Can Music Save Your Mortal Soul
At some point this summer I fell in love with music again. Didn’t know that I’d fallen out of love with it, but there is definitely a difference now. Not sure when it happened either. Perhaps it was when my morning radio show started sucking it up. Perhaps it was when I fell in love with Marc Broussard. Oh wait, I know! It was when my former CNN wannabe self got too depressed with the world to listen to the news on NPR. Yes, that’s definitely it! So here’s to finding a silver lining in the world’s misery.
Anyone who glances at my playlist can tell rest assured that my music tastes do not a pioneer me make. Perhaps a pirate, but not a pioneer. I’m really not that original. I am not patient enough to pour over the suggested artists on myspace and Pandora. I mostly just wait around for a song to find me. Interestingly, I live in Austin, home of ACL, SXSW, and a slew of homeless musicians, but I don’t do much of the live music scene thing. That could be because I have a four-year old and a husband who provide me with plenty of musical entertainment, albeit the tried and true kind, on Rock Band. Truly you have not lived until you’ve watched your four year old ROCK OUT to Harvester of Sorrows by Metallica, jam to Wasn’t Me by Shaggy, or belt out “I turned 21 in prison doing life without parole”. That’s right, we’re terrible parents. Bring it on.
Did I mention that he can also pick out classical music artists when we’re walking through the grocery store? “Mommy that song was by Mozart.” He can also read, write, and cipher a bit; calls himself a “sloth” when he hangs upside down at the playground, knows the difference between a Storm Trooper and a Clone Warrior, and can often announce the name or artist of a song after hearing only a few notes. It’s almost enough to bring a Tear to My Beer! But I digress. . .Or did I? I started talking about music and I got sidetracked on my baby. But in my opinion there are two things in the world that can bring about tears or smiles in under 5 seconds—babies and the right (or wrong) song at the right (or wrong) time.
So, I know that God is the only one that can save my mortal soul, but it was definitely a hymn that got me to the alter. And now, I’ll Fly Away, Just As I Am, Softly and Tenderly to bed. Good Night Sweetheart, Good Night.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Just in time for mother's day. A repost from 2006!
Click, Click, Click.
I am a working mommy; like my mother before me and my Nana before her. I like the click, click, click of my heels on the ceramic tile floor in the morning. I like knowing that I’ve accomplished more by the time I get to work than many people will accomplish all day.
Here’s a synopsis of an average morning:
I get up at 5:15 a.m. to workout and workoff some of this weight that I gained when I was pregnant with my little bundle of joy. Usually when I hit the door post workout he’s already making those little noises from his crib.
And yes, he’s learned to do that crying thing. You know the thing where they make the noise like something is dreadfully wrong so that you will rush in to save the day. Except that when you rush in the baby is just standing in the crib smirking at you. My two-year old has that trick down to a science. One time I actually ignored him for a few minutes because I knew there was really nothing wrong. Except, of course, that time there was something wrong. His little foot was stuck between the slats in the crib. So now, of course, I HAVE to rush in every time, because I’ve learned my lesson: Something really could be wrong!
So after I rush in and see him standing there smirking, we begin the Play Dough routine. I will spare you the details except to say that it involves my two-year old son sorting the containers of Play Dough, announcing each color, taking off the lids, squeezing each container so the Play Dough comes out, lining up the lumps of Play Dough, and stacking up the respective yellow Play Dough cups. To say that he is going through an OCD stage is an understatement. But all of this is good for his development and he is really proud of himself so I lay on the floor with my eyes closed and encourage his nerousis quietly.
But if he realizes that I am lying on the floor (trying to catch a little rest after my workout) he patiently puts down the Play Dough, stands up, pushes in his chair, comes over to where I am lying, and yanks the pillow from under my head with a patient but firm, “No Mommy.” So then I sit in the Little Tykes chair that he has designated to be mine and sort the Play Dough with him. All this happens before 7 a.m. All this is while my sweet husband snoozes.
After we’re done I hustle him downstairs and into his high chair, fix his oatmeal, kiss my husband good bye as he rushes off to his job, stand in the bathroom next to the kitchen to get ready for work, clean his hands and face, strip off his pajamas, wrestle him into his play clothes, and coax (um, I guess I should say bribe) him into the car, and strap him down into his car seat.
And as I exhale I realize that I am relieved that he is in the car seat and can't toddle anywhere for a good 30 minutes. I realize that I can sit down (in the car) for a few minutes and listen to what I want to on the radio. And I realize, with a little guilt, that I go to work every day to get a little break.
The hardest job in the world is that of a good stay-at-home-mom. To constantly come up with activities and lessons that will nurture and stimulate a toddler is hard and exhausting. I realize I am not probably not up to that task.
But, I also realize that being a good mom means knowing your limits and knowing your strengths. I like my job and I like the triumphant feelings I sometimes have when I’ve managed to successfully balance the challenges of work and home for yet another day. But down deep I know that I work because I do know my limits. I work because at daycare my child learns social and verbal skills that have him behaving as if he’s four instead of two. I work because he’s two and he can count to twenty. I work because I have to and I work because I like to.
I am a working mommy; like my mother before me and my grandmother before her. I like to hear the click, click, click of my heels on the tile in the morning.
Click, Click, Click.
I am a working mommy; like my mother before me and my Nana before her. I like the click, click, click of my heels on the ceramic tile floor in the morning. I like knowing that I’ve accomplished more by the time I get to work than many people will accomplish all day.
Here’s a synopsis of an average morning:
I get up at 5:15 a.m. to workout and workoff some of this weight that I gained when I was pregnant with my little bundle of joy. Usually when I hit the door post workout he’s already making those little noises from his crib.
And yes, he’s learned to do that crying thing. You know the thing where they make the noise like something is dreadfully wrong so that you will rush in to save the day. Except that when you rush in the baby is just standing in the crib smirking at you. My two-year old has that trick down to a science. One time I actually ignored him for a few minutes because I knew there was really nothing wrong. Except, of course, that time there was something wrong. His little foot was stuck between the slats in the crib. So now, of course, I HAVE to rush in every time, because I’ve learned my lesson: Something really could be wrong!
So after I rush in and see him standing there smirking, we begin the Play Dough routine. I will spare you the details except to say that it involves my two-year old son sorting the containers of Play Dough, announcing each color, taking off the lids, squeezing each container so the Play Dough comes out, lining up the lumps of Play Dough, and stacking up the respective yellow Play Dough cups. To say that he is going through an OCD stage is an understatement. But all of this is good for his development and he is really proud of himself so I lay on the floor with my eyes closed and encourage his nerousis quietly.
But if he realizes that I am lying on the floor (trying to catch a little rest after my workout) he patiently puts down the Play Dough, stands up, pushes in his chair, comes over to where I am lying, and yanks the pillow from under my head with a patient but firm, “No Mommy.” So then I sit in the Little Tykes chair that he has designated to be mine and sort the Play Dough with him. All this happens before 7 a.m. All this is while my sweet husband snoozes.
After we’re done I hustle him downstairs and into his high chair, fix his oatmeal, kiss my husband good bye as he rushes off to his job, stand in the bathroom next to the kitchen to get ready for work, clean his hands and face, strip off his pajamas, wrestle him into his play clothes, and coax (um, I guess I should say bribe) him into the car, and strap him down into his car seat.
And as I exhale I realize that I am relieved that he is in the car seat and can't toddle anywhere for a good 30 minutes. I realize that I can sit down (in the car) for a few minutes and listen to what I want to on the radio. And I realize, with a little guilt, that I go to work every day to get a little break.
The hardest job in the world is that of a good stay-at-home-mom. To constantly come up with activities and lessons that will nurture and stimulate a toddler is hard and exhausting. I realize I am not probably not up to that task.
But, I also realize that being a good mom means knowing your limits and knowing your strengths. I like my job and I like the triumphant feelings I sometimes have when I’ve managed to successfully balance the challenges of work and home for yet another day. But down deep I know that I work because I do know my limits. I work because at daycare my child learns social and verbal skills that have him behaving as if he’s four instead of two. I work because he’s two and he can count to twenty. I work because I have to and I work because I like to.
I am a working mommy; like my mother before me and my grandmother before her. I like to hear the click, click, click of my heels on the tile in the morning.
Bats in the Bellfrey!
Why are birds so stupid? Of course, science has proven that their brain is the size of, what, a peanut? So clearly, the term bird brain did not flutter in from thin air. We’ve all see the bird who won’t move out of the road until the very last second when you’re about to hit it. Turkeys, chicken, ostrich –not very smart. But, who would’ve thought the regal cardinal could be counted as one of the retards of the species? As of this week, I would.
As I’ve been writing this paragraph, the same bird as flown into our window 3 times, oops, make that 4. And the really sad part is that he does it every day. He is a male cardinal who lives in the tree directly in front of our house. I guess he sees his reflection and thinks it is another male cardinal and maybe he wants to fight it. But, um, I also think I might be giving him too much credit. I think he’s really just a stupid bird that doesn’t realize that he’s flown into the same window 4, no make that 5 times in one day.
But, the bizness of birds does not end there for the Davis family. We also have doves. . in our chimney. Have you ever heard a dove cooing and thought it was a lovely sound?
Well, now insert into your “Sounds of Nature—Doves Cooing” soundtrack the “thwack” of that damn cardinal flying into my window 5 (make that 6) times a day, the sound of a tap dancing Elmo on my TV, and a monster truck crashing into the wall followed by a four-year-old’s “oopsie”. Now you have CD 1--“Davis Family Drama”. Coming soon to a Wal-Mart near you. Ready to give the Partridge Family a run for their money.
Why are birds so stupid? Of course, science has proven that their brain is the size of, what, a peanut? So clearly, the term bird brain did not flutter in from thin air. We’ve all see the bird who won’t move out of the road until the very last second when you’re about to hit it. Turkeys, chicken, ostrich –not very smart. But, who would’ve thought the regal cardinal could be counted as one of the retards of the species? As of this week, I would.
As I’ve been writing this paragraph, the same bird as flown into our window 3 times, oops, make that 4. And the really sad part is that he does it every day. He is a male cardinal who lives in the tree directly in front of our house. I guess he sees his reflection and thinks it is another male cardinal and maybe he wants to fight it. But, um, I also think I might be giving him too much credit. I think he’s really just a stupid bird that doesn’t realize that he’s flown into the same window 4, no make that 5 times in one day.
But, the bizness of birds does not end there for the Davis family. We also have doves. . in our chimney. Have you ever heard a dove cooing and thought it was a lovely sound?
Well, now insert into your “Sounds of Nature—Doves Cooing” soundtrack the “thwack” of that damn cardinal flying into my window 5 (make that 6) times a day, the sound of a tap dancing Elmo on my TV, and a monster truck crashing into the wall followed by a four-year-old’s “oopsie”. Now you have CD 1--“Davis Family Drama”. Coming soon to a Wal-Mart near you. Ready to give the Partridge Family a run for their money.
Another repost from 2008--(Irreverent disclaimer needed on this one--see "The Pressure" post below)
Captain Clip-On Tie Save Us From Ourselves
The FBI regional headquarters is about an hour and a half from us in San Antonio. There are a lot of jobs that you can do at the FBI that are not that dangerous. And, at one time, I was almost able to pass their physical test. I know this because an agent at a career fair talked my ears off and gave me a pamphlet while I was working the booth next to him one day. Not because I actually tried to pass the physical test.
So, I’ve always thought it would be cool to find some desk job there just so that I can say that I work for the FBI. That is, until I met Captain White Socks who is, apparently, Chief of the clip on tie division.
My husband, just about the most boring cool person I know, is going through a super duper background check so that he can get super duper security clearance for his job which involves IT support for the department of defense. Sounds cool I know, but last week they sent out a directive ordering all of the employees to begin scheduling their 15 minute breaks. Think Office Space with headsets.
Anyway, he got a call from the Special Agent who was to do his security interviews the other day. Apparently the FBI can’t find their way around Austin, Texas. Even with GPS. And I’m not kidding. Braden directed the guy to drive 100 yards up the service road and take a right turn. 30 minutes later, Director Directionally Challenged finds his way into the building and they have their interview. Braden couldn’t understand half of what they guy was saying, but he did tell him that the next time we were in Padre Island we were welcome to stay with them. At their house. Mind you we are complete strangers. “So, um, sir, I guess that means I passed the security risk part?”
Then Braden calls me at work and says that they are coming up to talk to me. And my boss. And our receptionist. And our student worker. And yes, Braden had to lead the guy to my office because he could not find his way there himself. Even with GPS.
So, when the guy comes in I put on lipstick and straighten my skirt to go up to the front to shake his hand. Standing in front of me is the main character from Confederacy of Dunces. I literally snorted because I was attempting to hide an out loud chuckle. Captain Directionally Challenged, aka Captain White Socks, aka Captain Clip on Tie was about 50. I would not call him skinny. And I don’t remember what he was wearing except for the white socks and black shoes. And he spoke really, really loudly, and he was slurring a little.
Anywhoooo, I have him come back to my office and I point to the chair on the other side of my desk and say, “Come on in and have a seat.” AND. . .I kid you not. . he hijacks my desk, in my corner office , and sits down in MY chair by saying, “I have to write so I’ll sit here and I’ll let you sit on the other side.” Whisky Tango Foxtrot Will Rogers I am not cool with this!
And then, the first thing he says is, “Your husband is the nicest guy.” And I said, “Yes, he is, I’m very lucky.” And then while sitting in MY chair at MY desk in MY corner office he says, “Your husband is the lucky one.” EWWWWW! Captain Clip On Tie is hitting on me. I just looked at him and said, “You don’t know that. . .I might not be very nice.” And then I remembered that I was supposed to be helping Braden out with this job thing. So, I had to straighten up and act right.
Later, it was kind of sad because in a really quiet moment when he was writing something down I just couldn’t help it and I let out a little snicker of nervous, this is the craziest important person I’ve ever seen, laughter and I guess he did think I was snickering at him (which does make me feel, really, really bad) because he said, “The reason my handwriting is so bad is because I used to be a policeman in Houston and I was shot.” Did I mention I felt like scum?
EXCEPT. . . This man is supposed to be protecting our DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE computers from TERRORISTS! I mean really. I am 100% in favor of people wanting to work if they are disabled and I bet he was a really, really good cop since they are letting him do this job now. But come on! He was also feeding me answers. For example, “Can you give me three words to describe your husband’s character?” And I said, “Honest, kind, and loyal.” And he said, “Would you also say he was ethical?”
“Well, yes Captain Security Breach now that you mention it I guess that would be a good word to use.”
So now, I am more determined than ever to work for the FBI. At first I thought it would be cool. But now I feel it is my patriotic duty. Maybe they could just hire me to drive this guy around all day and maybe redo his wardrobe a little. I wonder how many sit ups and pushups I have to do to land that gig?
Captain Clip-On Tie Save Us From Ourselves
The FBI regional headquarters is about an hour and a half from us in San Antonio. There are a lot of jobs that you can do at the FBI that are not that dangerous. And, at one time, I was almost able to pass their physical test. I know this because an agent at a career fair talked my ears off and gave me a pamphlet while I was working the booth next to him one day. Not because I actually tried to pass the physical test.
So, I’ve always thought it would be cool to find some desk job there just so that I can say that I work for the FBI. That is, until I met Captain White Socks who is, apparently, Chief of the clip on tie division.
My husband, just about the most boring cool person I know, is going through a super duper background check so that he can get super duper security clearance for his job which involves IT support for the department of defense. Sounds cool I know, but last week they sent out a directive ordering all of the employees to begin scheduling their 15 minute breaks. Think Office Space with headsets.
Anyway, he got a call from the Special Agent who was to do his security interviews the other day. Apparently the FBI can’t find their way around Austin, Texas. Even with GPS. And I’m not kidding. Braden directed the guy to drive 100 yards up the service road and take a right turn. 30 minutes later, Director Directionally Challenged finds his way into the building and they have their interview. Braden couldn’t understand half of what they guy was saying, but he did tell him that the next time we were in Padre Island we were welcome to stay with them. At their house. Mind you we are complete strangers. “So, um, sir, I guess that means I passed the security risk part?”
Then Braden calls me at work and says that they are coming up to talk to me. And my boss. And our receptionist. And our student worker. And yes, Braden had to lead the guy to my office because he could not find his way there himself. Even with GPS.
So, when the guy comes in I put on lipstick and straighten my skirt to go up to the front to shake his hand. Standing in front of me is the main character from Confederacy of Dunces. I literally snorted because I was attempting to hide an out loud chuckle. Captain Directionally Challenged, aka Captain White Socks, aka Captain Clip on Tie was about 50. I would not call him skinny. And I don’t remember what he was wearing except for the white socks and black shoes. And he spoke really, really loudly, and he was slurring a little.
Anywhoooo, I have him come back to my office and I point to the chair on the other side of my desk and say, “Come on in and have a seat.” AND. . .I kid you not. . he hijacks my desk, in my corner office , and sits down in MY chair by saying, “I have to write so I’ll sit here and I’ll let you sit on the other side.” Whisky Tango Foxtrot Will Rogers I am not cool with this!
And then, the first thing he says is, “Your husband is the nicest guy.” And I said, “Yes, he is, I’m very lucky.” And then while sitting in MY chair at MY desk in MY corner office he says, “Your husband is the lucky one.” EWWWWW! Captain Clip On Tie is hitting on me. I just looked at him and said, “You don’t know that. . .I might not be very nice.” And then I remembered that I was supposed to be helping Braden out with this job thing. So, I had to straighten up and act right.
Later, it was kind of sad because in a really quiet moment when he was writing something down I just couldn’t help it and I let out a little snicker of nervous, this is the craziest important person I’ve ever seen, laughter and I guess he did think I was snickering at him (which does make me feel, really, really bad) because he said, “The reason my handwriting is so bad is because I used to be a policeman in Houston and I was shot.” Did I mention I felt like scum?
EXCEPT. . . This man is supposed to be protecting our DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE computers from TERRORISTS! I mean really. I am 100% in favor of people wanting to work if they are disabled and I bet he was a really, really good cop since they are letting him do this job now. But come on! He was also feeding me answers. For example, “Can you give me three words to describe your husband’s character?” And I said, “Honest, kind, and loyal.” And he said, “Would you also say he was ethical?”
“Well, yes Captain Security Breach now that you mention it I guess that would be a good word to use.”
So now, I am more determined than ever to work for the FBI. At first I thought it would be cool. But now I feel it is my patriotic duty. Maybe they could just hire me to drive this guy around all day and maybe redo his wardrobe a little. I wonder how many sit ups and pushups I have to do to land that gig?
Another repost from 2008
If You’re In Need of an Acid Trip at 6 A.M.
“Here use my cell phone. I have unlimited minutes“ is not such a strange statement. It does become stranger when said by a squirrel. On a cartoon show. While she (the squirrel) is riding around on a kid’s head. When the squirrel is built like a Russian nesting doll and is the voice of reason for a bunch of Canadian kids on a cartoon show it borders on WTF? When all of the kids on the cartoon are built like Russian nesting dolls and they hop around doing good deeds and spouting out Fargonian phrases like, “Don’t ya know” it becomes just a little much for a mom to take before 7 a.m.
This is just one of about three psychedelic cartoon shows on Playhouse Disney (by far the tamest of the cartoon channels) that lets me know that the 60’s are not dead. Apparently Disney has hired all of the ex-acid freaks to think up new and original cartoon concepts. The other one that I love to hate is the Doodlebops. I can’t do this one justice and you might just have to Google it, but I will try. Three characters with over the top costumes that make them appear to have either pink, blue, or orange skin. And they have BIG FREAKY PUFFY HANDS. And two out of three of them have really yellow teeth. And when I watch I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t make them bleach their teeth. I mean the orange guy has teeth that are obviously bleached and then Dee Dee(Miss Pink) and Roony (Mr. Blue) have distractingly yellow teeth.
There’s also a show called Bunny Town that has British Bunny Puppets that look like moths have been nibbling on them. Within each episode they somehow manage to incorporate a female sports reporter in a pink get up, knee socks, and a blond flip wig. Her name is Pinky Pinkerton. She commentates what looks like college football mascot Olympics for a while and then they switch back to the moth-eaten bunnies. Makes the damn Wiggles look downright normal.
But, really has it changed that much over the years? It’s no secret that one could do an entire thesis on the sociological and psychological implications of cartoons over the years. Tinker Bell and Peter Pan border on sociopathic. Bugs Bunny mocked the Japanese while Elmer Fudd stalked him with a shotgun. Tom and Jerry beat the hell out of each other and most of the cartoon characters smoked like fiends.
And then there was Scooby Doo. Who could forget Shaggy’s need for a smoke and a snack at every turn. These days the cartoons are as PC as Good Morning America. And damn if my kid doesn’t love them. Truly the more psychedelic the better. So here’s to cell phone carrying squirrels, pink puffy hands, and Scooby Snacks. I’ll take mine with coffee please.
If You’re In Need of an Acid Trip at 6 A.M.
“Here use my cell phone. I have unlimited minutes“ is not such a strange statement. It does become stranger when said by a squirrel. On a cartoon show. While she (the squirrel) is riding around on a kid’s head. When the squirrel is built like a Russian nesting doll and is the voice of reason for a bunch of Canadian kids on a cartoon show it borders on WTF? When all of the kids on the cartoon are built like Russian nesting dolls and they hop around doing good deeds and spouting out Fargonian phrases like, “Don’t ya know” it becomes just a little much for a mom to take before 7 a.m.
This is just one of about three psychedelic cartoon shows on Playhouse Disney (by far the tamest of the cartoon channels) that lets me know that the 60’s are not dead. Apparently Disney has hired all of the ex-acid freaks to think up new and original cartoon concepts. The other one that I love to hate is the Doodlebops. I can’t do this one justice and you might just have to Google it, but I will try. Three characters with over the top costumes that make them appear to have either pink, blue, or orange skin. And they have BIG FREAKY PUFFY HANDS. And two out of three of them have really yellow teeth. And when I watch I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t make them bleach their teeth. I mean the orange guy has teeth that are obviously bleached and then Dee Dee(Miss Pink) and Roony (Mr. Blue) have distractingly yellow teeth.
There’s also a show called Bunny Town that has British Bunny Puppets that look like moths have been nibbling on them. Within each episode they somehow manage to incorporate a female sports reporter in a pink get up, knee socks, and a blond flip wig. Her name is Pinky Pinkerton. She commentates what looks like college football mascot Olympics for a while and then they switch back to the moth-eaten bunnies. Makes the damn Wiggles look downright normal.
But, really has it changed that much over the years? It’s no secret that one could do an entire thesis on the sociological and psychological implications of cartoons over the years. Tinker Bell and Peter Pan border on sociopathic. Bugs Bunny mocked the Japanese while Elmer Fudd stalked him with a shotgun. Tom and Jerry beat the hell out of each other and most of the cartoon characters smoked like fiends.
And then there was Scooby Doo. Who could forget Shaggy’s need for a smoke and a snack at every turn. These days the cartoons are as PC as Good Morning America. And damn if my kid doesn’t love them. Truly the more psychedelic the better. So here’s to cell phone carrying squirrels, pink puffy hands, and Scooby Snacks. I’ll take mine with coffee please.
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