Things That Hurt

My  head. I woke up with a pounding headache that I blame entirely on a horrible dream wherein I was married to my ex-husband once again and we were moving into a giant weird house full of spiders. I was trying to run away with the kids but nobody could understand why I was so upset. I hate dreams like that. I wonder what causes them? I refuse to blame the peppermint candy ice cream I ate before bed. It has enough guilt to bear for the stomach ache that I fell asleep to.

I haven't had much to say lately, partly because I have been somewhat busy, making picturesquely imperfect (leave me my fantasies) gingerbread houses and homemade dinners, and starting loads of laundry which my Adorable Husband ends up following through to the fold an put away stage. And then when I sit down with my computer and contemplate something deep and profound to say, websites like Urban Outfitters and Victoria's Secret and Amazon all scream out to me with their amazing Holiday deals and I have difficulty focusing on anything except boots and things like that. And then there is the issue of the Very Cute, but Very Bad puppy who at this moment is shaking an unwrapped Christmas Present like a dead kitten in her little needle teeth. If I catch her chewing on something I can possibly live without, like an empty cardboard box or the car microfiber duster I paid $1 for, I let her be, since it's going to be that or something else. This morning she brought me first one, and when that was confiscated, the other red velvet shoe from my closet. At least she has good taste. And I will say the jingle bell collar was a wise investment since she is easily located now, wherever she is tearing up something that she should not be.

Right now The Avett Brothers are playing on 101.7, and sometimes I forget how much I love them. But the first strains of I & Love & You reverberate along with a chill down my spine and the warm fuzzy feeling of KNOWING not only them, but their songs, and their people, and the ideals that they champion in their music. Christmas Music is a nice little break from routine for us, other than Josh, who is already sick of everything except the California Raisins' version of We Three Kings, but I am secretly excited for January and making up for all this lost time with my boys.

This last few days, or week, or maybe even half of a month has been a little tough for me, on several levels. I've already done enough whining about the physical stuff, so I think I will delve into some internal stew that has been simmering since my Loving Husband, ever so tenderly, called me out on my bad attitude. Just when I was feeling all smug for my positivity and happy spirit, and self righteously condemning the pharisees who couldn't just catch the contagious joy that probably had something to do with an unbridled Holiday Shopping binge and endless espressos and parties and an excuse for a Whole New Wardrobe, I run face to face with the ugly truth of my selfishness. Why Josh couldn't just "get happy" was beyond my grasp, since the world is perfect and I have new skirt. When he finally got tired enough of tolerating me, he was able to articulate quite well, my self absorbed approach to life. The unfortunate thing about being married to Josh is that he is almost always right. He is graciously learning to allow me to be wrong from time to time without needing to crusade against my erroneous views, but in this instance, he was dead on and I was out of excuses. I was being shallow and judgemental and all of the things that I professed to loathed. So, in true contrition, I begged him for the grace to allow my little binge of selfish misbehavior continue until after Christmas, at which time I would become absolvent and depressed in response to the dire conditions we face in this life. No, but seriously, I needed a kick in the butt and I am thankful for a guy who can do it, even if clumsily, at least faithfully to me.

So I am still working through some of this inner process, which loosely translates to a mild slow-down in spending and more cautious approach to spousal reprimands and arbitrary judgements.

On another note - I just got called for an interview as an Emergency Room tech at the hospital. This is something that I will have to carefully consider. A grown up job with grown up side effects - like giving up fire season? But something that I would enjoy and would keep my mind and body active, and helping people... Pondering.

Things That Don't Get Enough Attention

Recently, through the grapevine, I heard the jealous murmur of a child who was bemoaning the lack of mention in her mother's blog. While I am sure that Natalee was elated to have her anger issues showcased on a public forum, and Aspen never gets tired of having her cuteness promoted, and Halle is just weird enough to be mentioned at least monthly, poor MacKenzie, the upper middle child, is all but lost and forgotten. So Kizzie, this is for you:

 Dear MacKenzie:
I was 15 once. When I was 15, I was aware of two things: boys, and how painfully unfashionable I was. At 15, I began an evolution of personality. Before I discovered the important things in life like The Avett Brothers and Frye Boots, I decided that I liked daisies and sunflowers and hippies that didn't smoke pot (because I didn't really know what pot was then). I liked poems, Shakespeare, beautiful language. I loved the stage, mostly because for a few brief minutes, the whole world was looking at me (including boys), and I was beautiful (or at least OK). I liked iced mochas with lots of whipped cream and rope licorice. I liked shopping at Goodwill for brand names I gleaned from my stylish cousin (BTW, Katey - I don't think The Limited was ever cool for 15 year olds). I liked my one brand new pair of Gap Jeans that Grandma Schiffman bought me for my birthday. I liked my big dog Frankie who looked like a black and tan Truck and was my best friend. I liked Jessa and Aimee and Muriel and Andy and Misti and Melissa, and pretty much every boy I knew. When I was 15, I thought I was fat. What I would give to be that fat now. When I was 15, my parents didn't understand the first thing about being 15, being in love, or being cool. How can a sophisticated 15 year old ever listen to parents who clearly had no clue, and no interest in getting a clue. At 15, I was grounded pretty much every other week. I was grounded for bad attitudes, for being unkind (hateful, mom always said) to my sister. I was grounded for writing notes to boys, for wearing clothes that were outside of the rules my parents had set (and for the record, their rules were IMMEASURABLY more strict that mine are for you, ask them). I was grounded for not taking care of my chores at home (which again, where IMMEASURABLY more than yours, but don't ask my parents about that one.), and for mouthing off, sort of like a certain 15 year old I know now does to her parents. When I was 15, I was in love with at least 4 different boys. There was Jake, there was Peter, there was Jim Miller, and oh my gosh - Forrest Greenough. All of these passionate love affairs occurred after I had experienced the wisening of love gone wrong with Jason Dotson, and Nate, and probably a few others that I can't remember now. None of these passionate love affairs included kissing. My first kiss was a few days after I turned 17. Lack of opportunity? I guess so. I guess I didn't have the opportunistic setting of an unsupervised school hallway, and truthfully, I am very thankful for that. I wish I could tell you that if I had the same opportunities that you have, I would have made only the best and wisest choices, but to be perfectly honest, I am not sure what I would have done in some of those settings. 
I know what I wanted. I remember fantasies of being swept off my feet and having my heart stolen by a dark haired class clown... I wanted to be the girl that every boy wanted but only one boy had. In many ways, I still do. Doesn't every girl want to be wanted like that? I guess what I am trying to tell you is that I understand. I  know you think I don't, that I am just a frumpy mom who doesn't Even Know How It Feels, but I do. I remember wishing with EVERY OUNCE OF WISH in me that a certain boy would happen to be downtown when I rode my bike there. We didn't have cell phones and Facebook then; just wishful telepathy and parents who liked to hang out at Goodwill. I know it feels hard to deal with sisters and parents and all of the pressures at school - I can only imagine the school part, except that I remember how it feels to be so very different and wish desperately to be The Same. Now I value being different. Being different is the only thing that makes me the girl that every boy wants (they totally do) but only Josh has. Being different is what makes it possible for me to say I have never been fired from a job and every boss I have had would still love to take me back. Being different means that I can CHOOSE what I do with my life, whom I share it with, and how I want it to look. Being different means that I can listen to The Avett Brothers and Eminem and Frank Sinatra all on the same playlist and Halle's friends think I am cool (ok, that's a little risky). I know right now the most important thing for you seems to be survival, but what survival means to you now will be vastly different from survival when you are 22, or 32, and beyond that, I can only imagine (since I am not that old yet). It wasn't until after Natalee was born that I truly gained an appreciation for my parents, and the fact that they did their absolute best to raise me the right way. There are no perfect parents, but I will give mine an A for effort, even if I choose to do some things differently. I trust, and hope, and pray that someday you will look at me with the same eyes. If you feel about me someday the way that I feel about my mom and dad, then I will feel like I did ok. I don't expect you to like me now. I don't expect to be your buddy, even when you steal my clothes and make me cookies. I expect to be your mom, imperfectly, and often very badly. I am an awkward mom. I don't hug well. If you need a hug, you might have to steal it from me. If you need a pat on the back, you might have to remind me. But if you need a kick in the butt bottom, I will probably remind you. It's ok if you hate me now. It's ok if you keep throwing fits for a few more years, or decades. I have faith that you will be just fine. You are beautiful, and talented and intelligent. You are different, and it will serve you well. I hope you will learn to place a high value on your heart and your love, because there are many unworthy people out there, and Josh and I can't stand to see you wasted, so you can plan on a fight until YOU see your worth. I remember 15, Kizzie. Like it was yesterday. I remember the clothes and the smells, the music and the hair and the boys. I remember looking for my space, my self, my soul. I remember how strong the feelings are, how intense the problems seem, and how alone you can feel. But there is another side to 15, and I know that you will arrive there beautiful and ready for 16. Because you are my girl. 

 I love you.

 Mom

Things That (cool) Moms Listen To


On September 11, which is an unfortunate day in the US for anything happy to occur, something very happy does occur. The Avett Brother's release their second studio album, The Carpenter. Contrary to the popular but misguided opinion that I am a music snob, I have no idea what differentiates a studio album from a non-studio album, other than some big shot named Rick Rubin, who worked with even bigger shots like Madonna and stuff, produced it. None of that impresses me nearly as much as the album itself, which I have been streaming almost constantly since it was put up on NPR's first listen ((listen here). In my absolutely untrained but highly subjective opinion, this album is awesome. My favorite track is called February 7, and in my mind it speaks to the second chances that we would all be proverbially screwed without. I like that this album has horns, and so does my Eclectic Man. The album still speaks plenty of banjo, which is my favorite sound in the world, but I also really love that Joe Kwon's cello really feels like it comes of age in these songs. My (true music snob) cousin has always said that he felt Joe didn't quite fit, or at least his cello didn't. My cousin also wears sweat bands and considers beards the status symbol of hipster ideology, so I feel safe in calling his critique into question.

But as to the idea that I am a music snob, I must confess a deep rooted weakness for mainstream trash, especially from the 80s and 90s, that would make my indie friends blush. I mean, would a real music snob tear up watching the infomercial for Power Ballads of the 90s? I think not. At this point the hipsters and indie music snobs are becoming so mainstream that my cousin's Hall & Oates fetish is actually more of an indie movement. (You have to admit, Brent, the girls aren't lining up at the door.) My studly guy wisely hid his proclivity for 80s hair music from me until AFTER the nuptials, and I will never admit to him that I secretly adore it. Unfortunately he reads this blog, so now I need to find a new superiority complex to develop.

So let me talk about my favorite music, the good, the bad, the indie.

It's hard for me to really categorize my musical preferences. It's kind of like food preferences for me: yes - I prefer it. All.

Anyone who knows me even slightly has been exposed to my slightly embarrassing groupieism for The Avett Brothers. I would be more ashamed except I really believe that they are THAT GOOD. As artists and as people. As much as My Boy expects me to leave him any second for Scott Avett, the day that man gets a divorce is the day I quit listening to their music and face the reality of Total Disillusionment. I have even talked to their dad, about child rearing, no less, and how to get around the harsh realities of parenting fails. Jim Avett seems like a kind soul. And makes great music as well. But enough about them. In chasing TAB around the country, I have discovered a handful of other great bands that you may or may not have heard of, depending on how cool you are. At the top of this list is Langhorne Slim and The Law (Langhorne's Website), Sally Ford and the Sound Outside (Sallie Ford), Sasparilla, Lone Madrone, Thao and The Get Down Stay Down, and probably more that I don't remember. As The Avett Brothers began to circulate, bands with that banjo-ridden americana sound all started surfacing in my consciousness. Great bands like Old Crow Medicine Show, Mumford and Sons (incidentally not American at all), Dawes, Blind Pilot, Blitzen Trapper, Trampled by Turtles... and then I started to cross over to other cool "indie" music like Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, The Black Keys, The Decemberists, and recently The Lumineers, Fun, the Mynabirds (I'm really throwing them in because I got to ride on a shuttle to Pickathon with them)(and they're good) and many many more. If you have any questions about these bands, I probably can't help you, but I can try!

Truth be told however, I spent the entire day today listening to a stream of 90s pop hits. Nothing gets to me quite like some good Ace of Base or Spindoctors. Wow. FLASHBACK. And speaking of flashbacks - this has nothing whatsover to do with music, but if you grew up in the 90s you obviously knew about Revlon's Outrageous Shampoo, which smelled exactly like you imagined dating would feel, if you were a homeschooled teenager. Anyway, it's not available in the US anymore, but I just found it on eBay, and it smells the exact same. I'd still like to know if dating feels that way. Outrageous on eBay Wow. That was a rabbit trail. Spindoctors and Outrageous. It's like oreos and milk.

I have quite a bit more to say about music, but can't remember any of it right now, so check back for more. After you listen to The Carpenter 37 times.