Saying yes...

You Just Don’t Care... You Just Have to See Them...

A ghost from my past came into my present in a way I never expected today and made me think of this song. I love this song... some of it is just the song, some of it, the memories it evokes. When I hear it, I can vividly remember being on either side of the equation... the white dress side, always the more powerful... the person pining... not so much.

Many, many years ago, while living above a bar, I lived less than a block away from a musician who had captured my fancy. We worked together at a theatre and got to know each other there. He wasn't my type... or so I thought. Over the years, I've realized many men I was interested in were not my type until a few years ago a friend pointed out that I was looking at the wrong criteria. When people speak of types, they so often speak of physical attributes. Sure, I had my list, but I've often been with or interested in men who didn't fit that.

I liked very smart, funny men bursting with creativity. If they had that, the package didn't seem to matter. It would be nice if women got the same advantage, but I'm guessing breasts/legs/youth make up for what might be lacking in a personality.

But back to the song and being on either side of the equation... I can think back to times when I knew my presence was causing pain... and I can think back to a time when the mere proximity of another, another person who was not available, was a stick in the side... that presence, fueled by a drink or two, was torture... Even worse? If the person was performing at a bar and had written a song for you.

I don't care what people say, if someone who can sing and effortlessly play an instrument writes a song for you... you'll be swayed. You'll be sitting there, drinking your drink with friends... and then you'll hear that person playing something with your name, singing about things that only relate to you... and you will feel a cocktail of pain and elation, but mostly pain.. especially if you're not together.

That is until a much smarter and more creative man, someone who you didn't think was your type, comes along, tells you this person was an ass, and woos you with their wonderfulness... and suddenly, you'll be back in the white dress... and living happily ever after.

The Freedom That Comes With a Summer Purse

During most of the year I use a workhorse purse for the majority of my day... a serious purse. I have a penchant for Coach purses... preferably the classic ones. No, they're not cheap, but they last and they continue to look good over the years.

While I love these purses, I love the non-commitment that comes with a summer purse. It doesn't need to be sensible, durable, or go with everything. It can be anything. It can be loud, it can be lightweight. It can be pure fun. This dalliance doesn't need to last longer than a summer.

I ordered such a purse last week... it's made from sari fabric. It was one of those deals where you let them choose. I loved a number of the selections they showed and just hoped I would not get the gray/lilac one. No... I wanted something loud.

Well, it came and I swear it's the reincarnation of a purse I had many, many summers ago... a purse that is legendary amongst my friends. The mere words,  "Kenya Bag", will bring smiles to their faces and put an evil gleam in their eyes.

The Kenya bag was a large woven raffia bowl of sorts with huge leather straps. You could carry the world in the Kenya bag and I did. I often had a change of shoes in it... the current book I was reading... a Walkman (yes, I said Walkman!), pounds of free coffee from my job, bottles of free champagne from another job, and god knows what else... oh wait, I had a tampon case autographed by John Waters. I have no idea what became of that... I could probably have sold it for a fortune on eBay. Anyhow, the Kenya Bag was so functional that it actually stayed with me for much longer than one summer. It stayed with me until it started to disintegrate and had to be thrown away.

I don't exactly remember when it started, but at some point friends decided the Kenya bag was capable of carrying souvenirs... the Kenya Bag soon became the Klepto Bag. It came home with many bar glasses. It once came home at 3AM with a bowling ball. I also opened it at a producers' party to discover a friend had placed a glass, clamshell, candy dish, complete with candy, in my purse. The majority of these items were returned... except for the clamshell candy dish. That's probably still in David's possession wherever David ended up. 

I'm guessing this purse won't have a criminal history, but it still looks like it wants to have fun... like it should be filled with sand and ticket stubs and remnants of a good time. Come September or October, I'll probably strap the workhorse back on... filled with it's receipts, to-do lists, appts reminders... but for now, I'm all for non-commitment and being loud.

As the Painting Class Turns: Gratuitous Pat On the Back Edition

While out back with the poochies last night, the youngest lamblet came out to tell me X was on the phone. First words out of my mouth? Take a message.

As I stood there, taking in some of the first true summer evening smells we've had this year, I thought, this can't be good. X never seemed to care for me. X busted my chops every chance she got. X was pretty passive-aggressive so I'd usually just meander into these interactions that would leave me wondering what had happened.

I was not excited to return her call... for a couple of reasons. I was thinking someone had probably died, many in the class were on in years.  I was also wondering if she had finally stumbled upon previous blog posts and was now going to let me have it. I was also a little afraid that they might ask me to come back. I did not expect good to come from this call, but left the comfort of the backyard for the cold reality of the phone call. 

She answered right away... darn... told me it was so good to hear my voice and that she wondered what I had been up to. Oh no... the trap was being set... But alas, there was no trap, she then awkwardly segued into the fact that a member had indeed died and she thought I would want to know. She was correct. I was not surprised when I heard who it was... a woman who was in her middle 80's and who was in failing health when I was in the class. She was a very mild mannered woman with a silly sense of humor. She never did any of the exercises, etc, that I had planned, but used the time as studio time which was fine with me. I had said in the beginning that since this "class" was not for a grade, I would allow people to paint whatever they wanted, but would also have something planned for those who needed a little more. She was fine with her own course, only asking for occasional help with something that had her stymied.

My chat with X soon veered off of topics of death, I think we were both grateful, and back to our lives, and then of course, back to painting. She asked me if I was finding time to paint, I asked her how class was going, if she was enjoying it.  There was a long pause before she found her words. She said class was fine and the new instructor was very nice, but that he was very *technical* and they really missed my imagination.

I nearly kissed her through the phone.

This could not have come from a better person... the person I locked horns with the most... the person who bucked nearly every class I had planned even if I said she was more than welcome to do her own thing. She was/is a talented painter, but even though she was a woman of advanced years, she was not she was not finished learning. She could still improve. We never stop learning, we never stop making discoveries and those discoveries or lessons can come from anyone, even someone 40 years younger...

I was not surprised to hear that the new instructor was more "technical". He had taught many classes and his claim to fame was knocking out a step-by-step painting in one class or less. It's not my style, but I thought it might be what they needed... what they wanted. Apparently that's not quite right either. Apparently they've looked back and realized there was a method to my madness and it had it's benefits.

One thing I tried to do no matter else what else was going on was to set up an interesting still life. Being stuck indoors, there are only so many things you can paint and even though this group had cupboards filled of props amassed from over the years, they had painted them one too many times. I would bring in new items each week that I had chosen to work a particular area of their expertise that they might not know was being worked. Not everyone worked on the still life, but it was there if no other options were.

Apparently not one still life has been set up since the new instructor took over some 14 months ago... Instead, they're supposed to follow his steps as he paints his painting. As I said, we can learn from everything and I'm sure he's got plenty to teach them, but the fact that they're being this regimented kind of breaks my heart. The more petty part of me had to say a little, "So there... you got what you wanted."

Still... it makes me feel more sadness than glee. Not enough sadness to want to go back... :)

This morning while discussing this with my sister, she wrote:

Loved it that your painting class was distinguishable by your students from the paint by recipe approach.  One of these approaches involves a genuine interaction with the real world and an interpretation of it.  The other is simply following steps.  They might not have been as happy with their results with the former approach - at FIRST - but if they had pursued it, they would find that they knew how to fish (instead of just having one fish.)  Real teaching.  Authentic experience.  Sometimes these things become apparent in retrospect.

And I'm glad it did become apparent. There were many, many days when I felt like I was banging my head against the wall, feeling like they were getting nothing from me. I was glad to hear they did. Especially glad to hear it from the hardest nut in the bunch. I gave myself a small pat on the back for that victory. There are many technical aspects to oil painting, many rules that can't be broken, but heaven forbid it ever be devoid of imagination. Heaven forbid anything ever be devoid of imagination. 

Peter says, "Everyday is EARTHDAY!"

While digging around for my old copy of Animal Farm, the Eldest Lamblet is reading it in school, I ran across this... my Peter Max airplane book, copyright, 1971. Yeah, I said it! 1971!! It's amazing how some items follow you through your life. 

Unfortunately, my copy is neither the hardback edition nor is it signed. It's also missing a few planes.  I think it will be missing one more. In honor of Earth Day, I will take Peter's advice:

Join the Air-borne Generation. Send love notes to the universe. But don't- please don't- be a litterbug.

Happy Earth Day!

Update:

A rare glimpse of an actual Peter Max airplane. Ooooh! Feel the love... feel the earthy lahve! 

Note to self:

A few weeks back, an old high school friend and I reconnected via the wonders/hell that is Facebook. While I have, so far, been happy to reconnect with everyone I have, I'm also not sure I'm that happy about all aspects of my life converging into one free-for-all stew of openness, but, again... that's another post.

Today's post is about an interesting offshoot of reconnecting... I've received a package of notes... notes I wrote in high school. Apparently this friend saved them. Gawd knows why. She did tell me in her email that she thought I should have them, that my lamblets would probably be interested in taking a peek into their mother's high school mind. She also said they were still funny, even after a couple of decades, and that she was still thinking of keeping them should I ever become famous... she could either sell them or use them for blackmail, but... I got first dibs. I told her to go ahead and send away, that I doubted fame was on the agenda and that I was curious as to what I had written. I vaguely remembered some of the topics that obsessed me during those years, but surely there were things I had forgotten.

After I started reading, I realized memory loss can indeed be a good thing. I made it through 3. Yep, 3 notes. That was it. I did not need to see anymore and doubted I'd show my kids. I might show them one, just so they could see the heinous penmanship that must come hand-in-hand with Western Civilization teenage girls, but otherwise, some things are just better off left as fleeting moments in time. Some things do not need to be saved for posterity, especially if reading them makes you realize you were acting like a posterior.

I know I've changed since high school. I'm thankful I've changed since high school. I guess I just didn't realize how much... or maybe I did. I've never attended a high school reunion and never plan on it. While I wouldn't mind meeting up with a handful of people again, those who surely saw the glimmer of the person I truly was even though we were wrapped up in high school trappings, I don't want to meet up with people who only remember my former self. After reading a mere 3 notes, even I don't want to meet up with my former self.

Home Sweet Home

At some point in late October, I got an email passing on the news I knew I would at some point hear... my parents were planning on selling their house. Although this was not a 100% surprise, it felt like a sock to the gut. My father has not been doing well for the past 18 months, and as they move from diagnosis to diagnosis, he's becoming a shell of the father I've known most of my life... but that's another post...

With my father not doing as well and all of us *children* long grown and gone, the house was becoming too much. The yard, a block long, was even more so. While my parents have help to attend to a number of things, there are many things they love to do themselves. The gardens were one of them. They've had the continual battle between my mother's choice of perennials and my father's love of annuals... I think for a moment my mother actually saw victory at hand what with Dad not being able to get out there and *unknowingly* rip out a perennial in order to make room for his master plan... but in reality, my mother wasn't up for that much yard either.

No, they would be selling the house they built some 43 years ago... the only childhood home I've ever really known. And what a house it was/is. It's a wonderful house with plenty of room, plenty of character. It's a house with a wonderful location. A house with a long history of living in it. My parents have never shied away from having people over whether it be for a year or a night. We had an assorted 4-7 exchange students, some legitimate, some who sent siblings back in later years, some who just needed a place for the weekend. There has always been an interesting group of people meandering through the doors, whether my father's business colleagues, friends of my siblings and myself,  or some new soul who had landed in our town. You never knew who was coming to dinner. One of my sisters and I used to bemoan this during our college years. We'd want nothing more than to just go home for the holidays and eat a home-cooked meal in the comfort of our sweats while licking our post-final wounds, but nooooooo. No, instead we heard that *Helmut* and *Herta* had been transferred to town due to Helmut's business and had nowhere to go for Christmas dinner! Of course Mom and Dad would know that there was someone new in town and of course they'd be at our dinner. No sweats would be worn and interesting conversation would be wrangled from our tired souls.

Many invites circulated around my father's obsession with barbecuing... he had an awesome record of not missing a month of bbqing some form of meat for 35+ years (sometimes it was best not to know what the meat was...). He traveled a lot for his work, but still managed to make sure no trip was longer than 3 1/2 weeks so he could keep that record running. The grilling was done on his magnificent bbq pit that he built himself when they built the house. It's brick and has a roof and lights... and when it was first built, we'd find coins in it... it turns out the neighbors thought it was a wishing well.  The bbq pit was made large enough to hold one large hog, which it did almost every year when my parents held their annual pig roast for 350+ of their closest friends. I loved those roasts, always held on a Sunday...loved waking up to the sound of the motor on the rotisserie... I probably also loved the fact that we wouldn't have to go to church, but that's another post...

Wedding receptions were held at this house, grandchildren were born and came to love this house. Crazy antics went on in this house, but that's another post... This house has been used and cared for and has held a lot of life (it still doesn't smell like an old person's house!)  My parents, however, never ones to shy away from where life was taking them, or rather, where they were taking life, have decided it's time to move on.

Frankly, I think my mother wants to close this chapter of their lives with my father still present and for that, I can't blame her. They met in Kindergarten and have been together more or less ever since... that's approx. 75 years. In a few days, they'll celebrate their 58th wedding anniversary. I can see why my mother wants to close this chapter her own way. She's always done things her own way, why should this be any different.

In June, they'll be in a new house... one with no stairs, no multiple levels, elderly-friendly details, a small, easily maintained yard. Yes, I said new. When it became clear that no condos were opening up, my mother decided they needed to build and build something that would suit their elderly years even though my mother, at 80, is nowhere near what I would consider elderly. She's busy picking colors and lighting fixtures, she's even been planting planter boxes so they'll have flowers once they move in (I'm guessing she's already got the perennials ordered for the backyard...). Have I mentioned that not much gets between my mother and an idea??

My father, while not as *young* and energetic as my mother, is also embracing this move. It is their willingness to embrace a different stage, a different direction, that is making the thought of parting with this house a little easier... and yet, I'd be lying if I didn't say there are nights where I wake up and the knowledge that this place will no longer be mine, slips into my unguarded mind and I feel sick to my stomach. I've been away from *home* for a long time. I have my own home, but in the back of my mind, I knew I still had access. To not have that anymore will be... different.

And, when not thinking clearly, I also wonder... will the house miss us?? Will it wonder where its people went?? I just hope whomever moves in next... the second owner in 40-some years, will be kind to it and be open to all it has to offer... even offering up a meal if Helmut and Herta stop back through.

I know I'm lucky... I still have my parents and parents are more important than a house. I'm lucky in that I got to live in it, live in the same place for so long, even if sometimes going elsewhere seemed preferable. I've been lucky and I am lucky... and, it's just a house.

But it still feels like I'm losing someone.

99.9% Pure

Blue Girl is wanting traffic. She's wanting linky love and is demanding that we all post about our purest comedic experience so that we can send it on over to newcritics. It seems they’re having a comedy blog-a-thon this Nov. 6-11th.

Well, I'm game, she said, so they shot her! Ba-dum-bump!

Anyone who is familiar with newcritics knows that the are indeed critics. They critique everything, but the kitchen sink… or maybe they’ve done that as well and I've just missed it. I get the feeling that their request for the purest comedic experience may mean a show someone has seen or an album that was listened to. Mine does not fit into that category, but I’m going ahead anyhow. Sometimes an experience is what it is and need not be categorized or dissected. I will try to relate my most blissfully pure comedic experience with that in mind. Over-analysis has been known to kill the magic.

As most of you who read this blog know, I went through Chicago’s Second City Conservatory Program. It was a 2 year deal that ended with performing a weekly show on the e.t.c stage. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to perform for a living, but I had always wanted to do the program and I have never, for a moment, regretted it.

One of the main rules of improv is to say, “Yes, and…” to whatever might be given to you. You do not want to control the direction of improv, other than moving it forward. Saying no stops the progression, stops development.You don’t so much as want to drive as you want to ride the wave. If you fight the wave and say no to the direction it is going, you fall off. By saying yes, you acknowledge what has been given to you. By adding *and*, you give something back for someone else to build on. And so it goes.

It is incredibly hard at times to surrender to no control while attempting to move this comedy beast forward.  Improv is a bizarre combo of thinking incredibly fast and yet not letting your thinking brain take over. I have had many moments of bliss while learning and attempting this art, but one by far, stands out as nirvana.

It happened during a regular upper-level class… we were doing two people scenes, given only a location and a clue as to why were there. I was doing my scene with Stephen. (Working with Stephen was like working with a genius puppy.) Our set-up was a blind date and we were on a bus. It was also suggested that I did not want to be on this date. I had to find a way to say yes while initially rejecting the situation.

What happened next was the most mysterious and wonderful 5 minutes of my comedic history. The big improv hand came down, we said yes, and oh baby, did we ride. There was actually very little dialog that passed between us, our scene mostly consisting of noises, gestures, and expressions. I remember very little of the actual scene, I just remember feeling as if something else were at the controls. It progressed without thought, it moved without our directing it and even better, it was FUNNY!! We could hear our classmates howling. We could see our veteran instructor heaving. The class then moved into the silent phase of laughter where you are laughing so hard, you’re not making much sound... and then the tears started. By the time the scene ended, there was not one person who was not beet red and crying with glee, including Stephen and myself.

Our scene was the last for the evening and we all walked out feeling incredibly spent, yet elated. It would be naive to think we had anything to do with how that scene went. We just showed up and tuned into the right station. I have laughed oh so many times since and hope to laugh many times more, but I know I will most likely never laugh or feel like that again. It was a moment of comedic grace that transcended words and it was wonderful.

Life is a rock...

Update below with YouTube enhancements.

Yesterday in the comments, Idyllopus was discussing *radio music* vs. music that was worth keeping, worth owning. She was discussing her musical roots. It made me think of my own musical roots. Although I have a varied list of likes when it comes to music, I have a soft spot in my heart for the Top 40 coming out of AM Chicago station back when AM still played music. I listened to it on this, my Panasonic, Toot-a-Loop.

A Toot-a-Loop, as you can see, was a mod, portable radio that you could wear on your wrist or hang on your bike when it was in a loop fashion, but that you could also open up into this snake formation for more tuning access.

Yesterday's post and comments made me think of my Toot-a-Loop. I still have it. I was curious if it still worked. It does. I dug around for a 9volt and voila! However, instead of hearing the lovely tunes 1972, I heard the ranting that is AM radio today. I kept it on long enough for my daughters to hear. They said they had always seen this thing on my shelf, but were never quite sure what it was.

My youngest also learned how to test a 9V battery. I almost think she was more intrigued with that.

My first meme

Well, it seems that Claire has smacked me on the head with the meme wand and I'm it. I am supposed to divulge 9 interesting things about myself. If I am struggling to find 9 interesting things, I've been told I can just tell 9 things. The sad thing is I might have 9 interesting things to share, but I think I already have! I've blown my interest wad in a mere month! There's nothing left in the bank. That's all she wrote. I will rehash though in honor of Claire whose list was definitely more interesting. There are times when I think she is living my life in the city I love...  Okay, here we go:

1) I had my 7th b-day in Ecuador. This alone would be somewhat interesting, but it was what my father said that holds the most interest for me. He (wiseacre that he is) told me that since I was celebrating my b-day in the opposite hemisphere I was born in, it would not count. I feel like I have a freebie year to use at my discretion. I haven't used it yet, but it may come in handy in the future.

2) I can play a fairly good rendition of "A Man and A Woman" on a beer bottle. I'll just leave that at that.

3) I had to get a little bit of help from my husband. He sees me more than I see myself so I asked him what he found interesting about me. He said I would make a great relief worker since I have the uncanny ability to focus no matter how bad the chaos and mess around me. Hmmm. I'm not sure he was being nice...

4) My nickname since age 3 has been "Bun"... not Bunny, not Buns, just Bun. My oldest brother gave it to me and swears he doesn't remember why. I tried to drop it many times along the way, but it kept following me and now a third of the people I know and love, generally refer to me as Bun. Even my good buddy Tom refers to me as Bun as well as a slew of other fabulous people.

5) 90% of the time, I sound like a man. I come from a family of low voices so it sounds normal to me, but most anyone I talk to on the phone thinks I am Grizzled or my father or a brother. This is another thing I have gotten used to although I must say it was a little disconcerting when I was an adolescent girl and was the ONLY person in the alto section. No preteen girl wants to sound like Lou Rawls or Rula Lenska.

6)I get lost in observations. This one was supplied by Grizzled as well. He often tells me I see things he doesn't, see entire scenarios he doesn't. He tends to be Mr. Pragmatic so hopefully we balance each other out. When I am busy being the Thistle Whisperer, he is busy dealing with tasks on planet Earth.

7) In a parallel universe, I am Lance Mannion's annoying, younger (much younger) sister.:)

8) About 47% of the time, I find negative space more interesting than positive space.

9) I have been told by many people that I treat words like Silly Putty, bending them and reshaping them to suit my whims. I'd put down some examples, but if I started, I wouldn't stop and I'm at #9 so it's time to stop.

I am now supposed to pass this on... that's a difficult one since I already know plenty of interesting things about the bloggers I read. One person who seems to post more fiction than non-fiction though is grasshopper at Diary of a Heretic. What I've read about her life so far seems pretty interesting. Let's see what else is there.