Greg Laswell vs. Kate Bush

I've been getting interested in Greg Laswell lately, inspired by his song "Your Ghost". While browsing through his music, I came across this cover he did of Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work". That song always haunted me, and now hearing Laswell's take on it, I am haunted again. Since I found Bush's version on playlist.com, I posted that one. Below, though, is the link to Laswell's. (playlist does not have it, and it does not have "Your Ghost") Take the poll and let me know which one you like better!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BkWiW1ps7g8

Uninterrupted - A Mom's Night Out!

Lisa K., Corene, Megan, Gaelle, Tara, me, and Wendi.

Scaredy-Cat**

On this blog, I have written frequently about the quirky, odd, observant or funny things that have come out of Marin's mouth. (My recent favorite was when I was picking out my glasses, which I've never worn before, and I asked Marin if she liked a particular set and she said "You look like my Grammy. I asked if that was because Grammy wears glasses or because I looked old. She said "Because you look old.") My child never fails to surprise me in the best of ways and last night was no exception. We went trick-or-treating with a bunch of our neighborhood friends, but after the younger ones faded away, my friend Corene and her son (Marin's friend) Liam were as game as we were to keep on going. We came upon a house that had strobe lights, scary skeletons blowing in the wind, and sound effects; after a "harrowing" experience at another neighborhood house, she opted not to knock on this particular door and asked if she and I could wait on the street. I agreed. Liam and Corene rang the doorbell and I heard little Liam say "My friend is too scared to come to your door. Can I trick-or-treat for her?" The door answerer happily gave him extra candy to give to his scaredy-cat** friend and he came racing down the driveway to tell Marin he scored candy for her. She heard that and stood positively dumbstruck at his words. All of a sudden, she threw her arms around him and pronounced "You are the best friend EVER." They stood and hugged, forgetting all things candy for that one moment. I choked up, Corene had to turn away, because suddenly we were the moms about to cry in some stranger's driveway over our children on Halloween. I know it's not monumental to most people, but that was one of the sweetest moments I have had the pleasure to witness between two four year olds; he got candy for her without her even asking, and she could not hold back her appreciation. Their moments are small, unexpected, but boy, do they hit hard.

**get it? she was a kitty for Halloween.

My Night With David Sedaris

"I've got a bad idea again..."

Last night, I went to hear David Sedaris at the Buell Theatre. For those of you who know me well, you know I have a strange obsession with this man's writing. He makes me laugh out loud, he makes me laugh in my head, and he is also genuinely good at writing. I recognize that his writing isn't for everyone, (mostly because my mom told me that) but it is most definitely for me.

He began reading and I was thrilled to discover that he didn't read from his books that I've already read. That would have been perfectly fine, as I would have loved hearing him read anything in that voice he has, that voice alone that made the audience giggle when all he said was "Good evening." But he read from his new work... imgained topics such as a political satire, pretending to be a woman who hates Obama and goes to protest in Washington, only to mistake Washington DC for Washington the state. He read a fable. (yes, fables are supposed to be stories with a moral and he claimed that since he's short in the moral department, it should just be called stories about animals) There were real stories about rude people in airports, and he read about his image of Jesus as he imagines him. Not a thin, washboard stomach, hairless chest Jesus, but an obese, repulsive, balding, Jesus, a person he referred to as "comb-over Jesus." Though over the line for sure, he made us question why Christians might have such a hard time accepting an imperfect looking savior, something I've never really thought about. And to my delight, he spoke about his father. Any mention of his family members and I'm happy.

The whole event was funny and enjoyable; I delighted in hearing one of my favorite writers speak. After the event, however, came the moment that I think I'm just a bit mortified about. Sedaris told the audience that he would be staying to sign books, and of course I had brought mine, so I asked my friends if they would mind waiting. Lisa and Wendi graciously agreed to stand with me. About twenty minutes later, I found myself panicking about what I would say when I met him. I'm notoriously unclever; give me a quiet moment and I will inevitably stick my foot in my mouth with something I later wish I could take back. My friends and I mulled over what we could possibly say to such a funny man, and I came up with nothing. I mean, really, what could I say? "David, I've read all of your books at least eight times." That's true, but unoriginal. "Hi, Mr. Sedaris. I love to write, too. Do you want to read my stuff?" Not that either.

Suddenly it was our turn, and we approached him. He greeted us warmly, and I handed him my book. I watched as he wrote my name in it, then he began to draw a picture. I had nothing; I was silent. Wendi, bless her, began talking, and the two of them struck up a conversation about weird last names. Then David Sedaris looked up at me and said "Would you like to have some candy?" He pointed to a basket on the table. Oh no. I looked at the candy and I could only think of one thing, and that one thing was forcing its way from my brain out of my mouth. "Is that a fuck-it bucket?" I asked quietly.

Let me explain. Sedaris has a brother named Paul. Apparently, Paul has an enormous potty mouth and he also likes candy. So he created a candy jar and called it "The Fuck-It Bucket". You know, when times are stressful, just eat some motherfuckin' candy. It's mildly amusing to me, but I made it a joke in my family when I presented my step-father with a Fuck-It Bucket for Christmas and filled it with gum drops. Lewis, who loves all things sugary and sweet, didn't worry about the profanity much as he gobbled the goods.

All this was running through my head as I stared at one of my top five writing heros, me turning beet red, while he chuckled. Of all the things I could have said to this writing giant, that was the best I could come up with? "Am I the first person to ask you that tonight?" I asked. He grinned and said yes, I was the first. I couldn't think of anything else to say that would make that moment any less classy, so I turned to leave. Behind me, I heard Wendi say "She really, really loves you." He laughed again and said "Thank you." I'm guessing he figured that out when he took my book copy and saw the tabs marking my favorite chapters.

That said, if you've ever read his books, I think you now understand why I, with my inability to ever say anything cool under pressure, enjoy his stuff so much.

You're Living The Dream, Mom

My mom and Lewis came out this last week to visit. We did a whirlwind trip of a few mountain towns, starting first in Breckenridge, where we met Julie for lunch. Jon sat with his head in his hands as Julie and I dissected the Twilight series, a topic he's heard me relishing for months now. It's embarrassing, I know, but true. After lunch, we drove through Copper Mountain and then headed into Vail, where we stayed for the night. The next day, we drove into Beaver Creek, rode the chair lift to the top, and had lunch. After that, we went to Keystone and then drove home. Some of my favorite quotes:

1) My mom was gushing over all the mountain towns, trying to decide which one was her favorite. She said "You all are so lucky that you get to live so close to so many great places." Marin, who didn't appear to be listening, turned to me and said "You're living the dream, Mom."

2)After a shower that night, Marin streaked from the bathroom to the bed, jumped under the covers and tried to lie still. Jon came in the room and said "Hmm, where is Marin? Where could she be?" He peaked under the covers and saw a bare bottom. Surprised, as he didn't know she was without clothing, he asked "What is this?" A muffled voice replied "The dark side of the moon!"

Desire

Fitness... nutrition...weight loss... what new wisdom could possibly be said on this topic? Not much, but I have learned a few things in my quest for good health and one of those things is this: I have goals and to achieve my goals, I have to open my big mouth and tell everyone exactly what I'm doing, for the shame of not accomplishing my goals is too enormous. I'm not one of those people who tries to lose weight on the sly or surprise people with my success - it just doesn't work for me, and, frankly, I haven't seen it work for anyone else. "On the sly" to me means "put it off until tomorrow" and nothing gets accomplished. So here I go again - I'm declaring it boldly that I have a new set of goals and I will achieve them. With your help, of course.

Most of you know that I dropped 20 pounds about a year and a half ago. More importantly, I went from 27% body fat to 18%. I have kept that weight off since then (no thanks to how I gorged myself this summer) but I am ready to push it a little farther. I knew I wasn't "finished" when I lost the 20, but I lost some of my drive for reasons I'll explain in a minute. This time, it's not chub I'm really going to attack, even though there is a bit of that still hanging around, it's more of a fitness challenge to me. I want to see how far I can go, and it's time I get those fabulous arms I've wanted my entire life. At 18% body fat now, I want to get it down to 15-16%. I don't want to be skinny, I want to be lean, toned, and strong. Healthy. For some people, this would be a walk in the park, but not me. I love to cook and eat, so my goals aren't exactly compatible with my loves. People always say that you have to be ultra disciplined to work out and lose weight. I totally disagree. From my experience, I know this to be absolutely true: my fitness goals are not about discipline, it's about wanting one thing more than I want another and putting that one thing front and center every single day. It's about zeroing in on my goals and focusing solely on that. When I am hungry, in a hurry and want convenience, I have to remember that guzzling cheese and crackers isn't what I really want... I really want a flat, toned stomach. That makes it easier (not easy, just easier) to turn to a protein shake instead for a snack. Plus, I have been strongly advised to kick out as much sugar, salt, and alcohol as possible. Much as I love a glass of red wine here and there, the alcohol is not a problem, but the sugar and salt? Oh, the pain. Why give up things I love so much?

I think most people in my life know that I have Meniere's disease, but perhaps don't know that it is a real fickle bitch to work with. Salt, sugar, alcohol, caffeine, and tobacco aggrevate it. Obviously, I steer clear of tobacco, drink almost no caffeine, and very little alcohol. But salt and sugar trip me up, and I've got to get it under control through my diet. With this disease, there are good days and there are bad days, or more like bad weeks. I'm not going to whine and moan about M.D, even though I kind of want to, because we all have our obstacles to overcome and this is mine. So I will just say this: it's very, very hard to work out when a quarter of the time I can't tell if I'm standing, spinning or falling. Usually I'm perfectly upright, but I have to use mirrors as a positioning guide. It's pretty embarassing to be sitting on a weight bench and fall straight over - and not even know the difference. M.D. combined with my practically dead blood pressure, a Vitamin D absorption problem, and those pesky post-workout crashes have given me a load to work with, and if nothing steals going-to-the-gym motivation, that does, believe me. But in the grand scheme of things, M.D. and the gang are not that monumental. I've slacked off in the last few months telling myself these were viable excuses, but the truth is they are not compatible with my goals. To not do it would make things even worse, so I can do this. I want to do this. I will do this. Plus, I'm doing vestibular therapy this fall, which should mean I'll learn better coping mechanisms, or, as they say, I'll learn to retrain my brain for appropriate balance, teach it to compensate for the mixed messages it receives from my inner ear. How will they do this? How else but with a revolving disco ball, a bosu ball, hand weights, dim lights, and loud, loud music. I'm a little nervous.

Over the summer, I kept my weight lifting in tact - I rarely skip that. Plus, working out with Ronalee and the girls is downright fun, not to mention encouraging and motivating. I like lifting weights. Cardio, not so much. I have done very little intentional cardo in the last two/three months and that is a problem. To me, the machines are dull, I'm not coordinated enough for any class that remotely resembles a dance move, I don't run, and swimming, the sport I have the most experience with, isn't in any way friendly with M.D. But again, I go back to this: not liking cardio is not compatible with my goals. I want to be healthy. I will do it.

I'll be watching my body transform once again this fall and hope you'll be watching along with me. I'm finding my desire is taking hold once again and it's exciting. Come along for the ride...

Mount Rushmore

This past weekend, we met Jon's family at a campground near Mt. Rushmore. It rained way too much, but Marin loved being doted on by all her cousins. Her every whim was granted by these seven kids; who wouldn't love it?

Oh, and... four year olds don't really get why Mt. Rushmore is so cool, as voiced by one particular little blonde four year old.

A Golden Moment

"Marin, get your shoes on, please. We're going to the grocery store."
"Ok, Mommy, but I want to ride in the car cart." Marin said as she put her too small black shoes on over her halloween socks. In August. With pink polka-dot pants.
"No, Marin, we are just going to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible, and that big bulky car slows us down. Let's just use a regular cart."
"Well, then, I'm going to ride in the basket of the cart, not the seat." She put her hands on her hips to prove her determination.
I placed her in her car seat and said "No, sorry, Marin, but you will have to sit in the seat of the cart." As I closed the back door and walked around to the driver's seat, I heard wailing and fussing coming from inside the car, and opened the door to deafening pleading. "No, Mommy! Blah, blah, blah, fuss, fuss, fuss, whine, whine, whine etc." Every parent knows the sound. I calmly told her no again and she was quiet for at least five blocks. Then, without any prompting from me, she said "Mommy, I will ride in a cart seat. I am choosing not to fuss right now."
I almost hit another car, so great was my shock. I proclaimed how proud of her I was, praised her backwards and forwards, and told her as a surprise reward for doing the right thing, she could pick out one treat at the store. She was elated.
On our way out of the store, her treat clutched to her chest, she asked if she could ride the horse. Even though it only costs one penny, I told her no, because she got a treat instead. So she asked "Can I ride the horse next time?" I told her yes and all of a sudden she loudly and enthusiastically burst out with:

"OH MY GOSH! YOU DO KNOW HOW TO SAY THE WORD YES! I didn't know you knew that word!"

We both burst into laughter, mine because what she said was so funny and genuine, hers because 1) she made me laugh and 2) she totally called me on saying no way too much. I have no idea if she truly thinks I don't ever say yes or if she intended to be funny, (I'm leaning towards that one) but I love it either way.

Jon and I ate lunch at Pei Wei yesterday and this was in Marin's fortune cookie: "He who never makes mistakes never did anything that's worthy." I love this one. If I could somehow apply it to my nail polish disaster, that would be great, but other than that, it sure is my favorite way to think about mistakes we've each made.

Marin's Moral Dilemma

Last week, I was cleaning out my car and moved the passenger seat up as far as it could go. Even though I’ve cleaned my car multiple times in the last few years, it seems like something I missed pops up each time. (Is it just me that happens to?) That day, it was an old pacifier that resurfaced, or a sass-sass as Marin dubbed it. Marin was standing beside me when we saw it appear, and she pointed to it and said “Mom” very quietly, almost as if something was rising from the dead. Something very good, something dearly missed rising from the dead. We both stood and stared at sass-sass, her mind going to all the possibilities of what could be, and my mind going to the horrible few days we had when we asked her to give it up.

Marin was two and a half when she was forced to shed her sass-sass habit. She was as addicted as any kid I’ve ever seen, which granted isn’t very many, but she loved those things with venom. One of the many problems that being an older kid with a sass-sass brought on was that her teeth cut through the plastic nub easily, which made her so angry when she would put the thing in her mouth, expect suction only to receive a weak suck with some air. She would throw the offender in the air and then throw herself on the floor in agony, writhing in pain until she could muster the gumption to seek out another fix. There was always one to be had, for being Marin, she has always been a planner, and she stashed those things all over the house, in places that I wasn’t likely to look. One time, when I was taking the Christmas tree down, I found a few hidden on a branch in the back. She would also put them in back corners of our cabinets, at the bottom of buckets, behind the couches… you name it, and if it was sanitary, she probably hid one there.
Slowly but surely, I was on to her game of pre-planning and stashing, so I quit buying them. I figured over time, her supply would run out and she (we) would have to deal with the consequences. Oh boy, did we. Have you ever heard a baby jaguar scream? This is what Marin sounded like when she realized the good days were over, that her sass-sass days were gone. Three nights of sleeplessness, three days of a jaguar roaring like its limbs were being dismembered, three days of trying our hardest to distract her. It ended, of course, but not without leaving scars.

So there we were, Marin and I, looking at the thing that brought her so much comfort and joy, and neither of us really knew what to do. Being a planner, I could see Marin’s little mind going through every scenario, every possibility, every single “what if” that a four year old could conjure up. “Can I hold it?” She hesitantly asked. She remembered the need, the ache for it, and was running over if this would awaken that old addiction. “Well, Marin, let me go in and wash it first. Then we’ll talk about it.” She nodded. “Can we do that right now?” We went in the house. I washed it. Then I set it on the counter and asked her what she thought. “Can I put it in my mouth?” She asked, barely even looking at me. “That’s up to you, Marin, but you need to understand that I’m going to throw it away today. If you put it in your mouth, that’s your choice, but it’s going in the trash today.” She nodded. Then she picked it up, walked into the family room and set it down on the table. “I’m just going to look at it for a while, Mommy.” I left her alone with it and watched from a distance as she zeroed in on the thing. She picked it up, set it back down, picked it up, set it back down. She practiced handing it to her dolls, and made the motion of putting it in her mouth over and over again. For twenty minutes, I sat in the office pretending to ignore her while secretly watching her out of the corner of my eye, and for twenty minutes she had the moral dilemma of her life. I left the office for just a minute and when I returned, she was sitting in my chair. “Where is your sass-sass?” I asked her. “I threw it away. In that trash.” I looked in the trash can, and sure enough, there it was.
The whole thing intrigued me, for as much as she wanted her old sass-sass, as much as she wanted to remember the glory days, the pain of loving it and giving it up was too much for her. She thought the whole thing out and made her own decision in her own time. And I have to say, I think she is one cool kid.

Copper Mountain

Calamity in My Kitchen

"I got a bad idea again..."

Yesterday afternoon, Marin and I were home, preparing for Jon's belated birthday celebration, for he had been out of town and was returning in about an hour or two. I had been cooking since ten that morning, chopping onion, celery, garlic, stirring tomatoes, adding wine and broth, trying to create a dish that Jon and I had drooled over on Alton Brown's show Good Eats. The night before, I had prepared tiramisu, which was setting in the refrigerator. I had wine waiting to be opened, gifts for him to unwrap, and Marin was setting the table with party hats and napkins and tying a balloon on Jon's chair. Marin, who loves to plan and detail events, and I had set the scene for what looked like domestic bliss.

"Hmmm," I thought. "I think I'll take this moment to file my nails." I opened the cabinet above my kitchen desk and reached to the top shelf for the manicure bag when I noticed a bottle of reddish-purple polish plummeting straight down towards the desk, the granite desk, and as most granite owners know, very few things survive a collision with granite. My nail polish was one of those losers, and SPLAT, there was now reddish-purple nail polish all over my desk, my tile backsplash, my stainless steel ovens, my hardwood floor, my phone, my cookbooks, my plants, my shorts, in my hair, and my brand new Kate Spade purse.

"Mom, you ruined our entire house!" Marin observed in that brief moment of stunned shock, before I flew into super-speed.

Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh. I grabbed the first thing I could think of to clean nail polish, which was of course nail polish remover. I knew it wouldn't ruin the granite, but I had no idea about my wood floors or my oven. My thought process was... total ruination or partial damage? I went for partial damage, dipped a paper towel into acetone, and began scrubbing. That worked without stripping my floors, and while that was a relief, I looked up to see just exactly how much of the floor I was going to be scrubbing both large splotches and itty bitty drops, and it was something like 10-12 feet. There was no way I was going to get it all cleaned up by the time Jon came home for his birthday party in an hour or two. Somehow, comically, I had the presence of mind to take a break from scrubbing to get up and calmly stir the two pots boiling away on the stove, and while I did that, I heard Marin, huddled in the family room, advising the cat and the dog that it was probably a good idea to stay away from Mom for a while. I resumed my frantic scrubbing, so into the act of cleaning that at one point I actually thought that I had wet my pants, for I had a sudden cold, wet creepy feeling in the wrong place. But no, it was just nail polish remover getting thrown about carelessly on my body as I sweated and toiled to rid the floor of nail polish massacre.

Next, it was time to attack the tile. All action, I had a toothbrush filled with Comet, Softscrub, and NPR (nail polish remover) in one hand and in the other the phone, with my mom on the the line googling how to remove nail polish from extremely porous tiles. Remember the scene in Mommy Dearest ("Scrub, Christina, scrub harder!") anyone? That was me. Crazed, devastated, and determined. And it worked. It came out, mostly. If you know what you're looking for, you'll notice that some of my tiles are a little pink. But it doesn't look like I butchered a cow in there anymore.

I took a breath and turned my attention to my brand new not even a month old Kate Spade purse that I had hunted for ruthlessly on ebay for months. My lovely black/cream purse now looked liked it was blushing, for somehow, the nail polish managed to land on only the white parts of the purse, not the black parts. Of course. I sat down, put my head in my hands and tried to think what to do. I called the Dry Cleaners, who said they couldn't get it out. I dotted q-tips with NPR and applied it to the canvas. No luck. Just then, Jon walked in, ready to celebrate his 36th birthday, took one look at my shorts, (it looked like I had possibly been sliced open) my face, Marin's face, and said "Oh?"

He told me I could buy a new purse, but I'm not going to do that. I want to fix this one. The best suggestion I've had yet is to paint white nail polish over the red polish, for even though it won't look perfect, it will look better. I don't know.

What I Would Like To Be Doing Right Now...

This was taken in Akumal, summer of 2003. That is me, waiting to get pushed along by two dolphins. For my next career, which could be challenging living in Denver, I'm going to be a dolphin trainer. It's fun to be unrealistic.