Finding Paradise in a Cruel World

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We’ve all heard the saying that “Music calms the savage beast”. I haven’t been in the company of any beasts bordering on savagery lately, so I’ll just have to take it on faith. What I do know, however, is how music can inspire and soothe a sad and solitary soul. That has been the state of my own soul more times than not lately.

When I’m in one of these dark places, the last thing I want to do is go out and be around people. But that’s exactly what I need to do. Luckily for me and my morose mood, I decided to venture over to Berkeley a couple of nights ago to hear some music. Two musicians who I knew via Twitter were performing. Gretchen Peters is an award-winning singer-songwriter and a fellow “grammar geek”. I mentioned Gretchen back in this post. She has a new album out called Hello Cruel World. Accompanying her on the tour is Barry Walsh, an amazing pianist and songwriter and also Gretchen’s husband. Barry, too, has a new album out called, “Paradiso”.

Barry’s piano playing evokes such powerful emotions in me. Whether the songs are his compositions or his take on something by French composer Erik Satie, for example, Barry’s playing brings me to tears. The tears may be joyful or filled with sadness, but I’m definitely moved.

What sets Gretchen’s music apart from much of what we hear today is authenticity. She not only tells you a story but she uses her words beautifully to paint a scene, set a mood or describe a character. There are no clichés or gimmicks to be found. Take for example these lyrics:

 

There’s a man out here puts his head in the mouth of a crocodile.
Puts the whole thing in, takes it out and gives the crowd a great big smile.
“Woman on the Wheel”

The moon had a fight with the parking lot light
And slunk off to hide in the clouds.
“Camille”

I’m a ticking clock, a losing bet.
I’m a girl without a safety net.
I’m a cause for some concern.
“Hello Cruel World”

Hello Cruel World walks on the darker side when it comes to the mood it exudes. You may think that a dark collection of songs would be the last type of music to lift me out of my heavy fog. When I listen to Gretchen’s stories about regret or resolve, passion or pain, it provides exactly what’s been lacking in my life: connection. Certain lyrics resonate and make me feel less alone in my solitude or sorrow. When you add the benefit of sharing the experience with others, be they friends or strangers, the effect is like an elixir.

I know that one night out, or one CD isn’t a cure-all for life’s problems. But what it is a cure for is that sense of isolation that arises from the feeling that nobody else knows what you’re going through. A gifted artist can reach inside himself or herself and pull something out that reverberates with something within you. Gretchen and Barry do this for me and I want to thank them for that.

I urge you to check out both of their sites and if they’re coming to a town near you on their tour, make a point to see them in concert. At the very least, take a listen to some of their music. You will not be sorry.

Patience

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I spent all day yesterday watching the grass grow.
What I learned is that grass really grows slow.
Now I’m hanging around trying to get inspired.
Punch a hole through my cage and I reach out blind.
She said, “Have patience. Everything will be all right.
Have patience. Give it just a little time.
Everything will be all right.”

This is from the song “Patience” by the late Mark Sandman. I started humming this to myself today because I’ve been really battling my impatience lately and his slightly tongue-in-cheek lyrics appeal to me. Let me just say upfront that patience isn’t one of my virtues. I must have gotten tired of waiting in line when it was being handed out.

I often tell people that I have the patience of a gnat on crack. Just take a moment to visualize what that would look like. Do you see it? Well, that’s me, all the time, in virtually every situation. Yesterday at Walgreen’s, the first line I stood in featured a woman who couldn’t decide on which diabetes meter to buy. After about 5 minutes, I tried another line. This time, I was behind a man arguing with the cashier over a coupon for toilet paper. After a couple minutes of this, I went in search of yet another line. This time, I had luck. No diabetes, no coupons. Success.

My impatience isn’t limited to standing in line or being stuck in traffic. I’m impatient with myself too. Take this blog for example. I haven’t known what to write about lately. Nothing has struck me as particularly amusing or annoying and those seem to be the two emotions I need to feel in order to write. (See how annoyance won out today?)

When I’m blocked creatively and in my life in general, I swing between panic and passivity. Both of these lead to impatience because the tick, tick, tick of my life clock gets louder and louder. What have I done with my life? I’m running out of time. I’m too old. I need to get going. This is taking too long. What’s the point? Why bother?

I know the way out of my impatience rests simply in being in the present moment. Patience won’t be found in focusing on where I thought I’d be five years ago or five minutes ago or where I want to be five years from now or five minutes from now. Patience exists when I accept what is. Right now.

Well, shout “Hallelujah” and call me Oprah! Alas, if it was only that easy and I had Oprah’s money. Since it isn’t and I don’t, I have to take baby steps. The first is to take about three minutes and listen to that song from start to finish without thinking that I have something more important to do. Are you with me?

Lighten Up Your Enlightenment

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Is it possible to be spiritual and funny at the same time? This has long been a dilemma of mine that I recently shared over the phone with my friend and fellow blogger, Adele Uddo. We were discussing blogging, life and being on a spiritual path.

Like Adele, I’ve always been a spiritual seeker. 12 years of Catholic school provided me with a good head start. At the very least, studying Catholic Church history during my junior year in high school enabled me to answer “Charlemagne” for the pie in Trivial Pursuit years later. Take that, you public school kids!

What I didn’t find spiritually while growing up Catholic, I tried to find in other ways. I’ve had Tarot cards read. (22 is a powerful number for me but I don’t recall why.) I’ve had my natal chart done and discovered that my Leo sun is buried in the 12th House (probably along with those three Gillian Welch CDs that I can’t find). I went to a psychic who told me that my dream man was a swarthy Greek. The only time that I’d want a man, let alone a swarthy Greek one, would be if I needed a waiter because I ran out of ouzo on vacation in Athens.

So, I have the curiosity but I’m afraid to really embrace my spirituality because I don’t want to become one of those annoying people. I’m not talking about the Tim Tebow types. That goes without saying. I’m talking about those perennially blissed out, airy-fairy types who are always spouting New Age fortune cookie advice at you. You know the type.

New Ager
Money is an illusion.

Kelly
Tell that to the credit card company.

And spiritual people can be so serious! I can’t imagine that anyone ever sat down with Mother Teresa and told her a joke.

 

“So a priest, a rabbi and a duck go into a bar…”

 

 

How can I find inner peace while not losing my desire and ability to poke fun at the absurd aspects of everyday life? Will I lose my satirical streak if I meditate and commune with the universe? If any of you have any ideas, please let me know. I’ll be over in the corner with the Dalai Lama, a martini and a karaoke machine.

Out With the Old

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The dawning of the New Year, like a birthday, offers an opportunity to review the last 12 months. Some people relish seeing how far they’ve come, what they’ve accomplished, etc. When I do one of these “life reviews”, I usually end up with an urge to cry, mumble to myself and rock in a corner. Not pretty.

 

Like many of you, I dutifully put the proverbial pen to paper and figure out what I want to get done in the New Year. Some may call them resolutions; others may call them goals. No matter what I’ve called them in the past, I most often find myself at the end of the year looking at the same list of unfulfilled desires.

This year, I thought that I’d change up the language. I decided to call the things I wanted to do, change, and experience, “promises” instead of “resolutions”. The word “promise” is more personal and a promise is something you make to someone about whom you care, or at least, respect. This is a more emotional connection. The term “resolution” seems terribly unforgiving and carries an almost detached, legalistic feel about it.

I do waffle with how specific and detailed this list should be. Do I list every aspect of something I want to experience or change? Am I too specific if I say, “I’ll do upper body and 40 minutes of cardio on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and lower body, abs and 40 minutes of cardio on Tuesday and Thursday”? Will doing that be overwhelming and a set-up for failure? Or should I go broad with my promises and stick with a general “exercise at least three times a week and see what happens”? I’m exhausted just contemplating it (the exercise and the list).

The overarching theme of 2011 for me was, “The only thing you can count on is change”. This was demonstrated over and over again in big and small ways all year long and it wasn’t easy to deal with. I’m a control freak and it seemed that everything was out of my control last year. This was detrimental to my health on every level and it rendered me sick in mind, body and spirit. Despite the humorous tone I most often take in this blog, I wasn’t a “laugh riot” to be around for most of last year.

So, armed with promises to myself to live a happier, healthier, more engaged life in 2012, I make a promise to you. I promise to always be honest in these musings, whether I find something amusing, annoying or edifying. Thanks for coming along for the ride and I hope that you find it worthy of an “E Ticket” most of the time.

Ho, Ho, Hum?

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(Text inside reads, “Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas…Whatever.”)

This Christmas card sums up my mood this year perfectly. And this isn’t how I usually feel. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. When I was a kid, I’d play Christmas music in July because I just couldn’t wait for December to arrive. This is why I’m puzzled about my lack of Christmas cheer this year. Oh, sure, the tree is decorated, my shopping and wrapping are done and I have the Christmas movies ready for the DVD player. But, something is missing. I’m not going to pull a “Bah, humbug!” on you, but the sentiments of “Santa Claws” above seem to be mine as well.

Let me say up front that I hate feeling this way about Christmas. I want to be excited and happy but so far, I’m not feeling it. I think a lot of it has to do with how challenging this year has been. As some of you know, my mother underwent major back surgery and had a couple of other minor procedures done. I hurt my back while taking care of her and then I was fired. 2011 has felt like a never-ending exercise in crisis management and I haven’t always handled the stress very well.

As a result, I haven’t been in the “merry-making mood”. Picture Jimmy Stewart in the first part of It’s a Wonderful Life (sans the suicide angle) and that’s how I’ve been feeling. I want to shake it off, but so far I’ve been unsuccessful. Maybe the time has come for me to put It’s a Wonderful Life in the DVD player and really take it to heart. We all need to be reminded of the impact we have on the lives of others especially when we’re feeling like we don’t matter much at all.

So, with wishes for internal and external peace for myself and for all of you, I leave you with the scene that never ceases to make me cry every time I watch it. For some reason, when Harry says, “To my big brother George, the richest man in town”, I cry like a baby. Here’s to discovering just how truly “rich” we really are. May we all find peace and love this holiday season.

Yes, Sister Gabriel, There is a Santa Claus

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This is me back in 4th grade in 1974. I can hear the giggles and see the pointing all the way across the blogosphere. God, that was a bad look for me. Although, the hair and sweater may have made me an excellent candidate for a spot with the Bay City Rollers. All I needed was a little tartan and a Scottish accent. What do you think?

It was before Christmas when this woman, Sister Gabriel, my 4th grade teacher, decided to drop a bombshell. No, she wasn’t retiring immediately and thus making 4th grade safe for children once again. That would have been too wonderful. Her announcement wafted over our heads menacingly like the smell that occurred when she made a boy named Tony sit on the heater to dry his pants after he peed them. And it was just as disturbing.

I can’t remember what led up to it but this is what she said:

Sister Gabriel
There is no Tooth Fairy. There is no Easter
Bunny, and there is no Santa Claus!

 Miscellaneous Children
(Whimpering and Screaming)
No!

As you can imagine, we were distraught and all ran home crying to our parents. Kids back then weren’t as jaded or grown up as kids are today. Our childhoods, and in many respects our innocence, lasted longer. All of my friends still believed in Santa at the age of nine, so Sister Gabriel’s announcement caused a bit of a moral dilemma. On the one hand, there was this authority figure, and a nun to boot, telling us this “truth”. On the other hand, she was a mean old biddy who hated children. What to think, what to think.

When I informed my mother what Sister Gabriel had said, she was very upset, saying that Sister Gabriel had no right to say such a thing, who did she think she was, etc. Then Mom calmed down and proceeded to dazzle me with her explanation.

Mom
Well, I feel sorry for Sister Gabriel
because the only thing she’ll get in
her  Christmas stocking is coal.

That was an excellent passive-aggressive response, wasn’t it? Fake concern for Sister Gabriel’s stocking contents while delivering an insult. Give my mother some props! Mom then went on.

 Kelly
But, is she right? Is Santa a lie?

Mom
Let me ask you a question.
Do you fill your own
Christmas stocking?

 Kelly
No! Who fills their own stocking?

 Mom
That’s right. Mommy doesn’t fill
hers and Daddy doesn’t fill his.
Let me ask you another question.

Do you see how my mother has mastered the art of deflection? Like a smooth politician, she never answered my original question but went on to distract me with other questions and answers. Brilliant!

 Mom
(continuing)
Do you fill Daddy’s stocking?

 Kelly
Of course not!

 Mom
How about Mommy’s stocking?

 Kelly
No! You’re silly.

 Mom
Well, if you don’t fill your stocking and you
don’t fill Mommy’s and Daddy’s stockings
and Mommy and Daddy don’t fill their
stockings, who fills them? Hmm?

This reminds me of those annoying word problems in math class that would include lots of extra information not needed to actually solve the problem. Instead of focusing on the trains traveling in opposite directions, I’d always get hung up on what the conductor’s name was or what kind of sandwich he was eating. Now I see why.

 Kelly
Well, it has to be…Santa!

I proceeded to hug my mother and I ended up believing in Santa Claus for another couple of years. Mom gave me more than answers that year. She gave me the permission to continue believing despite the protestations of others.  And she gave me love. These two things have always been the most treasured gifts. They certainly beat coal. Do you hear that, Sister Gabriel?

I Was a Christmas Cover Girl

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The photo above is my first and last modeling job. While my friend Adele Uddo is a parts model extraordinaire, I peaked at age 3. Ah, well, such is the fickle finger of fate and fame. (Ooh, you know how I love alliteration!) I was a cute little kid, though, wasn’t I?

I guess that technically this wasn’t a modeling job per se, despite the fact that I was the December 1968 cover girl. Where did my cuteness appear? Time? Reader’s Digest? No, it was in this specialized publication:

 

Not familiar with it? Well, let me enlighten you. This was the monthly periodical that was put out by the company for which my father worked. It was a brewery called Lucky Lager. Labatt’s Brewery out of Canada was also part of the company. My Dad was a pressman in the duplicating department, responsible for all of the printed materials.

Apparently, a call went out among the employees asking if anyone had a child who would make a good model for the Christmas edition. So, being the proud father that he was, my Dad brought me in and I was chosen. One of my earliest memories is being at the photo shoot.

I remember that it was a warm day, probably late summer. My Mom, Dad and I went to a photography studio and boy, were we in for a long day. The only other memory I have from that day was staring at that candle in front of me, FOR HOURS. The photographer would give me a break every once in awhile but very soon, I’d be back, staring.

Thinking back on that now, 43 years later, it’s astounding to me that I was able to do it. How many three year-olds do you know who would have the patience, good humor and good manners to pose and re-pose for hours upon end? I don’t know any, but then again, I wasn’t an ordinary child.

According to my parents, I was the kind of kid they could take anywhere. I was polite, I only spoke when I was spoken to, I didn’t touch things, I didn’t scream, whine or otherwise act like a brat. I was every parent’s dream.

Were my parents tyrants who instilled the fear of God into me? Hardly. From as early as I can remember, I just preferred doing things that would make them happy. It made me happy. I could never understand it when I’d see other kids throwing tantrums and behaving like little jackasses. What was in it for them? They simply managed to make their parents angry and annoy everyone else in earshot. However, their behavior did make me look even better by comparison. (As I’ve said before, I’m a Leo and an only child. This means that I ADORE being thought of as wonderful.)

I understand how lucky I was that I had parents who loved me, paid attention to me and treated me like I mattered. They were interested in what I thought and how I felt so I didn’t have to create chaos to get their attention. When you’re being ignored, I guess even negative attention is attention. I feel for those kids when I see them acting out now, even though their behavior tries my patience.

My parents weren’t well off. They lived in a one bedroom flat in San Francisco’s Mission District for 27 years. I spent the first 17 years of my life there. My bedroom was really a dining room, but I didn’t even notice. My childhood was full of love, laughter and learning. I was a very happy child in general, and I loved my parents so very much. I always knew the feeling was mutual, even during those times that were a little more challenging. I think you can see the love in these photos from that Christmas in 1968. I sure can.

Typo No!

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I assume that most of the people reading this blog came to find it and me via Twitter. I adore Twitter. Not only have I made some new friends thanks to those 140 characters, but I’ve also become aware of music and books that had previously been unknown to me. The theme of today’s post is one such example.

Thanks to a singer-songwriter I follow on Twitter named Gretchen Peters and our tweets back and forth about spelling and grammar, I became aware of a man named Jeff Deck. Gretchen tweeted a link to an interview Jeff gave about his book, The Great Typo Hunt: Two Friends Changing the World One Correction at a Time, and I was immediately intrigued. You see, I’m one of those people who can spot spelling errors everywhere. I find them in books, on websites, and scrolling to the side, under and above the television anchorperson’s talking head. I don’t look for these errors, they just appear in front of me, mockingly.

In fact, I once received a form rejection letter for a proofreading job and it was addressed to “Dear Job Seaker”. Despite my disappointment in not getting the job, the irony was not lost on me. You can imagine the pithy and witty response I sent back, can’t you?

Jeff and his friend Benjamin D. Herson, who co-wrote the book, traveled across the country hunting down typos in small town diners, national parks, etc. People like Gretchen and me understand this quest. As Jeff tried to explain to his girlfriend Jane, the reason why typos were a problem was because they represent, “The creeping menace of carelessness”.

Even if you don’t give a damn about the Oxford comma and it doesn’t faze you when someone uses “loose” instead of “lose” in a sentence, you have to admit that as a culture, we have become more careless about the rules of grammar and spelling. Granted, no one is perfect. In fact, I’m nervous that this post will contain some sort of grammatical error. The difference is, I care if I make a mistake.

In the book, Jeff describes two schools of thought when it comes to grammar and spelling correction. In this corner, we have the Descriptivists, aka, the Grammar Hippies. This approach favors a more subjective view of language and how people spell now, rather than how something is supposed to be spelled. To the Grammar Hippie, language is in a constant state of change and movement, kind of like those rhythmically-challenged, tie-dye wearing folks dancing at a Grateful Dead concert.

In the other corner, there are the Prescriptivists, or the Grammar Hawks. The Hawks believe that there is one way to spell, punctuate, etc., and that doesn’t change. There is a longstanding tradition and it works. There’s no need to mess with it. None of this hippie-dippy nonsense for the Hawks. No sirree!

It didn’t take me long to realize that I totally identify as a Grammar Hawk. To me, it’s a no-brainer. You learn how to spell a word and that doesn’t change. You place a comma here, and it stays there. How you feel about the placement of said comma or how you want a word to be spelled is irrelevant. I remember rolling my eyes when an ex of mine tried to explain why whole language learning was better than strict phonics. (She was a schoolteacher.)

She said that proper spelling wasn’t as important as understanding the meaning and context of the words. This was heresy to me. Sure, when the word “cat” is written, an image of a feline would help with context. But this doesn’t mean that it’s okay for a child to continually misspell “cat” despite knowing what one is.

To me, the emphasis on feeling and self-esteem I perceive from the Descriptivists point of view is a factor in why we’re seeing more typos and grammatical mistakes. It also reminds me of a previous post about children and sports. When the purpose of an endeavor, be it a game or writing an essay, becomes more about self-esteem than about skill development, we, as a culture, suffer.

Wherever you find yourself on the spelling spectrum, Jeff and Benjamin will take you on an entertaining and informative ride in their book. There were times when I became really depressed while reading it. All I could see was the downfall of our culture as each typo was found. I was further saddened that when the mistakes were pointed out to people, many reacted either defensively or apathetically.

Ultimately, though, Jeff and Benjamin didn’t undertake this journey to be scolds or to make people feel stupid. They did this to facilitate better communication between people. If the world could use one thing more than anything else right now, it would be better communication and understanding. On that, I think both Grammar Hawks and Grammar Hippies can agree.

One Holiday At A Time

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I was out at the mall today trying to get a head start on my Christmas shopping. Now, before I say another word, I must admit that I LOVE Christmas. As a child, I used to play Christmas music in July because I was so anxious for it to arrive. I had to get myself in the mood for Christmas because back then, there were no “Christmas in July” sales and the like. We, as a culture, got through one holiday at a time. Shocking, but true.

Now, you can spot trees, tinsel and the usual suspects practically after Labor Day and it’s a full-on assault as soon as Halloween is over. The reason Christmas is pushed on us earlier and earlier each year comes down to one thing: money. Retailers need to extend the shopping season for as long as possible, especially during these challenging economic times. I don’t blame them. They are businesses doing what they need to do for their bottom line. I get that.

However, it does make me nostalgic for my childhood and how the anticipation for Christmas built and became official the day after Thanksgiving. With this in mind, there is one retailer out there who is keeping a pledge to not start hyping Christmas until after Thanksgiving. This retailer is Nordstrom. Here’s a sign that is adorning their stores nationwide:

Apparently, this has been a long-standing policy but I guess I haven’t been in Nordstrom this close to Thanksgiving before. I applaud them for this and I’d love to shop there more often, but funds are a bit tighter this year. Nevertheless, I think Nordstrom’s stance can serve as a good reminder for us all to slow down, not race through our lives and wish it away. The present moment is all we have and we need to embrace it. I’m speaking as much to myself as I am to you when I say this.

There is nothing wrong with being an early, organized shopper, getting your Christmas tree up Thanksgiving weekend, or beginning to watch your collection of Christmas-themed DVDs. I am one of these people and I plan on staying that way. I will do all of these things and enjoy them immensely. I just want to take time out to be mindful and thankful first before visions of sugarplums start dancing in my head.

Mission: Move That Mole

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A little while back, I discussed the mole that had decided to take up residence underneath the lawn. Well, here’s the update for which I know you’ve all been waiting. Before I could blast Yoko Ono or do anything else dramatic, he seemed to have vacated for greener pastures (i.e., other peoples’ lawns). That was until a couple of weeks ago when apparently, he missed me.

One day, the familiar dirt mound was back on the walkway. I didn’t see his cute little face when I looked down the hole but my mother had an encounter with him that would have been hilarious to catch on video, that is, if it didn’t lead to an accident. Let me explain.

On the side patch of lawn separating the house from the neighbors, there’s a palm tree. When the houses were built in this neighborhood back in the early 1950s, all the houses had palm trees. I have no idea why since Daly City’s weather is about as far from tropical as a place can get. Daly City is where the fog settles in like an unwanted houseguest who doesn’t want to leave.

So, as you would expect from a palm tree, there are palm fronds that fall onto the ground. Well, one day my mother was picking up some of these fronds and one in particular was not budging. She was confused until she saw that the other end of the frond was in one of the mole holes. (A bit like the photo on the left.) It seems that she was playing a game of tug of war with the mole.

After a little more forceful tugging, Mom was able to extract the frond without pulling the mole up with it. She came into the house laughing hysterically, saying that it was a good thing that she still did her biceps curls because she would have been embarrassed if she had fallen on her ass, losing a strength contest to a mole. That wouldn’t have been good for her ego or for the newly fused discs in her back.

So, the mole was back and kicking the dirt all around. A friend of my mother’s told her that moles hate onions. Okay. Did you know that? I sure didn’t. How was that knowledge gleaned? Was there some mole focus group? Did pollsters take a break from asking about Herman Cain and instead queried moles on their favorite garnishes? We decided to give it a try.

Mom cut up part of an onion and put it down the hole. The next morning, it was tossed onto the walkway. I figured that either onions gave him heartburn or he wanted the burger, fries and shake to go along with the onion. I can’t fault him for expecting a Happy Meal. Unsure of what condiment to feature on the next mole menu, I finally decided that the time had come to scare the mole with sound. And I wasn’t talking Yoko Ono.

This is the “Molemover”. It’s a battery-operated garden stake that emits the type of alarm and distress calls that rodents make to warn their buddies that danger is approaching and that it’s time to drop the onion rings, put away the playing cards and move to another neighborhood. To my great surprise, it seems to have worked. There are no more unwanted dirt mounds on the walkway. No tug of war and no onions. Now, the only mole I see is of the cartoon variety. So much better.