April 23, 2012
Dear John, I Still Miss You
Dear John,
Another year has passed. It’s been seven since I saw you last. I’ve been thinking a lot about you. When you died my biggest fear was that I’d forget something about you and our last day together; I wanted to remember every tiny detail always. The other fear that haunted me was that one day it would get easier and I wouldn’t miss you so much. So I’m grateful for the memories I have and I’m grateful for the bittersweet ache they leave in me.
I’ll be honest. I don’t dwell on you anymore. That makes it easier. For the first year, I hugged close everything that reminded me of you: photos, videos, memories and especially music. But I can’t hug those things anymore because they’re too sharp and they cut through the scar tissue that took so long to grow on my shattered heart. Sometimes when you flit across my memory I find myself shaking my head just as I did after you died, because I can’t comprehend that you are gone from here.
But I’ve decided this won’t be a day for sadness. I went to Mass this morning and I saw S² eyeing me with concern. I smiled at him and told him truthfully that I just had a tickle in my throat (Easter flowers and incense can do that). Now I sit in the fading sun and think of you.
We’ve always shared a passion for reading, writing and music. When you were a toddler, you’d put on a pair of star-shaped sunglasses, sit at a little piano shaped box and lip-sync to Elton John’s greatest hits. We called you “Elton Johnny”. It was the only time Mom and Dad listened to Elton John without complaint, so we had you do it often. When you were a little older, we played school. I swore for years I taught you to read, but after trying to teach my own children, I wonder…
Remember the summer you were turning sixteen? Dave had moved to Cleveland for his new job. You and Mom stayed in upstate New York to help me sell the house. We were really into Pink Floyd that year and we discovered Wish You Were Here. I have a hard time listening to it now. You brought books about the band, which I read when you were done. Then we’d talk about Syd Barrett and debate about Roger Waters and David Gilmour while we worked on my yard. You did a lot of yard work for me so I told you I take you out to dinner. You wanted steak and lobster. Funny thing for a fifteen-year-old to want for dinner, but typical for you.
Remember that same summer going to the mall parking lot late at night so you could practice driving a stick shift before getting your driver’s license? We saw a UFO hovering above the woods next to the mall. It was amazing, but we never told anyone about it because we knew no one would believe it.
This is it but we didn't take a picture.
We both love Chris Cornell’s voice. One Christmas I shared his version of Ave Maria with you, but I don’t think you heard it over the football game. Then you shared Audioslave with me. After you died, I got your CD and listened to it constantly. I can’t listen to Audioslave anymore. That annoys me frankly, because I really like them.
But I can listen to “United States of Whatever” by Liam Lynch. You turned my kids onto it. After they listened to it a million times a day, it grew on me. Do you remember when we found the video? Wow. Liam was not the cool Eminem-type I’d imagined. But we loved the video and watched it a million times too.
And tonight, as I looked up the video to add it as a link to this post you, my little, beloved brother John, gave me a gift. A video I’d never seen of Dave Grohl, drummer extraordinaire (and my favorite), playing/pounding his little heart out with Liam Lynch on United States of Whatever. And I’ll go to bed with a smile on my face, which is a gift I hadn’t expected on this of all nights.
Skip ahead sixty seconds. The quality improves greatly.
PS-Is it mandatory for great drummers to chew gum?
November 14, 2011
Each to His Passion
We are each created with a spark inside of us. Some of us try to ignore it. Maybe we think it’s something to be ashamed of. Whatever the reason, it remains a tiny ember occasionally flaring up, leaving us feeling as though we did something embarrassing in public.
Some of us fan the spark and it flares up with a glorious flame if used wisely or a hideous flame if given free reign. This spark gives heat and color to our lives. And it has the power to fill us with joy or drown us in misery.
This spark is passion. Not sexual passion. That spark resides in the anatomy. Not the passion of faith, which is so powerful it doesn’t reside in you; it engulfs you. The passion I’m talking about is the one that resides in the heart and mind. Have you ever watched someone animated by their passion? It really is a fascinating sight, even if their passion is something you find uninteresting.
Football Passion--Maybe fascinating isn't the right word.
I ignored my passions for a long time for many reasons: I didn’t have enough time, money or energy to devote to them. I felt numb until the spark flared in me and filled me with a forgotten excitement and joy. Not only did I like that feeling, I needed it. I needed something to be passionate about.
Each of us is created with a unique pre-loaded passion library. Sorry no refunds or exchanges; we have to take what we get. But that’s ok. We still have choices. Take my drum passion. There are so many things I could do with that (?). For example, I could become a professional RockBand drummer. I could play in competitions and tournaments, like the sixteen-year-old who dropped out of school to become a professional Guitar Hero competitor. I realize it’s not a wise choice, so I decide to focus on the listening and watching aspect of my drum passion.
If Neil Peart fails out, what hope is there for me?
But I long to use my passion for creating. So I read Stephen King’s words on talent again, because they capture essence of the passion of creating :
“…when you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening (or reading), every outing is a bravura performance because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic.”
When asked if he did it for the money, he replied: “…I never set a single word down on paper with the thought of being paid for it…I have written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side–I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”
Hmmm. What shall I focus on creating? More kids? I’m good at that, but I don’t think so. I’m content with the five I have. Scrapbooks? No, I’m not as passionate about that as I once was. A cottage garden landscape for my yard? I’m passionate about that, but I also inadvertently kill every plant I come into contact with. I couldn’t live with that heartache (not to mention the expense of replacing dead landscaping).
Of course, I decided on writing, not because it’s the least expensive, but “for the pure joy of the thing.” And writing rekindles my passion for reading. It’s like a passion bonus. If you need to be recharged, indulge in one of your passions. It can be great adventure. Who knows where it will lead. The only thing you can be sure of is the euphoria that fills you when you’re doing something you love.
November 2, 2011
Behind the Hype– SETs, STDs, and Lurkers.
Blogging is not the easy, jot-down-your-thoughts, hit-the-publish-button, and out-it-bursts-into-the-blogosphere-like-a-newborn-babe, it appears to be. Creating a post can be like creating a baby. At times, it’s so enjoyable and exciting you never want to stop. If you weren’t so tired you’d write another one right away. Occasionally it can be tedious. You close your eyes and push the publish button, glad that the effort to just get it done is behind you.
I love this picture!
But blogging is more complicated than creating a baby. There’s much more to it than writing and clicking “publish”. For example, the terms people use in search engines such as Google, have a great impact on a blog. Dave Grohl is a huge part of my blog. The terms “Dave Grohl drums” and “Dave Grohl drumming” chauffeur an amazing amount of people here. In fact, they’re the top two search engine terms (SET’s) that refer people to my blog. “Bunion” is a close second. That my blog is so closely associated with bunions leaves a warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Obligatory photo of Dave Grohl
Not everyone is searching for something as mundane as Dave Grohl’s drum kit (although it is enhanced by a vulture), or Brennan Boesch’s girlfriend (I don’t know who she is, people!). There are some very interesting individuals searching for some very colorful things. A few of the more bizarre terms that led to my blog include:
“women who polish their husbands toes”
“stop drop and roll does not work in hell lyrics”
“he waited two years till first sex”
And the winner of the most bizarre search term used to find my blog:
“first time outside crossdressing cool air sound of my heels”
I did my own web and image search on this term just to see what else popped up. I didn’t see my blog listed, but when I searched under images I came across Michelle.
This photo was on the seventh page of the image search.
Referrers are another necessity in the blogger’s world. Referrers are other blogs and web sites that link to your blog. A short time after I began blogging, I noticed some strange looking referrers. They became my favorites because they were generating half of my traffic. I was crushed when I found out they were “spam referrers”. They seem to have the same purpose in the blogosphere as the tiny annoying pests that inhabit the real world, such as mosquitoes and lice.
WordPress strongly advises a blogger to report spam referrers so that they can be blocked from using WordPress blogs for their devious purposes. This caused an ethical dilemma for me. Follow the rules and weed out the spammers (I am a rule follower by nature) or keep the spam referrers because it makes my blog look like it’s getting twice the hits it’s actually getting. In the end, I opted for justice for the spam scum, but there are days when my stats are so low I long for a few spam referrers just to perk me up.
Spam: It’s not welcome here.
At one time I thought the number of comments a blog had was indicative of the amount of traffic that blog got– comments equal blog life. ”Poor little unread blog,” I used to think about the blogs with few comments. Then I became the blogger, and I could see the amount of traffic stopping by my blog daily. And that number in no way corresponded to the dismal number of comments I was receiving. I still don’t get many comments, but I have a lot of lurkers. A “lurker” is an affectionate term bloggers use to describe readers that don’t make themselves known by posting comments.
I was a lurker myself for a while. Before I began writing my blog, I read blogs. But I had no desire to leave a comment. Who cared what I had to say? Hadn’t the blogger said it all in the post? Then I read a blog post about Christian Louboutin heels for Barbies, and I felt compelled to comment. I was too nervous to type my comment cold-turkey on-line. It took two days of editing a Word Doc. to perfect my first comment: “Those are the only Louboutin’s I’ll ever be able to afford”. After that, I wrote and edited all my comments before posting them, until I began writing my own blog and realized comments didn’t need to be perfect. Posts did. (In a perfect blogosphere anyway).
There is so much more I could tell you. My battle with the SEO (Search Engine Optimization) monster, and the disappearing blogroll. One of these days, when my muse is AWOL and I’m desperate for a post, I’ll let you in on that hype, too.
PS– In case you’re wondering about the STD’s in my headline, it was an underhanded ploy for some traffic. I may fight spam, but I’m not against a little hype.
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October 29, 2011
I Think I’ll Celebrate.
It’s something I swore I’d never do. And I meant it. I had a million reasons not to do it and I could have come up with a million more if I put my mind to it. Of course, I ended up doing it. Now I’m celebrating my seven month anniversary of doing it. It, coincidentally, is blogging.
Facing another self-imposed blog post deadline.
Eight months ago, I’d never read a blog. Well, there was one I read years ago by a mom in similar circumstances to my own. But she was perfect, down to the homesewn cloth diapers, homemade baby food and tidy house. I felt like crap after I read her post. That was the end of my foray into blogging.
Until I wrote a book. And well-meaning friends advised me to blog as a way to get my name “out there”. And agents strongly advocated using social media as “pre-marketing” tool. Blogging became a necessary evil that I would have to embrace if I was serious about peddling my book.
I spent two months researching the “how-to’s” and brainstorming with myself (I had some fun, in spite of the occasional argument). I spent many frustrating hours just trying to find personal blogs to read. I mind-mapped, learned about “search engine optimization” (hooey), and looked for unique angles to base the blog on (my niche). I assumed some aspect of my book would be the subject, but after some sage advice from D¹, I realized the book I’d written couldn’t be the subject of an entire lifelong blog. What then? My life is nondescriptively busy, not blog fodder.
It struck me that I live an insulated life. There are so many views, opinions and lives I’m unfamiliar with, it’s like I live in a bubble. And my goal became to talk, no not just talk, converse with other people about whatever came up. I stumbled upon the word “confabulate” and fell in love with it. (That’s what writers do, fall in love with words) And I began to get excited about the prospect of blogging.
I plumbed the depths of my mind for a catchy tag-line and a witty, memorable title for the blog. Deriving witty titles isn’t one of my gifts, as demonstrated by some of the ideas I was kicking around (and many of my headlines):
Viewnique( because each person has a unique viewpoint, of course)
Random Patterns
Ms. Confabulous
Confabulation
Thank God I’d found a blog I really liked, and she advised in a post to use your own name for a blog title, if possible. That was the end of that particular headache.
I continued to research and came up with a set of blog goals:
- I’d write at least three posts per week. How hard could it be to write a few hundred words every few days?
- I’d have three months of pre-written posts before I even started the blog, just in case a it was harder than I thought or my muse took flight and left me in a lurch.
Ha, what a silly newbie. Those were goals that were easy to fall short of.
Rock star and Tiny Dancer? I don't think so.
I began writing my thirty-nine posts. I had a ball writing my first one, Rock Star and Tiny Dancer. I’d always loved the Elton John song, Tiny Dancer. It embodied the perfect romance for a young girl addicted to music (me). Every time I heard it, I imagined it as a movie of the week so that’s what I based it on. It’s still my favorite post and after writing it, I was hooked on blogging. And, seven months later here I am, but I still haven’t come to the point of this particular post.
No, that's not her either.
The point was to dish on some of the things I’ve learned about the fascinating other-world of the blogosphere. Spoiler Alert: I guess that will be the topic of my next post. Dave Grohl, the Grinch, (possibly JLo) and I hope to see you then.
October 15, 2011
I Dated a Married Man (Successfully)
He asked me to go out for a drink. His newest client owned a tavern. “I want to check it out,” he told me. “Will you come with me?” Spending time alone with him sounded intriguing. So I joined him.
We shared an appetizer and I got a glass of wine. He drank a beer as he watched the football game on the TV over the bar. We didn’t say much; it was enough to be together. “That was fun,” he said when we left. I told him I’d like to do it again.
That’s how my husband and I began dating each other again. There was an alluring spontaneity in slipping away on a Friday or Saturday evening for a drink. Soon after our visit to the tavern, we decided to go someplace new. I wasn’t impressed by the stale air or the bar stools pocked with cigarette burns. But when a band started playing on the small stage next to the bar, I was in rock heaven.
After that I looked forward to our next night out. We went to another place we’d never been to. There was no live music. Just TVs, lots of them, all tuned to various sporting events. My husband was engrossed with the screens. My eyes roamed around the room, looking for something I was not getting from the TV. By the time we left I was sulking.
The same thing happened the next time we went out. He watched TV. I watched everyone else and brooded. We didn’t talk much. I dwelt on it the next day and panic set in. Maybe we’d drifted apart like all those couples I’d read about in magazines. Was our marriage floundering because we couldn’t have a conversation that didn’t revolve around the kids or his business?
The next time we went to dinner first. We talked and laughed, then I told him I was worried about us. He wasn’t worried; he even laughed a little, well acquainted with my tendency to overreact. After dinner we moved to the bar for a drink. We continued talking and people-watching as we waited for some vacant seats. I had just breathed a sigh of relief at the ease of our conversation, when we found two seats right in front of the TV. The evening could have ended in disaster, but after some intense competition from the TV screen, we decided to walk down the street to the blues bar and watch the band. (The drummer, who looked like Santa with a Hawaiian shirt, was phenomenal!)
After a few date-night ups and downs, I learned that we had different expectations. He just wanted to unwind and be with me. Silence was ok because he spent all day talking to clients. I, on the other hand, wanted some excitement and connection with him, and that involved conversation. Once we got in the groove of going out again (it took lots of hits and misses) we really enjoyed it.We still have an occasional flop of a date, but it has more to do with the state of our lives at that particular moment, than with the state of our relationship.
A few weeks ago we went to Baileys to have dinner and relax with a drink while watching the Detroit Tigers play in the AL championship. It had been a few months since our last date and we were looking forward to it. To my surprise, my husband asked for the check before I’d finished eating. And he had his coat on before I finished my glass of wine. I was seething. This was not the relaxing night I’d envisioned. But I didn’t say anything, thinking that he just wanted to go someplace else for a drink.
We ran a few errands and he asked me if I wanted to walk around the mall. In my head: Huh? No. I do not want to walk around the mall. I want to have a drink and watch the Tigers play. To him: “Sure let’s go to the mall.” The ease with which I can slip back into my nineteen-year-old self is astonishing. As we walked around the mall, he tried to make conversation and I, walking slightly ahead, ignored him. Finally he said, “Do you want to do something else?”
My sarcastic response dripped out of my mouth before I could stop it. “No. I wanted to stay at Baileys and watch the game. That is what I wanted to do.”
I could see his surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me? I asked you what you wanted to do.”
“You couldn’t wait to get out of there. I didn’t want to stay if you didn’t. I didn’t know we’d end up at the mall.”
He stormed out of the mall and I followed sheepishly. I’m never proud of acting like an adolescent. If we’d just started dating, that would have been the end. But here’s where the twenty-six years of marriage comes in handy, because once we reached the car, we apologized.
“I’m sorry I rushed you. I’ve been rushing all week from one place to another and I didn’t even realized I was doing it,” he said.
“I’m sorry too. I should have told you I wanted to stay.”
“Let’s go back.”
“Let’s start fresh and go someplace else.”
He took my hand and drove to Chammps so we could finish watching the game. I’d say in spite of the ups and downs, dating my married man has been very successful.
Image via Wikipedia
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April 20, 2011
Guilty Pleasures
We all have them. Guilty pleasures that we’re embarrassed to admit we indulge in or we admit to them with a sort of shameful pride.
These are the first three that came to mind in no particular order.
Guilty Pleasure 1-Tuesday evening, a box of Cheez-Its, a glass of wine, and What Not to Wear on the TV. I don’t watch much TV. It’s hard to get the remote in a house of seven. But my family knows not to mess with me when What Not to Wear is on. They also know not to mess with the Cheez-Its. If I’m in a good mood I’ll share.
Guilty Pleasure 2-Kings of Leon song “Sex on Fire”. The first time I heard it I didn’t quite catch all the lyrics, but I really liked the song (especially those drums!) I knew I couldn’t listen to it around the kids. Then I decided to look up the words. Wow. I was alone and I blushed. Now it is a guilty pleasure I do without. I guess that makes it more of an ex-guilty pleasure.
Guilty Pleasure 3-I don’t exercise. I take great pleasure in that because I do not enjoy it. I’ve paid my dues. After wrestling with my weight for years, I got really serious about it. It took me about five years to lose forty pounds and keep it off. I stopped exercising for a while but I didn’t want my weight to creep back up so I started again. Suddenly I was gaining weight. No, I wasn’t eating anymore than I had been. No, it wasn’t muscle. It was a paunchy little gut and my pants were too tight. So I stopped exercising, the paunch vanished and I haven’t gained any weight. That works for me.
Of course, I walk around in my four inch heels (that tones the calves) and I run up and down stairs all day. I think that must count for something.
Potential Guilty Pleasure 4-D² (second child/second daughter) suggested that my penchant for rock ballads is a guilty pleasure. I disagree. There is no guilt or shame in liking and listening to (even if it’s a million times) a good rock ballad. In fact, I think this is a topic for another post: The Best Rock Ballads of All Time.
Do you have any guilty pleasures that you want to admit to? BTW-I’m not talking about adult guilty pleasures. There are other places to share those.
March 31, 2011
Check It Out
Just wanted to tell you about two pages I added to my site. You can find them under Places to Go on the right side of the page. I’ll be updating both occasionally, so check back every now and then.
Check It Out-Listens are links to songs for you to check out. If you click on Comments, you can share song titles and/or links that interest you or you can make comments on the ones I’ve posted.
Check It Out-Reads are books I’ve read and rated based on my personal opinion. You can share your latest reads or post comments by clicking Comments at the bottom of the page.
March 29, 2011
Woulda, Coulda…
Remember that thing you swore you were going to do but you never did? Do you think it’s too late or that it can wait until life slows down a little? Think about it for a moment. Maybe now is the right time to go for it.
Writing a book and learning to play the drums have always topped my list.
I love the drums. I don’t know why. I always wanted to learn how to play them. I mean really play, not just play air drums or with pencils on the table (been there, done that).
I was in my late twenties when I decided to take the plunge. I took my toddler and headed to the drum store near our house. I walked in—and I walked right back out.
There were two young guys behind the counter wearing the heavy metal attire of the day. I felt so old (ONLY TWENTY-SEVEN) with my toddler, wearing my mom jeans and driving a mini-van. I decided the opportunity had passed.
Nathan Followill-KOL Drummer Extraordinaire
My husband is familiar with the drums due to his days in a garage band and we would talk about getting a drum kit and taking lessons together. That’s as far as that went.
Four children and a few years later, I still love the drums. My husband and I go to watch local bands occasionally. He puts up with my zillion comments throughout the evening: “Which one is the high-hat? Which is the crash?” “Look, he holds the drumsticks the other way,” and the most common one, usually whispered in awe: “How does he do that?”
But this is not a sad story. The ending is not “shoulda”, but “kinda”.
My kids got Rock Band for the Wii and I would watch them play. After much prodding, I sat down at the drums and played a Lennie Kravitz song. Wow. I was hooked.
Dave Grohl-"Everlong" Mastermind
The day I played my favorite song, “Everlong” (which is in the Impossible category) on medium difficulty and scored 99% was a milestone I will always remember (seriously). I told my kids the day I scored 100% we would have a huge party. They bugged me endlessly to try for 100% until they got so sick of “Everlong” they couldn’t stand to listen to it anymore.
I haven’t had time to play Rock Band lately but maybe when the kids get older they will give me a real drum kit for Mother’s Day.
639M7CGZJYSU
March 26, 2011
Rock star and Tiny Dancer
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be married to a rock star?
I admit to dreams in high school of a rock star wedding–like Elton John’s song, “Tiny Dancer”. That is the epitome of rock and roll matrimonial bliss.
Little, petite ballerina (she may be tiny, but to be rock star wife a certain part of her anatomy must be well-endowed) married to tall, gorgeous, long-haired Rockstar, with great biceps. Maybe he’s the drummer. (He wouldn’t look like Elton John, nothing personal.)
Rockstar is so besotted with Tiny Dancer. Yes, that is actually the first word that comes to mind when I think of him. You can just tell from the song that they have a great sex life. He would never cheat on her. She is always on his mind.
All day long she sews clothes for the guys in the band. I wonder how much of these guys she gets to see while she’s fitting them, but I know Tiny Dancer would never notice. She loves her Rockstar too much. I imagine she sews all their clothes by hand with meticulously even, strong, tiny stitches. No machine for Tiny Dancer; it would not be practical on the bus.
What kind of things does she sew for the band? Rockstar cannot be a KISS wannabe or a glam-rocker with glittery leggings and nipple-baring silk tanks. He is a tight jeans kind of guy. Plain tanks or cool t’s (NOT Plain White T’s). Maybe she’s just along to mend the rips in the tight jeans (or even make strategic, stylish rips) and darn the sheets of linen and the socks.
She dances in the sand while Rockstar sits on a rotting log and watches with admiration. She is the most beautiful, delicate, well-endowed creature he has ever seen. But he doesn’t join her; he’s too awkward. Soon the bus is gassed up and it’s time to leave the beach and head to the next gig. Tiny Dancer sits next to Rockstar and leans against his six-pack abs while she threads a needle or reads a book. If it’s dark, she can count the headlights; she finds it very relaxing after her busy day.
She yawns and Rockstar looks down at her with love in his eyes. Then he puts his pen back to the paper and finishes the beautiful rock love song he is writing for her. Actually, I think he’s using an iPad.
Does she know women throw their bras at him every night?
This is a parody.
Wikipedia says: Often, the most satisfying element of a good parody is seeing others mistake it for the genuine article.
I thought this was very obviously a parody, until my husband and best friend took it literally and thought I was reliving “misty-eyed high school memories” (husband’s exact words). The people who know me best took it much more seriously than I intended.
I am curious how the people who don’t know me took it. What was your reaction? Did you realize it was a parody or did you take it seriously? Thanks!
Want to see the song? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hoskDZRLOCs Can you believe he was ever that young!?
Watch Stefano Langone sing it on this week’s American Idol: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=od5odyXqZeM
