LET THE MUSIC MOVE YOU

It was another snowy Tuesday night in New England when I tuned in to NPR’s Radio Deluxe. It was bird night and floating on the airwaves were songs like ‘When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin' Along’, performed by Jessica Molaskey the show’s co-host; Boz Scaggs singing ‘Skylark’; Curtis Stigers’ rendition of ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ (yes sisters, I sang along!);
 Dave Brubeck’s ‘Strange Meadowlark’; I heard Linda Ronstadt sing ‘Heart Is Like a Wheel’, and the music kept rolling along.

The vibes resonated deeply, absorbed, I guess, when I was too young to change the record or the radio dial, the melodies programmed into my music bone. This night the music eased my household tasks: dishes, picking up snow boots off the kitchen floor, matching up a laundry basket full of socks, finding pens and pencils on every tabletop under books and junk mail, and putting all these ‘things’ in their designated spots.

The radio show went on to include songs from Nat King Cole, John Pizzarelli, the show’s other host and Grover Kemble, Joe Venuti , Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington, Tony Bennett and more.

The woodstove flickered, the radio sang, and for once I didn’t mind getting chores done, in fact, I rather enjoyed them. The music was like comfort food for my soul, a conduit to childhood memories. With the snow blanketing the world outside, inside the music swirled under the eaves of the barn I call home, tickling the timbers like piano keys. Thinking about it, I realize why the phrase ‘music soothes the savage beast’ was coined.

I remember reading somewhere that Jimi Hendrix believed music could actually heal you, like medicine. I wonder what music affected him? I wonder what music affects you? For me, when the spirit moves me there is always music involved, be it gospel or classical, jazz or rock 'n roll, or a bird singing in the trees. Music speaks to me, it speaks to everyone; it reflects our roots, our cultures – and ultimately moods and ourselves. And it can certainly make housework on a snowy New England evening feel like a little slice of heaven.

A PLACE FOR EVERYTHING

I am a firm believer of having a place for everything, and keeping everything in its place. Cleanliness is next to godliness after all, and clutter only leads to stress. Besides with a houseful of people it sure makes life easier to find the hammer or the rake or the scissors or the knives when you need them, if once you have finished with them you put them back in the place where they belong. The trick is to get everyone to agree to these rules. Of course, it always works best if everyone also agrees on the places. As a family, we’re still working on this.

My Old Man, Paul – excuse me, I’ve been watching re-runs of "Sons of Anarchy" lately – and my boys think I’m OCD, a little bit crazy, just because I like our house and garage to be neat and clean and organized - you know, so you can find what you need when you need it. By the way, I reminded them all just the other day, calling the garage The Man Cave does not preclude one from putting things back where they belong. I also do not understand how they can use glasses, plates, silverware, everyday, but when I ask them to empty the dishwasher these items end up in cabinets or drawers not remotely related to the places they removed them from. I am consider this is because they are working from the misguided assumption that the kitchen is A Women's Place, and therefore undecipherable to them. I am starting to believe that this is a conspiracy to keep me doing the dishes, but I haven’t been able to prove that yet. In the meantime, during my breaks at work,  I am formulating a discussion on Women's Right Movement and how I might work it into the dinner conversation, or possibly when "we clean" up the kitchen afterwards.

Speaking of the kitchen, a word on kitchen utensils: I have an ongoing discussion with the boys about the function of knives as tools of the kitchen, not of the workshop. Not only do I continue to find them in the garage, on the edge of the lawn, and numerous other outdoor locations, usually with their tips broken off or bend into strange shapes, but each and every person refutes any question of using a knife as a screwdriver, a wood carving tool, a poker, a scraper, a trowel, etc. all of which are freely available for use, if you can find them.

I feel like a bit player in a Mission Impossible series.  My family has become part of an elite Covert Operations Unit carrying out highly sensitive missions involving my kitchen knives and as such are sworn to disavow any knowledge in the event of failure (breaking off the damn tips), death (why did he stick that knife in the electrical socket?) or capture (shit, hide the steak knife, Mom is coming!). Worse, I get no support from Paul who shrugs his shoulders and also claims to have never misused a kitchen knife in such an inappropriate manner.

I want to attach a recording to the silverware drawer. When the drawer slides open Robert Cleveland’s voice is activated: “Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to only use these knives for food service and return them to the dishwasher when you have finished eating. If you are caught using them to cut your lacrosse nets, guitar strings, as a screwdriver, digging for worms, or any other non-kitchen related purpose, the Old Man will disavow any knowledge of your actions, disappearing until the ranting subsides.”

I just don’t understand, staying clean and organized is really not that difficult. Let’s use the bathroom as an example.  After taking a shower do not leave your towels in a wet pile on the floor where they not only become quite smelly, but cause your mother undue embarrassment when guests have to pick them up to dry off their hands. Instead follow these simple steps: 1.) Step out of shower, 2.) Remove clean towel from rack, 3.) Dry body, and most importantly step # 4.) RETURN TOWEL TO RACK TO DRY.

I know for a fact that Jane Goodall taught chimpanzees to perform these steps as proof that they were, indeed, as smart as human beings. Much to my chagrin, each time I brave entering the downstairs bathroom, I question my son’s latent genetic make-up, admitting to myself that they may not be quite as smart as the monkeys.

As I mentioned, I have been watching ‘Sons of Anarchy’ and I’ve been thinking that maybe a more hard line approach might be the ticket to keeping our living space organized.

I contemplated what Gemma might do to Jax if he started leaving his AK-47’s willy-nilly around the Clubhouse. She’d probably say something like, “Hey dumbass, how many times have I told you not to leave the goddamn guns lying around. Jesus, even the Mayans keep their Clubhouse picked up.  You’re giving Sam Crow a bad name here.”

“Back off Mom, I’ll get around to picking them up.  I had to go kick some Niner ass and I haven’t had a chance to get to it yet. Geez.”

“Did you just tell me to back off, Jax?” Gemma asks with a raised eyebrow. “By the way, have you seen my favorite steak knive, I caught Tig using it to dig a bullet out of Opie last week and I had to kick his ass.”

“C’mon Mom, you know I always throw them back into their designated wall next to the bar.”

“Yeah, right.  Well get busy and hide these guns in the back room where they belong before I have to shoot you in the ass again. Oh yeah, and don’t forget to pick your towels up off the bathroom floor, I’m sick of them stinking like gun oil every time I go to dry my hands,” she says shaking her head.

I guess it doesn’t matter who you are, everyone struggles with the stress of putting things back in their place.

I BELIEVE IN E-MAIL

When e-mail first made its debut I was like my grandmother and the dawning of the answering machine:  ‘Who needs it, if it is important they will call back.’  I did not believe that e-mail would ever truly take the place of ‘snail’ mail, but I have jumped firmly onto the e-mail bandwagon. I am a full-fledged convert, a true believer and bona fide e-mailer extraordinaire.

Perfect example: Paul and I were in the same house, practically in the same room and I was waiting to speak with him, quite patiently I might add. He finally finished his phone call - business as usual on the mobile phone, which is a whole other discussion in itself, and we attempted talking about family issues, mostly scheduling.  It was a lost cause. 

He spoke of his priorities, I spoke of mine, and we tried to coordinate what everyone else expected from us, too. There seemed to be quite a bit of overlapping and I had to confess that I was confused and fearful we would let someone’s festivus plans slip through the cracks, annoying them to no measure, and filling me with traditional holiday guilt.  His business trip to Chicago, my Safe Driver’s Course, regular work schedules, holiday “festivities’ (yes, that is in a quote for a reason, there is no stress like scheduling holiday ‘festivities’ with family and friends). So anyway, I asked ‘Can you put your schedule in writing, maybe THEN we can get this all figured out.’

I was thinking sticky note, because as much as I hate to admit it, I am at an age where I need lists to keep myself organized; his reply, ‘I’ll e-mail’. Problem solved. After several e-mails to each other while he was on the couch and I sat at the dining room table, we had a plan.We still didn’t get every activity covered and had a few disappointed people we couldn’t fit into our crazy schedules, BUT we could e-mail our apologies and a promise to catch up as soon as time allowed.

E-mail solves other problems as well: thank you notes you’ve put off for too long, quick hellos to let friends and family know you still are alive and well, reminders to your children to brush their teeth and eat their vegetables even though they live three states away now, reminders to yourself of appointments to the doctor or dentist, and forwarding every funny joke on earth to people who feel the need to do the same for you – junk mail got on board the e-mail train IMMEDIATELY.

So who is to say that an old dog can’t learn new tricks, I am a perfect example. I now embrace e-mail whole heartedly. As a matter of fact, I don’t know how I ever got along without it. Do you?

One Thing About Me

There is one thing everyone should really know about me: I get irritable sometimes. I think of myself as direct with a low tolerance for twaddle, but a number of family members have noted that I can be cranky and whiny. In addition, fair warning to anyone who may ever be an overnight houseguest, I am just not a good morning person, but that is another discussion all together.


Now I know that most of you are thinking that is just not possible for such an easygoing chick like me. You are thinking she's usually so cheerful, with a big smile and that can-do demeanor, just a picture of delightfulness ready to jump on any passing bandwagon and join in the revelry. You cannot imagine me being disagreeable, much less surrounded by an acrimonious cloud, crowned with disheveled hair and sporting a bad attitude. I know you are having difficulty perceiving me as anything but ready to greet the world with sunshine and goodwill, and you would be right for the most part, but I do occasionally become taciturn with a baleful glare instead of emoting Glinda the Good Fairy happiness. Don’t worry though, it is usually only when I am feeling underappreciated (i.e. like a live-in maid and not Queen of the Household), or if you wake me up abruptly from a dream I am loath to leave (where I am Queen of the Household and not the live-in maid), or when I realize that I am not going to live forever.


Unfortunately, just the other day I had one of those you are not going to live forever moments that make me very cranky. It was my sister Meg’s birthday, she is the baby of the family and I am the eldest. It was a weekend morning, I was lounging around in my pajamas and quite cheerful. I playfully sang her a birthday song of my own creation, and teased her about turning 39 years old. When we finished our conversation, I decided to treat myself to a relaxing bath as I had the house to myself and could enjoy the bathroom, alone, for more than ten minutes. It was just before stepping into the tub of luxurious bubbles that I made the mistake of looking in the mirror and mortality soundly spanked my plump backside.


Seeing myself in full dis-clothes-ure usually does not happen for several reasons: I always remove my glasses before undressing creating a visual world that is wonderfully undefined, plus the lights are usually off; I like my baths and showers so hot and steamy that the mirrors fog over, so if I absentmindedly glance in their direction my nakedness is not reflected back. It is in this fashion I have been able to maintain the body of a twenty-five year old. Have I ever mentioned that I believe God is a comedian? He is, and it was in this indecorous fashion that he sharply reminded me that I have reached an age where the dark magic of gravity is taking its toll, plus he happily pointed out that sitting on my bum at a desk all day long typing is not a form of exercise.


I quickly immersed myself in the tub, covered all my fading glory with bubbles, leaned back, closed my eyes, and practiced deep breathing exercises while my inner 25-year-old came to terms with the outer 49-year-old woman. Steam, dreams, and a promise to drink more water and forgo bread in any form, as well as the reminder that plastic surgery is an option, got me through those few awful moments where reality looked me right in the face and I was foolish enough to look back. That and the fact that getting older sharpens one’s ability (and right) to forget things, like where you left your car keys (in the car), what you walked into the other room for (who cares it wasn’t that important anyway), and the fact that physical nature eventually takes precedence over state of mind in the case of aging.


I was on the road to recovering my cheery self, mixing a happy potion commonly known as a Bloody Mary – hey, it was almost noontime AND it was a Saturday - when Paul snuck up behind me, kissed me playfully on the neck, grabbed my bottom, and cooed something along the lines of what is that nice big pillow you have there. He denies it, but I was pretty damn sure that is what he said, which made me a little irritable. He swears I transformed into a fire-breathing dragon when all he wanted to do was get a little frisky, but as I said, I have a low tolerance for twaddle, besides the maid had to get her big pillow moving and catch up with the laundry, the dishes, and sweeping the ashes from the fireplace.


Paul, being the prince that he truly is, helped with the chores while skillfully avoiding my scathing glances; he waited patiently through my stomping up and down the stairs, the slamming of various doors, the mutterings under my breath, and the brief tears. Using some kind of man radar to determine the most opportune moment, he scooped me into a bear hug asking if the sexy maid would be interested in relations with the Man of the House, while offering me another Bloody Mary and a shoulder massage.

What woman in her right mind could stay irritable under those conditions? Besides, I do not want to be twenty-five again; I am happy with the life that I am living, and I am happy to have a man who knows that sometimes I get irritable and is still willing to hang in there until he can make me laugh again. So, as long as he doesn’t wake me up from a beautiful dream with his snoring tonight, everything will remain copacetic.