have felt comfortable admitting to that in the first session.)
However, as the time neared (I was about 1.5-2 hours out at this point) I couldn't remember my logical reasons, or couldn't hold the thoughts long enough to get all the way through my own speech in my head. What kept coming back was the other truth, that I wanted to conquer an issue that was a direct result of the childhood sexual abuse by my guitar teacher. I suppose that even in the safety of my own, safe home, I was unwilling and as yet unable to face head-on this facet of my own recovery.
I tried telling myself that if I didn't go he would win. That concept gave me a full 5 minutes of relief and strength. It fell away quickly, though, when the unnamed panic began to creep back in.
An attempt at strategizing my way out of the lesson didn't get me very far. I imagined calling and canceling, knowing that canceling meant forfeiting the gift certificate that the Husband had given me for my birthday a year before. He spent money on this gift, had given me a gift I had asked for out loud. The idea of throwing away his gift added a layer of guilt to my panic. So I went from the idea of canceling to the guilt of wasting a gift and putting off recovery and quickly moved back to not feeling strong enough to attend the lesson to wanting to cancel to guilt. You can see the downward spiral.
Then I thought about the book project I have been working on. The book project, mind you, that I have not been able to do any real work on for more than a month, despite the fact that I have the time. I had hoped to blog about the singing lessons as a form of drafting for the book. Not long ago, it seems, I had been feeling very strong and confident about the book project and the personal resources that would allow me to research and write the thing. The last several weeks have been spent primarily in a dark place where I worked very hard at avoiding creativity, specifically the book project.
So add that step onto the spiral staircase, and we have another piece to repeat over and over again. As you can imagine, the panic only grew.
As I realized that my thought processes were out of balance with reality, I considered turning to pharmaceuticals. Specifically taking a Valium. That would require I have someone else drive me to the lesson. A surprisingly calm request moved from my lips to my husband's ears. He didn't consent immediately, but agreed in silence to change his mind about how he had planned to spend the time I was singing. He asked me if I was nervous, I calmly looked him in the eye and simply said, "Yes."
Another hour passed by (without drugs) and the Husband suggested that I talk about my feelings. Even out loud I couldn't give a logical story frame to my feelings. I could repeat that I felt ill and panicked, that I didn't want to go, but that I didn't want to waste his gift to me. Then he said the magic words that let me off the hook when I forfeited by gift certificate.
"Whatever. It'll be a donation." That concept was my ticket to finding the fine line of logic and stepping off the spiral.
Gotta love the simplicity of the out he gave me and the permission to call and cancel the appointment as gracefully as a panicked person can. It allowed me the room to cry for awhile and follow the Husband's next piece of wisdom, "If you're not ready, you're not ready."
Apparently I'm not ready. I can be okay with that for now.
Strangely enough I think that I knew it would be canceled as I was driving to the lesson last week, unnaturally calm. I say unnaturally because I expected to be fighting the panic back, to be talking myself down out of my metaphorical anxiety tree. I arrived earlier than was required and managed to walk in to the building breathing normally.
The actual first lesson day was another story. I didn't make it out of the house because I needed to use all of my energy and focus to fend off the expected panic attack.
As the anxiety rises within the body, the mental capabilities are tipped off balance. The mental steps that I think we all walk down as we attempt to follow our logic begin to spiral back up on themselves, covering the same ground over and over again. Isn't that the classic cliche definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again in hopes of finding a different outcome.
Getting out of that head space means switching metaphors from a staircase to a tight rope. It is very important to walk that tight rope carefully and deliberately in order to make sure to keep the thought processes linear, in line and straight so as not to veer off and go back to the circular motion and returning to the same outcomes over and over again. Sometimes it takes a voice from the outside to get off the stairs and onto the line.
It is my signal to myself that I am fighting to stay sane when I know that the thoughts that concern me are becoming great fears and the solutions in turn become less and less flexible. I can't give a logical explanation as to why I was feeling panicked. Lord knows that I tried to put my finger on a scenario that I could attach to. The hope was that if I had been able to attach to a scenario I would have been better equipped to find a definable solution earlier.
I tried to remember the explanation I had been practicing for more than a week as to why I wanted to take voice lessons: I used to be a decent back-up singer. I used to be able to carry a tune. I want to learn the discipline it takes to return to those skills. (What I really want is to have the ability to sing strongly enough for a vibrato and solos, but I'm not sure I would have felt comfortable admitting to that in the first session.)
However, as the time neared (I was about 1.5-2 hours out at this point) I couldn't remember my logical reasons, or couldn't hold the thoughts long enough to get all the way through my own speech in my head. What kept coming back was the other truth, that I wanted to conquer an issue that was a direct result of the childhood sexual abuse by my guitar teacher. I suppose that even in the safety of my own, safe home, I was unwilling and as yet unable to face head-on this facet of my own recovery.
I tried telling myself that if I didn't go he would win. That concept gave me a full 5 minutes of relief and strength. It fell away quickly, though, when the unnamed panic began to creep back in.
An attempt at strategizing my way out of the lesson didn't get me very far. I imagined calling and canceling, knowing that canceling meant forfeiting the gift certificate that the Husband had given me for my birthday a year before. He spent money on this gift, had given me a gift I had asked for out loud. The idea of throwing away his gift added a layer of guilt to my panic. So I went from the idea of canceling to the guilt of wasting a gift and putting off recovery and quickly moved back to not feeling strong enough to attend the lesson to wanting to cancel to guilt. You can see the downward spiral.
Then I thought about the book project I have been working on. The book project, mind you, that I have not been able to do any real work on for more than a month, despite the fact that I have the time. I had hoped to blog about the singing lessons as a form of drafting for the book. Not long ago, it seems, I had been feeling very strong and confident about the book project and the personal resources that would allow me to research and write the thing. The last several weeks have been spent primarily in a dark place where I worked very hard at avoiding creativity, specifically the book project.
So add that step onto the spiral staircase, and we have another piece to repeat over and over again. As you can imagine, the panic only grew.
As I realized that my thought processes were out of balance with reality, I considered turning to pharmaceuticals. Specifically taking a Valium. That would require I have someone else drive me to the lesson. A surprisingly calm request moved from my lips to my husband's ears. He didn't consent immediately, but agreed in silence to change his mind about how he had planned to spend the time I was singing. He asked me if I was nervous, I calmly looked him in the eye and simply said, "Yes."
Another hour passed by (without drugs) and the Husband suggested that I talk about my feelings. Even out loud I couldn't give a logical story frame to my feelings. I could repeat that I felt ill and panicked, that I didn't want to go, but that I didn't want to waste his gift to me. Then he said the magic words that let me off the hook when I forfeited by gift certificate.
"Whatever. It'll be a donation." That concept was my ticket to finding the fine line of logic and stepping off the spiral.
Gotta love the simplicity of the out he gave me and the permission to call and cancel the appointment as gracefully as a panicked person can. It allowed me the room to cry for awhile and follow the Husband's next piece of wisdom, "If you're not ready, you're not ready."
Apparently I'm not ready. I can be okay with that for now.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Birthday Blues
The title of this post is a bit of a misnomer. Usually on the day of my birthday I am having a difficult time emotionally, but this year the tough stuff has already (mostly) passed.
I don't dislike my birthday because I am getting old (cause I'm not) but because I have always believed that a birthday should be something special, but life hasn't always supported that belief. That includes a bunch of old crap about my parents and a couple of nasty incidents in childhood that occurred if not on the day, then relatively close to it.
This year I felt the familiar down-turn of mood almost two weeks out and have since worked through, or lived through, the bulk of the icky feelings.
This morning I had an early breakfast with my hubby and as I write my dog is cuddled up next to me on the couch ready to dole out as much unconditional love as I need (and then some). I look forward to a special lunch with my sister-in-law and a trip to the City to celebrate the SheWrites.com one year anniversary. A larger extended family potluck is being planned by my daughter for this weekend or next. I have already received a ton of birthday wishes via Facebook.
So far, a good day. Not a blue one.
Happy Birthday to Me!
I don't dislike my birthday because I am getting old (cause I'm not) but because I have always believed that a birthday should be something special, but life hasn't always supported that belief. That includes a bunch of old crap about my parents and a couple of nasty incidents in childhood that occurred if not on the day, then relatively close to it.
This year I felt the familiar down-turn of mood almost two weeks out and have since worked through, or lived through, the bulk of the icky feelings.
This morning I had an early breakfast with my hubby and as I write my dog is cuddled up next to me on the couch ready to dole out as much unconditional love as I need (and then some). I look forward to a special lunch with my sister-in-law and a trip to the City to celebrate the SheWrites.com one year anniversary. A larger extended family potluck is being planned by my daughter for this weekend or next. I have already received a ton of birthday wishes via Facebook.
So far, a good day. Not a blue one.
Happy Birthday to Me!
Monday, June 28, 2010
To Sing or Not to Sing?
I've scheduled my first singing lesson for this afternoon. Last year for my birthday my husband gave me one hour of singing lessons. My birthday is tomorrow, so you can see it took me some time to get up the nerve to make the call to set up the initial time. The plan is to stretch out one hour to 2 half-hour lessons this week and next. If all goes well, I will add in more over the course of the summer.
The desire for the lessons stems from my work around the book I am writing about being sexually abused as a kid. As a little, little girl, I loved to sing. I often sang to myself made up songs. I imagined interviews many years in the future when I would tell the story to some interested reporter how I used to sing to my own reflection in the window of Gram's white car. I would explain how I had always loved to sing and what an important part of my life music had always been. When I was actively taking guitar lessons I wrote and sang a number of my own songs.
So, life didn't happen exactly the way I had envisioned. I don't sing in public, certainly not solo. I love to sing along with the radio, but you won't hear me warbling in the shower. I lost my voice when I lost my music, back when I was taking guitar lessons from a pedophile.
These lessons are another in a long line of attempts to regain what I lost all those years ago.
So what makes me think I can sing to begin with? Not much, actually. I know from work in high school productions that I can be a competent back-up singer, but probably not a soloist. But what if I can sing well? Strong, out loud, carry a tune and find a vibrato? I can, or could at one time, at least carry a tune. I'd like to recapture that part of myself at the very least. Anything more would be simply wonderful.
The desire for the lessons stems from my work around the book I am writing about being sexually abused as a kid. As a little, little girl, I loved to sing. I often sang to myself made up songs. I imagined interviews many years in the future when I would tell the story to some interested reporter how I used to sing to my own reflection in the window of Gram's white car. I would explain how I had always loved to sing and what an important part of my life music had always been. When I was actively taking guitar lessons I wrote and sang a number of my own songs.
So, life didn't happen exactly the way I had envisioned. I don't sing in public, certainly not solo. I love to sing along with the radio, but you won't hear me warbling in the shower. I lost my voice when I lost my music, back when I was taking guitar lessons from a pedophile.
These lessons are another in a long line of attempts to regain what I lost all those years ago.
So what makes me think I can sing to begin with? Not much, actually. I know from work in high school productions that I can be a competent back-up singer, but probably not a soloist. But what if I can sing well? Strong, out loud, carry a tune and find a vibrato? I can, or could at one time, at least carry a tune. I'd like to recapture that part of myself at the very least. Anything more would be simply wonderful.
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