On popular blogs, the authors tend to avoid certain expressions or manipulate the lettering of these expressions, so that the blog isn't tapped as part of internet search results for pornographic or otherwise non-applicable terms.
The Preferred Daughter is not a popular blog, so I think I've got nothing to worry about on that front.
A recurring theme today: My problems lie elsewhere.
For example, after our walk this morning, Mom wanted to talk to me about my current career choices. Wait - Why am I even beginning to go into this? I didn't mind talking with my mom about it -- well, yes I did mind, a little, and, out of respect, I had to make a conscious point of allowing her to finish each time she spoke, even when I knew where her comments were headed (and didn't want to hear it). By contrast, I really don't feel like talking about it with you, Blog. In my head, you're far too judgmental. ;)
No, I don't feel like talking about Mom's concerns right now, and I didn't feel like it at the time, either, and I told her why: I've got bigger fish to fry. And my particular bigger fish are not gay porn, but gay porn is what I wanted to write about here today:
I feel I should clarify something from the last post. Now, understand that I have decided that I'm going to just Let It Go as far as any of my discomfort about previous posts. I have decided that I will just release them each to the universe, and Oh Well. If I've got a "clarification," I can write a new post about my current position on any given matter. I have decided that it isn't good practice -- you know, in the absence of any actual audience requesting clarification -- it isn't good practice to second-guess what might have been said before. It hampers forward movement, for one, to be trying continually to refine and clarify the past. It's also a little disrespectful to Past-Crystal who, I can assure you, thought carefully about what she wanted to say at the time. If what resulted was her truth, So Be It. I'll write a new post if I have something different to say. And while I enjoy meta-conversations aplenty, I realize that they are a drag for most.
That's my official policy about my doubts about previous posts...at least when it comes to ME.
However, I think I may have been unclear in my last post about something pertaining to the Handsome Man, and I want to rectify that:
Regarding the scene I describe in my last post, Genre Clues, about waking up to a movie playing on Netflix that I couldn't identify: It is an indication of my groggy state that I suspected gay porn. The Handsome Man, to my knowledge, doesn't partake of gay porn. We haven't ever watched it together, I haven't ever seen it on our Blockbuster or Netflix or hulu viewing histories, and he hasn't ever expressed an interest in watching it. It's just not something he's into. So to the extent that I suspected the movie might be gay porn, it was terrifically funny to me, because I thought he might be watching something that he hadn't REALIZED was gay porn, maybe thinking it was an action flick or something. And I was going to get to explain to him that it was gay porn, and THAT was going to be HILARIOUS! I would have watched the whole movie with him from start to finish just to laugh and point out the gay porn-ness of it all, if that was the case.
(Handsome can be kind of oblivious to the bigger picture sometimes. That might be why our relationship works so well.)
But it was not gay porn. And that was just a tiny bit of a let down, that's how hard I was going to laugh.
And none of this explanation is coming because Handsome gives a shit. HE doesn't think you're overly judgmental, Blog. He didn't say to me, "Hey, in that last post you kind of make it sound like I MIGHT be watching gay porn." Nope. His thing was, "You thought it might be gay porn?" Like, Why would YOU think it was gay porn? And I think I have clarified where I was coming from, so my work is finished here.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Genre Clues
When I dozed off on the couch, snuggled up to the Handsome Man, we were watching tv on Hulu.
When I woke up, hours later, Handsome was watching the end of some French film on Netflix. Initially, I had a hard time even understanding what genre of film it was. Maybe that shouldn’t have been difficult: there was a hip-hop score with driving beats; a gritty urban environment; young, hard-bodied men engaged in close physical combat. But I had just awoken from a sound-sleeping nap, so my perceptions in general were fuzzy. Plus the characters were speaking French, and that sort of threw everything off. I wondered if this was the thrilling climax to a thoughtful, intellectual film. I wondered it was an innovative, European, street-based version of Ultimate Fighting Championship. I wondered if it was some kind of soft core violent gay porn.
Handsome kept his eyes on the subtitles while he gave me a quick summary of the story to date. I watched for a while, and struggled to catch up:
Me: ...So that’s the hero’s sister?
Handsome: Yeah.
Me: And the hero and his friend have just rescued her from being held hostage?
Handsome: Yeah.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: For how long was she held hostage?
Handsome: Like five years.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: Rape-y hostage?
Handsome: That’s implied.
Me: How long ago did they rescue her?
Handsome: Like two hours.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: ...She’s awfully smiley for someone who was just rescued from five years of rape-y hostage two hours ago...
Handsome: ...That’s true.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: ...And now she’s tongue-kissing the hero’s friend?
Handsome: Yeah.
Me: So it’s an action movie.
Handsome: Basically.
When I woke up, hours later, Handsome was watching the end of some French film on Netflix. Initially, I had a hard time even understanding what genre of film it was. Maybe that shouldn’t have been difficult: there was a hip-hop score with driving beats; a gritty urban environment; young, hard-bodied men engaged in close physical combat. But I had just awoken from a sound-sleeping nap, so my perceptions in general were fuzzy. Plus the characters were speaking French, and that sort of threw everything off. I wondered if this was the thrilling climax to a thoughtful, intellectual film. I wondered it was an innovative, European, street-based version of Ultimate Fighting Championship. I wondered if it was some kind of soft core violent gay porn.
Handsome kept his eyes on the subtitles while he gave me a quick summary of the story to date. I watched for a while, and struggled to catch up:
Me: ...So that’s the hero’s sister?
Handsome: Yeah.
Me: And the hero and his friend have just rescued her from being held hostage?
Handsome: Yeah.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: For how long was she held hostage?
Handsome: Like five years.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: Rape-y hostage?
Handsome: That’s implied.
Me: How long ago did they rescue her?
Handsome: Like two hours.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: ...She’s awfully smiley for someone who was just rescued from five years of rape-y hostage two hours ago...
Handsome: ...That’s true.
(silence, watching the screen)
Me: ...And now she’s tongue-kissing the hero’s friend?
Handsome: Yeah.
Me: So it’s an action movie.
Handsome: Basically.
Friday, November 13, 2009
My Trust, Gratitude, Inspiration Friday
I'm beginning to develop a dislike of my blog.
I feel somewhat disloyal to the blog, saying that. But honestly, today I feel like this record is living proof --or public evidence, at least-- of how stupid and disingenuous I can be. I find myself writing shit I don't mean. Or that I don't mean entirely. Or that I might mean today, but almost certainly won't mean tomorrow. Yet there it still is.
Before I began blogging, I figured that I would just write about things that I could stand by. Just don't write anything that you can't stand by. That's what I told myself. And I thought for a long time about how that might work. I tend to see both sides of an issue. A lot of my ideas and thoughts are works in progress. And, most significantly perhaps, I don't want anyone I like to dislike me. <-- that was close to honest. Truly honest: I don't want anyone to dislike me. (See how I EASE into the truth? Truth can be a lot for me to take, all at once. But I am nonetheless a fan of Truth, sad as any given Truth may be, so I am committed to ending up there. It just takes me a minute, sometimes.)
Tr-Gr-In-Friday is about elevating the weekend-signaling goodness that is Friday by making a point of calling out the positives. It's not just the end of the work week that's great. It's LOTS of moments and aspects of life that are great, including the ability to recognize that they're great. And I buy that with all of my heart.
So I thought, despite a crap morning, I'd give it a go here. Without further ado, here is The Preferred Daughter's first installation of Trust, Gratitude, Inspiration Friday:
I am TRUSTING that underneath this swirl of emotions today -- guilt, frustration, regret, anger, fear, resentment -- lies my true and peaceful self, and she is still me.
I am GRATEFUL for my Handsome Man, who has profound and frequent moments of grace that make me incredibly thankful to share a life and a residence with him.
I am INSPIRED by the terrific work of the author of ("writer at"? *sigh*) Ordinary Courage, who is active in the field of shame study and authenticity promotion. She would say it differently (read: better), and that's okay on Tr-Gr-In-Fr: I'm inspired by her ability to find the right words for the complicated issues she addresses. I'm inspired by her attempts to practice in her everyday life what she preaches in theory. I'm also inspired by her willingness to share that personal journey with the public. In fact, I think that's pretty badass.
And at the end of all that trust and gratitude and inspiration, I feel a little bit like giving myself a break. (This was probably Professor Brown's plan all along...) All I'm doing is trying, yeah, but I give other people credit for trying. Maybe I should get some credit. I'm trying to be authentic, all day long. I'm trying to work through my baggage. I'm trying to be a good person. I'm trying to realize some of my potential. I'm trying to have a personal blog. I'm trying, okay? I've got challenges and blind spots and spelling errors, like most people. But I put a lot of effort into my attempts to do better.
Maybe, at least on Fridays, that's all we'll ask.
I feel somewhat disloyal to the blog, saying that. But honestly, today I feel like this record is living proof --or public evidence, at least-- of how stupid and disingenuous I can be. I find myself writing shit I don't mean. Or that I don't mean entirely. Or that I might mean today, but almost certainly won't mean tomorrow. Yet there it still is.
Before I began blogging, I figured that I would just write about things that I could stand by. Just don't write anything that you can't stand by. That's what I told myself. And I thought for a long time about how that might work. I tend to see both sides of an issue. A lot of my ideas and thoughts are works in progress. And, most significantly perhaps, I don't want anyone I like to dislike me. <-- that was close to honest. Truly honest: I don't want anyone to dislike me. (See how I EASE into the truth? Truth can be a lot for me to take, all at once. But I am nonetheless a fan of Truth, sad as any given Truth may be, so I am committed to ending up there. It just takes me a minute, sometimes.)
So, as I largely couldn't find any personal topic that I could write about, publish on a blog, and still feel good about, I didn't blog.
Instead of blogging, I wondered about What's wrong with me? I mean, do you READ blogs? People go into all sorts of trivial, misinformed, grammatically incorrect and personal matters, over and over again. (Not at the blogs I enjoy, but it does go on.) So the bar is low. And that's not the standard, that's just some context. Standard-wise, I wondered about What kind of a wimp do you have to be to not have any thoughts or ideas that you wouldn't mind sharing. I know I have a problem with sharing, in that sense. I create things that I'm pleased with, even proud of, but the LAST thing I would want to do is expose any of these things to the harsh light of day. So you see how incredibly courageous this site is for me. Ha ha. You probably don't see that at all, and are tired of my whining.
Moving on... Among the blogging public who I admire is Brene Brown, the writer of Ordinary Courage. ("Writer of"? "Host of"? "Writer at"? I don't know.) She does a play on TGIF that she calls Trust Gratitude Inspiration Friday. In her words:
I believe a joyful life is made up of joyful moments gracefully strung together by trust, gratitude, and inspiration.How's that for good spirit! Let's be glad about more than just the end of the work week. Because what's that? It reminds me of that joke about the guy who is hitting his head against the wall, and his friend walks up and says, Hey, why are you hitting your head against a wall? And the guy says, Because it feels so good when I stop.
Every Friday, I'm going to try to be deliberate and mindful about what I'm trusting, what I'm grateful for, and what's inspiring me.
Tr-Gr-In-Friday is about elevating the weekend-signaling goodness that is Friday by making a point of calling out the positives. It's not just the end of the work week that's great. It's LOTS of moments and aspects of life that are great, including the ability to recognize that they're great. And I buy that with all of my heart.
So I thought, despite a crap morning, I'd give it a go here. Without further ado, here is The Preferred Daughter's first installation of Trust, Gratitude, Inspiration Friday:
I am TRUSTING that underneath this swirl of emotions today -- guilt, frustration, regret, anger, fear, resentment -- lies my true and peaceful self, and she is still me.
I am GRATEFUL for my Handsome Man, who has profound and frequent moments of grace that make me incredibly thankful to share a life and a residence with him.
I am INSPIRED by the terrific work of the author of ("writer at"? *sigh*) Ordinary Courage, who is active in the field of shame study and authenticity promotion. She would say it differently (read: better), and that's okay on Tr-Gr-In-Fr: I'm inspired by her ability to find the right words for the complicated issues she addresses. I'm inspired by her attempts to practice in her everyday life what she preaches in theory. I'm also inspired by her willingness to share that personal journey with the public. In fact, I think that's pretty badass.
And at the end of all that trust and gratitude and inspiration, I feel a little bit like giving myself a break. (This was probably Professor Brown's plan all along...) All I'm doing is trying, yeah, but I give other people credit for trying. Maybe I should get some credit. I'm trying to be authentic, all day long. I'm trying to work through my baggage. I'm trying to be a good person. I'm trying to realize some of my potential. I'm trying to have a personal blog. I'm trying, okay? I've got challenges and blind spots and spelling errors, like most people. But I put a lot of effort into my attempts to do better.
Maybe, at least on Fridays, that's all we'll ask.
Monday, November 9, 2009
No Soup Group This Week
The church freezer is full of soups:
Flu-Fighting Chicken Soup
Spicy Sausage & Lentil Soup
Harvest Sweet Potato & Onion Soup
Texas-Style Turkey Chili
We are at capacity. We will not make another 40 quarts of soup this week, not even 20 quarts. This week, we must focus on SELLING the soups we already have. So no Soup Group on Wednesday.
And that's fine, but I wonder what will be my monumental cooking experience for the week. There's something lovely to me about spending time in front of a stove with multiple burners going. I enjoy the planning. I enjoy the focus. I enjoy the results. :)
It sure ain't the typical night's experience at our house, though. There's just not enough of an audience to make it worthwhile. It continues to surprise me that nobody is clamoring for admission to home-cooked dinners here at Roslyn Street. But they're not. To be fair, family says yes whenever we ask them. But Joe's friends would prefer to go to bars. (Totally inscrutable to me, as I HATE most bars and love to have a reason to stay home.) My friends, meanwhile, are these super-busy, successful professional women who...don't get it. There is no place in their lives for braising for eight hours, for example, so it's like they're uncomfortable with my efforts at same. Doesn't she have anything better to do, they seem to be wondering to themselves as they graciously decline my offerings of seconds. That's another thing: My girlfriends tend to be watching their weight. Beautiful women with oodles of personality, smarts and humor. But: No thanks, I haven't been to the gym all week, they'll demur.
What's your gym got to do with me?
Which is why I like feeding Handsome's friends. If I can lure them to dinner, they'll throw out a diet real quick in the face of some perfectly seasoned, falling-off-the-bone tender ribs. As it should be.
I need to know more eaters, maybe.
Flu-Fighting Chicken Soup
Spicy Sausage & Lentil Soup
Harvest Sweet Potato & Onion Soup
Texas-Style Turkey Chili
We are at capacity. We will not make another 40 quarts of soup this week, not even 20 quarts. This week, we must focus on SELLING the soups we already have. So no Soup Group on Wednesday.
And that's fine, but I wonder what will be my monumental cooking experience for the week. There's something lovely to me about spending time in front of a stove with multiple burners going. I enjoy the planning. I enjoy the focus. I enjoy the results. :)
It sure ain't the typical night's experience at our house, though. There's just not enough of an audience to make it worthwhile. It continues to surprise me that nobody is clamoring for admission to home-cooked dinners here at Roslyn Street. But they're not. To be fair, family says yes whenever we ask them. But Joe's friends would prefer to go to bars. (Totally inscrutable to me, as I HATE most bars and love to have a reason to stay home.) My friends, meanwhile, are these super-busy, successful professional women who...don't get it. There is no place in their lives for braising for eight hours, for example, so it's like they're uncomfortable with my efforts at same. Doesn't she have anything better to do, they seem to be wondering to themselves as they graciously decline my offerings of seconds. That's another thing: My girlfriends tend to be watching their weight. Beautiful women with oodles of personality, smarts and humor. But: No thanks, I haven't been to the gym all week, they'll demur.
What's your gym got to do with me?
Which is why I like feeding Handsome's friends. If I can lure them to dinner, they'll throw out a diet real quick in the face of some perfectly seasoned, falling-off-the-bone tender ribs. As it should be.
I need to know more eaters, maybe.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Partial Credit
There I was, drinking beer in a strip mall with my husband...
Now it was an ice-cold glass of my favorite beer in a cute bistro in the design-award-winning strip mall just five minutes from our house. And I do love my multi-faceted, loyal and adoring husband...
But there I was, drinking beer in a strip mall with my husband...
And I thought momentarily about how very far my life has diverged from where I had thought I would be at this time. I'm thinking about my dreams and visions for myself when I was a 16- or even as a 20-year-old girl imagining a 34-year-old self.
(Side note: Facebook is stupid. For past 20 minutes I've been looking at RB's photos of her fabulous trip to Mykonos this August, when I know she didn't post those photos for the likes of me. I only have access to the photos because Facebook has decided that if I'm a friend of DK, who is a friend of RB, that's good enough. Don't be stupid, Facebook. RB doesn't know me. -- And the fact is, she knows me better than she knows some of the other yahoos who now have the privilege of viewing her photos, because at least we have met. But Facebook doesn't know that. Stupid.)
And, yeah, the face-to-face confrontation with the expectations of a 16-year-old me was way more than I could handle, and of course I drank one beer too many, sure, and came home and looked at Facebook.
(Got a screamin' deal on the pitcher of beer, though, so while I may have felt unduly pressured by its pitcherliness to have the third beer, I can't say it wasn't a bargain.)
But to give myself a break, my expectations as a 16-year-old maybe weren't terribly realistic. As I recall, if you boil it down, I really only had two thoughts about my future:
1) I'll be a writer or jazz singer somewhere.
2) My future self will figure out the rest.
If you boil it down, that's what I thought about my future. Inherent in number two was my expectation that I'd have success and confidence and love and children, etc., but I trusted that Future Crystal could be relied upon, in turn, to make the right choices to get us there.
How has "Future Crystal" done in those endeavors? Because that's me, right? How have I done?
Future Crystal is hitting it out of the park, in a lot of ways. I hadn't counted on it being such a complicated matter, figuring out the rest of it. But I've done okay.
If you look at it a certain way, I've made my living by writing, for years now.
Now it was an ice-cold glass of my favorite beer in a cute bistro in the design-award-winning strip mall just five minutes from our house. And I do love my multi-faceted, loyal and adoring husband...
But there I was, drinking beer in a strip mall with my husband...
And I thought momentarily about how very far my life has diverged from where I had thought I would be at this time. I'm thinking about my dreams and visions for myself when I was a 16- or even as a 20-year-old girl imagining a 34-year-old self.
(Side note: Facebook is stupid. For past 20 minutes I've been looking at RB's photos of her fabulous trip to Mykonos this August, when I know she didn't post those photos for the likes of me. I only have access to the photos because Facebook has decided that if I'm a friend of DK, who is a friend of RB, that's good enough. Don't be stupid, Facebook. RB doesn't know me. -- And the fact is, she knows me better than she knows some of the other yahoos who now have the privilege of viewing her photos, because at least we have met. But Facebook doesn't know that. Stupid.)
And, yeah, the face-to-face confrontation with the expectations of a 16-year-old me was way more than I could handle, and of course I drank one beer too many, sure, and came home and looked at Facebook.
(Got a screamin' deal on the pitcher of beer, though, so while I may have felt unduly pressured by its pitcherliness to have the third beer, I can't say it wasn't a bargain.)
But to give myself a break, my expectations as a 16-year-old maybe weren't terribly realistic. As I recall, if you boil it down, I really only had two thoughts about my future:
1) I'll be a writer or jazz singer somewhere.
2) My future self will figure out the rest.
If you boil it down, that's what I thought about my future. Inherent in number two was my expectation that I'd have success and confidence and love and children, etc., but I trusted that Future Crystal could be relied upon, in turn, to make the right choices to get us there.
How has "Future Crystal" done in those endeavors? Because that's me, right? How have I done?
Future Crystal is hitting it out of the park, in a lot of ways. I hadn't counted on it being such a complicated matter, figuring out the rest of it. But I've done okay.
If you look at it a certain way, I've made my living by writing, for years now.
And maybe I haven't done too bad at being a jazz singer, either. I mean, for not actually having become a jazz singer. I am, for example, very cool. I have a great voice. I know a lot of jazz numbers. I'm extremely available for rehearsal and performance times. Partial credit?
Ha.
Ha.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Today's Soup: Texas-Style Turkey Chili
A colorful and fragrant blend of pinto beans, “minced” turkey, red, orange and yellow bell peppers, carrots, celery, herbs & spices, garnished with fresh green parsley on top. So nice.
Today, when Mom came to pick me up for Soup Group, she stayed a while. Our intention was to go to church early in order to get those dry (soaked overnight, but previously dry) pinto beans on the stove to cook. Instead, we ended up hanging out at my house because Mom had been calling but not reaching St B’s office staff, to make sure the building was open. And while Mom felt confident that someone would be there to let us in, she did not feel sufficiently confident to make the journey all the way to church -- 20 minutes from her house. My house, on the other hand, is en route to church for her, and is just 10 minutes away from St B’s, which feels much more pounce-ready.
We were recalling a time last year (it was last soup season; maybe it was earlier this year, but it was last soup season), during a snowstorm, when Mom and I had brought all of our good intentions to St B’s an hour earlier than Soup Group usually starts, and THE CHURCH WAS LOCKED. Nobody was there. We knocked and stewed and then finally just went back to the car to wait until someone showed up with a key.
Come to think of it, maybe Mom and I should have a key. We’re all the time wishing we had a key to get in the church, a key to get in the cabinet where we keep the knives, the code to the copy machine. Okay, it’s totally NOT all the time. And the truth is, there are at least three other people in Soup Group who have a key/code for these things. So, as an entity, the Soup Group is very well-equipped.
It’s just there are these times when Mom and I are trying to do the right thing...
So anyway, today this meant we had some time to kill at my house. That was a good thing, because, well, because I love my mom in my house, for one. She’s all kinds of good vibes. Usually on Wednesdays, I just keep an eye out and go meet her at the car for my pickup, so it was nice to have her inside alone on a Wednesday for a change.
But also, she hadn’t seen my “new” coffee table. She and Dad got a new coffee table a couple of weeks ago, and that meant that the old coffee table was in play. She offered it to me, I said yes, and she and Uncle D delivered it to me last week or so. And you know what? It just about completed my living room decor. You’ll see, the next time you come over. You’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. And you’ll know exactly where the room still needs another lamp, or an objet d’art (I’m obsessed with that term today!), or something, because even though the coffee table is great, but there’s something missing in there, even still.
However, there in the living room IS my sweet-ass black guitar. (Her name is Coriander. Nobody knows that but me and The Handsome Man. And my old guitar teacher, if she remembers.) Mom goes something like, “Oh, are you still messing with that thing?”
And I’m like, Her name is Coriander.
Just kidding. I’m like, “Yeah, totally. You wanna hear a song?”
Now, nobody gets that treatment. Mmm, let me rephrase. Handsome and Mom get that treatment. Don’t you come over here thinking that I’m going to offer to play you a song. That’s an unusual privilege.
I’ve been working on a policy that I wouldn’t REFUSE anyone a song, if they asked for it. But after today, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Or, to be a part of my own solution: after today, I’m thinking that’s EXACTLY the policy that needs to be in place. Or, more even, that I need a policy that says ALL visitors MUST be subjected to AT LEAST ONE song on the guitar.
Anyway, she sez, yeah, she’d like to hear a song. And even after I finish my soup notes, and she reaches Carol by phone, and we’re ready to head out the door, she sez, “Right after you play me your song.”
(That’s pretty awesome. At the time, I was caught up in the moment of Oh shit, now I have to play her a song. But here in retrospect, that’s a pretty awesome mom, all these years later. If she had been faking it in 1980, she wouldn’t still be subjecting herself to my fingerpainting, all these years later. Ack. A life of unconditional love.)
So I played a song for my mom.
I played a song for my mom, and I sweated it, dude. The songs that I know how to play on my guitar are, at this point, only the songs that I have composed. These songs by The Preferred Daughter can be divided into three categories: personal, really personal, and not suitable for public consumption. And since I have only about one song per category (heh), that represents a fairly limited repetoire. [How do you spell repetoir? It’s rejecting repatoire. Bullshit - how do you think it’s spelled?]
Mom has heard me play guitar before. (How many people can say that? Three: Handsome, the guitar teacher, and her interloping husband.) A year ago, maybe, I played Mom my love song to Joe. So today I played her my love song to the little baby spirit who’s going to choose us, “us” being me, Handsome, Mom, Dad, our family, this life. My heart fills writing that sentence. Why would I think I could play that song for anybody but Chaco and the next-door-neighbor dog?
But I played that song for my mom.
And my fingers trembled. My right ones, strumming, were much less reliable than my left ones on the frets. My playing is normally not great, admittedly, but the shaking interfered. I was wishing, very early in the song, that I could rush through it, and I was consciously working against that desire, you know, out of respect for the song. And I was chastising myself, throughout, for choosing to play such a personal song. Like I had options. I wondered if she would know what I was singing about. I wondered what she would think of it.
I didn’t look up once. No, despite the good efforts of Mrs. T, my hallowed seventh-grade speech teacher, I did not look up once. I did not polarize my audience. But I notice just now, here, writing this, that nowhere, then or now, did I worry about my voice. In fact, my singing might have been a little shaky and probably was a little soft in places when the strumming went awry (JANGLE went the wire). But check me out, giving myself a break. Yay, guitar.
And thanks to practice and our sweet baby Jesus, I somehow got through it. (Did she SEE my fingers shaking? Oh, shame.) Afterwards, Mom very quietly said something like, “That was very nice.” And we got up and we went off to Soup Group. (Me still shaking, yeah.)
Ha -- I know Soup Group is back in full swing because they’re openly second-guessing me again. *Sigh* But let me confess that I do love to spend time with people who are preoccupied, each in their own way, with making food taste delicious.
Then, as we were leaving, Elizabeth "introduced" me to Judy Ward, who was, to her credit, like, um, YEAH, I’ve met Crystal. Like 20 years ago, she didn’t say. We’re all ladies here.
Good day.
(Yes, of course I see that I have to post the song. Get offa my back.)
* seventh-grade speech teacher
Today, when Mom came to pick me up for Soup Group, she stayed a while. Our intention was to go to church early in order to get those dry (soaked overnight, but previously dry) pinto beans on the stove to cook. Instead, we ended up hanging out at my house because Mom had been calling but not reaching St B’s office staff, to make sure the building was open. And while Mom felt confident that someone would be there to let us in, she did not feel sufficiently confident to make the journey all the way to church -- 20 minutes from her house. My house, on the other hand, is en route to church for her, and is just 10 minutes away from St B’s, which feels much more pounce-ready.
We were recalling a time last year (it was last soup season; maybe it was earlier this year, but it was last soup season), during a snowstorm, when Mom and I had brought all of our good intentions to St B’s an hour earlier than Soup Group usually starts, and THE CHURCH WAS LOCKED. Nobody was there. We knocked and stewed and then finally just went back to the car to wait until someone showed up with a key.
Come to think of it, maybe Mom and I should have a key. We’re all the time wishing we had a key to get in the church, a key to get in the cabinet where we keep the knives, the code to the copy machine. Okay, it’s totally NOT all the time. And the truth is, there are at least three other people in Soup Group who have a key/code for these things. So, as an entity, the Soup Group is very well-equipped.
It’s just there are these times when Mom and I are trying to do the right thing...
So anyway, today this meant we had some time to kill at my house. That was a good thing, because, well, because I love my mom in my house, for one. She’s all kinds of good vibes. Usually on Wednesdays, I just keep an eye out and go meet her at the car for my pickup, so it was nice to have her inside alone on a Wednesday for a change.
But also, she hadn’t seen my “new” coffee table. She and Dad got a new coffee table a couple of weeks ago, and that meant that the old coffee table was in play. She offered it to me, I said yes, and she and Uncle D delivered it to me last week or so. And you know what? It just about completed my living room decor. You’ll see, the next time you come over. You’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. And you’ll know exactly where the room still needs another lamp, or an objet d’art (I’m obsessed with that term today!), or something, because even though the coffee table is great, but there’s something missing in there, even still.
However, there in the living room IS my sweet-ass black guitar. (Her name is Coriander. Nobody knows that but me and The Handsome Man. And my old guitar teacher, if she remembers.) Mom goes something like, “Oh, are you still messing with that thing?”
And I’m like, Her name is Coriander.
Just kidding. I’m like, “Yeah, totally. You wanna hear a song?”
Now, nobody gets that treatment. Mmm, let me rephrase. Handsome and Mom get that treatment. Don’t you come over here thinking that I’m going to offer to play you a song. That’s an unusual privilege.
I’ve been working on a policy that I wouldn’t REFUSE anyone a song, if they asked for it. But after today, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Or, to be a part of my own solution: after today, I’m thinking that’s EXACTLY the policy that needs to be in place. Or, more even, that I need a policy that says ALL visitors MUST be subjected to AT LEAST ONE song on the guitar.
Anyway, she sez, yeah, she’d like to hear a song. And even after I finish my soup notes, and she reaches Carol by phone, and we’re ready to head out the door, she sez, “Right after you play me your song.”
(That’s pretty awesome. At the time, I was caught up in the moment of Oh shit, now I have to play her a song. But here in retrospect, that’s a pretty awesome mom, all these years later. If she had been faking it in 1980, she wouldn’t still be subjecting herself to my fingerpainting, all these years later. Ack. A life of unconditional love.)
So I played a song for my mom.
I played a song for my mom, and I sweated it, dude. The songs that I know how to play on my guitar are, at this point, only the songs that I have composed. These songs by The Preferred Daughter can be divided into three categories: personal, really personal, and not suitable for public consumption. And since I have only about one song per category (heh), that represents a fairly limited repetoire. [How do you spell repetoir? It’s rejecting repatoire. Bullshit - how do you think it’s spelled?]
Mom has heard me play guitar before. (How many people can say that? Three: Handsome, the guitar teacher, and her interloping husband.) A year ago, maybe, I played Mom my love song to Joe. So today I played her my love song to the little baby spirit who’s going to choose us, “us” being me, Handsome, Mom, Dad, our family, this life. My heart fills writing that sentence. Why would I think I could play that song for anybody but Chaco and the next-door-neighbor dog?
But I played that song for my mom.
And my fingers trembled. My right ones, strumming, were much less reliable than my left ones on the frets. My playing is normally not great, admittedly, but the shaking interfered. I was wishing, very early in the song, that I could rush through it, and I was consciously working against that desire, you know, out of respect for the song. And I was chastising myself, throughout, for choosing to play such a personal song. Like I had options. I wondered if she would know what I was singing about. I wondered what she would think of it.
I didn’t look up once. No, despite the good efforts of Mrs. T, my hallowed seventh-grade speech teacher, I did not look up once. I did not polarize my audience. But I notice just now, here, writing this, that nowhere, then or now, did I worry about my voice. In fact, my singing might have been a little shaky and probably was a little soft in places when the strumming went awry (JANGLE went the wire). But check me out, giving myself a break. Yay, guitar.
And thanks to practice and our sweet baby Jesus, I somehow got through it. (Did she SEE my fingers shaking? Oh, shame.) Afterwards, Mom very quietly said something like, “That was very nice.” And we got up and we went off to Soup Group. (Me still shaking, yeah.)
Ha -- I know Soup Group is back in full swing because they’re openly second-guessing me again. *Sigh* But let me confess that I do love to spend time with people who are preoccupied, each in their own way, with making food taste delicious.
Then, as we were leaving, Elizabeth "introduced" me to Judy Ward, who was, to her credit, like, um, YEAH, I’ve met Crystal. Like 20 years ago, she didn’t say. We’re all ladies here.
Good day.
(Yes, of course I see that I have to post the song. Get offa my back.)
* seventh-grade speech teacher
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
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