Sweet Adeline

So, I've been singing barbershop. Yeah, I know. Most of us think of those guys from "The Music Man" - who were they, they Buffalo Bills, I think? And it's probably not the art form people probably associate with me, especially if they've caught my cab act - pianist and all that. But, like their tag line says, "It's not your grandmother's barbershop." There's not a (good) musician alive who doesn't enjoy making close harmony, and in barbershop, it's not always easy to do it well. Those of us with the big Broadway-style voices have a harder time of it. While there may be a few solos here and there, there are no "stars" - something I've grown very accustomed to over the years. There are no accompaniments, just voices. Voices "agreeing on how to sing a note". And when they do agree, the mathematical harmonics apply and build; and overtones are produced. It's a satisfying thing to "ring a chord" - create overtones. For true musicians, those are the kind of challenges we live for. And that's one of the main reasons I'm singing with the Royal River Chorus (http://www.blazenetme.net/~michauds/)- because I've become musically lazy. I have, if not mastered, become extremely competent at so many different musical forms: Classical Voice (too restricted for me), Musicals (made for a very nice career - one I still miss), Jazz (a little too much on the Math, very hard work for me), Country (my preferred radio station), Blues (my song-writing style of choice) and, of course, karaoke - which really doesn't count as music but always sounds better proportionally to the amount of alcohol one has consumed. Now it's time to master something new.

I love a challenge. It's both an esteem-booster and a pitfall. Sometimes I choose paths simply for the challenges to be conquered, forgetting that people aren't Mount Everest and sometimes challenges fail to be solved. Sometimes they continue to grow harder and harder until you're at twenty-six quadrillion feet, gasping for air and watching chunks of your skin fall off while battling the elements and you have to decide if it's more important to be stubborn or suckin' dirt.

But I digress.

I need some serious mental stimulation, and I need to make good music. More importantly, I need the opportunity to make friends and, even more importantly, a couple of hours without my freakin' kids. My daughter thought she might be interested in joining. After all, they're singing stuff like "It's Raining Men", "We Are Family" and "Locomotion" - all with choreography, my friends. But you can be sure I shut that idea right down. "You are not gonna come hang out with me and my friends. That's just embarassing!" She doesn't know how many mother/daughter combinations there are in the choir. But, in my defense, most of them are all adults and they actually like their mothers! Stop raining on my parade, kid.

Anyway...

Our four-week Newbie initiation is at an end this coming Thursday. We actually have a little graduation thingy and then a one-month trial membership (once we pass our audition to show we can handle singing a capella with 3 other voice parts in our ear - piece a cake). These ladies are cultish in their art form. I can hang with that.

And for that serious competitive streak in me (hey, I almost always walked away with the part), there's International competitions (2007 in Hawaii - if I find a new husband by then, it could be my honeymoon, too...) and Quartets - which tend to be the dedicated cultists.

And there's a great deal of sequins, too. Gee, all I need is a baked ham and a sidekick named "Brenda" or "Bambi" or "Candi" and I'm all good.

Daydream Believer

I'm getting so good at one-handed typing, I oughta time myself and see if I'm over 40 wpm.

One of the best snowdays I ever experienced was when I was in my mid-20's, living in a house with four "adults", two children, three cats and a dog. Located directly across from one of Rockhurst College's mens dorms, it was damn near close to perfect. It was one of those almost common ice storms that wasn't. Dumped something like 11 or 12 inches of heavy, wet snow overnight. We couldn't open the screen door to the front porch to get out and we couldn't get out the garage to shovel it cuz we didn't think of that. I doubt we even owned a shovel. Everything shut down. Which, in a city, is pretty rare. We all stayed in our jammies, poured huge glasses of our favorite sodas - we might not have had milk and bread but we certainly had soda - opened up the Cheetos and had us one marathon game of Risk. Yes, you can hold on from Siam for many rounds and still become a decent force later.

I thought about that today as Walker and I stood at the kitchen window, eating oreos and watching it - still - snow. I miss having a slider onto a back deck. There are some days that are perfect for standing at the slider, staring out into the yard, watching the world. The best days are rainy, summer days. There's more activity going on than you realize. When we slow down to watch the world outside our window, it should remind us that we inhabit a planet that is greater than us, yet is a sum of all our parts. That the robin and the worm could care less how much we earn, who's on the phone, fair labor practices or the price of heating oil. The robin wishes to eat the worm. The worm wishes not to be eaten.

The day is happening outside. I've gone into the day: dragging the trash can through a yard full of snow to reach the one cleared spot on the curb, pulling a sled through the parking lot next door, shovelling the sidewalk three times and then saying "F*** it," whenever I look at the driveway. I'm lucky if I get my car cleaned off each day. Inside, however, it's a different day. One that's a tad bit warmer and cozier than it would have been had the world not been happening outside.

Not that this missive has any clearly defined point. Just that it's a good day to daydream, I guess.

People Are Strange

Now, honestly, are you telling me that there are people clueless enough to think that it's really hunky-dory to leave a half-finished cup of coffee on the middle shelf of the crackers & cookies aisle? And are there really people so shallow as to think it's perfectly a-ok to leave their grocery cart in the parking space as opposed to putting it in the catch-all? Oh, I guess it's okay because "everybody else does it" and "they pay people to come around and collect them", right? But you know what? I also bet 'cha when it's pouring outside and there's two parking spots right up front that can't be used because other lazy people didn't want to walk the grocery carts back in the front door (which is roughly twelve steps away and they're wearing a frickin' raincoat!), those original people are the loudest to bitch. And no, not me. I so detest that crap that I'm beyond anal about putting the cart away, throwing away the receipt trash somebody else left in the cart in the trash can right by the door, etc. And as far as I know, it hasn't killed me.

Going to the grocery store gives me more road rage than driving in Boston.

Tonight's picture is a demo of my 15 mo. old's spatial abilities. Achieved utterly and completely on his own.

Ink A Dink A Doo

I first noticed it a few months ago. Every once in a while, a faint smell of smoke. I'd walk around the house sniffing like my Golden Retriever when he knows there's a squirrel out there somewhere. I never found a source. Never could tell what it was related to, or even if there WAS smoke. After a while, I had convinced myself that it was an olfactory hallucination. Hey, it could happen. Then about four or five weeks ago, I began to smell...gas? kerosene?...every so often. Never enough to convince me that something was seriously wrong somewhere. Nobody else ever smelled it. By the time I'd done a sniff-through of the entire house, it was gone. A week ago, the heat came on and the malicious reek of furnace oil choked the air in the house. It happened each time the heat came on, becoming less offensive as the day wore on. I don't know if that's because it was calming or we were just becoming used to it.

We called the furnace guy. The same one who didn't charge me for his last/first visit just because "he couldn't possibly" - all the while giving me the "are these people idiots?"look. Hey, I've never owned a house with floor grates, I didn't know there were little wheels that closed them. Or levers on the pipes and ducts that helped us control the flow of air. So sue me. Furnace guy says it's probably...something that sounds like he knows what he's talking about...and give him a call if it gets worse. Otherwise, he'll be here later in the week. Yeah. The check's in the mail, too, buddy. The smell's getting worse. Starting yesterday, the furnace shuts itself off whenever the hell it feels like it - this became evident when we woke up this morning. Apparently the button I hit to reset the furnace is NOT the reset button. In fact, we don't know what it is or what it does. It does make noise, though. Okay, don't touch that one. Got it. I am of the mind that it probably isn't healthy for my children and I to be breathing this on a daily, sometimes thrice-daily, basis. Call me crazy (that's rhetorical).

Can anyone say "money pit"? Can anyone say "money pit for people without money"? Now, how about "exasperated", "finished", "beyond therapy" or "options"?

On another front, the youngest with the sleeping problems has stymied even the doctor. My son will not fall asleep on his own. Nor will he sleep in his crib longer than three hours - the norm being 30 to 60 minutes. Over the last five months, the situation has incrementally devolved directly after his father's visits. And now my son no longer allows himself to be placed in his crib. Immediately upon placement, or sometimes on the way down, he has what we're terming anxiety attacks, for lack of a better diagnosis. Uncontrollable shaking, torrential teary downpours, screaming my name as if I'm not two inches away from him, choking me trying to hold on when I pick him up. All this doesn't take a rocket scientist. But it does take a great deal of patience and mine is, like my cell phone minutes, limited. I'm having difficulty finding the line between consolation and indulgence, security and spoiling. At least if I screw this up royally, I'll have nobody to blame but myself, right?

And tonight, my husband has the nerve to say "we never should have left Block Island"! What' this 'we' thing, paleface (I'm claiming my Delaware Native American heritage on this one)? You're still there!

All this and a straight-A student who isn't. I've pulled off a few miracles in my time, but I can't wait to see how I'm gonna get out of this one!

Goodnight, Auntie M...I AIM'd you but you logged off before you saw. Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.