boring women have immaculate homes

When I was in elementary school, I waited for the bus at a friend's house around the block. On the refrigerator in their perpetually messy kitchen was a magnet proclaiming 'Boring women have immaculate homes!" I'm sure it was a tongue-in-cheek way for the lady of the house to laugh off her domestic chaos, and as I remember that family--I actually agree with the statement. They were a wonderfully colorful group of people, very loving and fun. The mother would drop anything to climb a tree with her kids or do a puzzle. I remember a puzzle of some ships on the ocean that sat unfinished for the better part of a year on their dining room table; we'd piece it together a few at a time.
Their house was far from immaculate! But their lives were rich, interesting, and there was a very relaxed vibe in that house--of acceptance, of the ability to LIVE there, without worrying about making a mess or damaging anything within.
Before my mom died, I feel like my home was that way. We had very casual decor, nothing fancy at all. The carpeting in the family room was a patchwork of remnants glued to the floor--I remember a game I'd play with myself, hopping from one red piece to another to move about the room.
When my stepmother moved in, things changed dramatically. She furnished and carpeted and decorated--we weren't allowed to wear our shoes in the house. In fact, we weren't allowed to be in the living room unless we were practicing piano. Every Saturday morning was spent doing chores that involved dusting, vacuuming, laundry, etc. It was an immaculate home. And... dare I say it... she as a boring person (at least to a kid. Well, her and I didn't exactly have much to say to each other in later years either. But I will say she was quite the housekeeper.)
I wrestle with this concept this morning, as my daughter sleeps and I ponder dozens of things I could be doing with the precious hour or so. I decided to clean the house... and then found myself thinking, why is it SO important that my house be immaculate? Its relatively neat, it was cleaned thoroughly last weekend, wouldn't it be much more rewarding to my soul to do something creative or stress-relieving or to just sit and BE for a moment?
So, I made myself a delicious vanilla breve latte, grabbed the Sunday paper and my doggies, and went out on the deck.
And now I'm listening to my iPod on shuffle and blogging.
And in a minute I'm going to check out craigslist and see if I can find Elise a new white dresser.
I love Sundays. And I'm glad, for just this once, that I was able to not be a boring woman with an immaculate home. It won't happen every Sunday, but its good enough for today. :-)
I do love having a clean house and it does make me crazy to live in chaos, but knowing what you need to nourish your spirit is far superior to being a slave to obligation "just because."
Salute! Happy Sunday, everyone!

cruising the wild alfalfa

Lately I've noticed some things about myself that prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am indeed growing older: 1) I prefer listening to NPR over 96.5 the Buzz, and 2) I am finding beauty and recreation in simple things, like walks, sitting on my deck and listening to cicadas, and learning more about the world I live in. Beats pop culture any day of the week. To that end, the fireflies are here! Its time! Let me explain:
Summers in Kansas can be insufferable: as humid as South Florida at times (without the scenery!), while at other times, as hot as a desert (without the nightlife!) The worst of all worlds, it seems. There are usually a couple of weeks on either side of spring or fall that are fantastically beautiful; I have to wonder if the pioneers who settled here passed through during one of those deceivingly idyllic moments.
However, there is a natural phenomenon that happens some summers, that is so magical and occasional that it warrants mention in the local newspaper and photographers wait with lenses poised. Wet springs apparently mean prolific fireflies mid-summer; which means busy firefly mating season, which means fantastic light shows once the sun goes down.
I remember the first time I ever experienced the crazed blinking of a field of fireflies; the first summer I stayed in Lawrence after classes ended, I was trying desperately to impress the guy that lived next door. I had lived in Lawrence a year longer than him, and loved introducing him to my "discoveries." One thing I shared with him was Wells Overlook, a 4-story wooden deck built on a hill that provides a stunning, panoramic view of Lawrence and surrounding farmland. For some reason, one night, late, we thought it would be fun to go to Wells Overlook and see the lights of the city. Little did we know that Wells Overlook park was gated and locked at night. Instead, we made the amazing discovery that the field across the street was alive with more fireflies than I knew could exist in a single place. The lights of the city as seen from Wells Overlook were nothing compared to a million fireflies in a single pasture trying to attract a mate! It was unlike anything I had ever seen--a million mini flashbulbs doesn't really do the description justice, but I can't think of a good "flashing" metaphor!
The wooded area across the street from my house was alight tonight. Ah, Kansas. I hope we still live here when Elise is old enough to experience it.

why can't we just look the other way?

Ah, human nature. We savor the drama, the salacious gossip. The more horrible the situation, the more we can't wait to tell our close friends. This sort of thing is so prevalent there is an entire cable channel devoted to it, and a billion dollar industry that compensates people handsomely for invading celebrity privacy. As my husband so eloquently put it, "we like watching people mess up."

I don't want to be like this anymore.

I started watching E! on a regular basis when Elise was a tiny baby, because I was up all hours nursing her and sometimes the only thing besides infomercials on at 4am was a True Hollywood Story or Entertainment News. I got sucked in. More recently, I've caught headlines about the family with 8 children who are splitting up. I keep thinking to myself, this is a real-life family we are talking about here! 8 children are now growing up in a broken home. It disgusts me that this is selling magazines and advertising slots.

I had my own share of drama recently, which has prompted me to re-evaluate whether or not I'm a disgusting person who thrives on other people's heartache and misfortune.

I don't think I am. I hear of unfortunate things, and my heart instantly goes out to that person. But, then I am first in line to tell whichever friend I happen to run into next.

Why do we(I) do this? Is it to discreetly pat ourselves on the back for managing to avoid a similar situation ourselves, because of our wise choices and clean living? I imagine I was the topic of much scandalous gossip a couple of years ago, when, within the course of a single year, I went from being desperately unhappy in a failing marriage to divorced to dating a younger man to pregnant to re-married. Juicy stuff! I grew tired of everyone knowing my business without me having the pleasure of sharing it with them myself, because after all--the juiciness of my situation were the greatest joys of my life (Elise! Danny!)

At any rate: I want to be a good friend. I want to build people up, to be someone people feel like they can trust. With a secret or anything. The fact that people think I was the source of some ugly gossip hurts me more than being the topic of ugly gossip. (It wasn't me! If you don't want people to speculate about the things you are doing, don't do visibly questionable things!) I hope this blows over without any permanent damage.

For My Dear Friend Paschal

I discovered the Shins around the time their album "Oh, Inverted World" came out. I found it because I had purchased some music on amazon.com--The Stills, I believe--and it provided me with the (genius marketing) tip "Other people who bought the Stills also bought the Shins." I gave them a listen--and was hooked right away. The primary songwriter, James Mercer, is a poet and an absolute magician with melodies. And the harmonies--oh, the harmonies!--so tight! Sometimes dissonant, always perfect. I devoured "Oh, Inverted World" and every subsequent album. They didn't tour much, and when they did, it was to small venues nowhere even close to where I lived at the time. Like Europe. I wondered if I'd ever get to see them in person.
I finally got my opportunity to see them in February 2007--at Liberty Hall, in my own city! If I remember right, the tickets were less than $20. Liberty Hall is an old theater that was restored a few years ago, it holds maybe 1200-1500 people(?) and is one of the few concert halls that still has general admission tickets, so a committed concertgoer can be in the front row without having to pay a mint. I waited in the cold rain with a group of high school kids to be the first in the hall when doors opened, and was rewarded with the pleasure of standing in the second row, center. I could see the whites of James Mercer's eyes.
They played every song I wanted to hear--and some I had been previously unenchanted by, but after hearing them live and hearing the story of the song or just being able to see it come to life, I rediscovered them. I loved the humble, shy demeanor of the band members (James, mostly.) He relayed to us that he had lived in Manhattan, KS until age 8 or so. I wanted to hang out, to have beers with them! I know we would be friends.
The played for two hours, and had 2 encores. I wished the night would never end (despite my company, as lamented in my previous blog.) I was lost in the strings and fingers and rhythms and poems of this beautiful band. The energy of the band and the crowd was magic--everyone was mesmerized. It was definitely a unifying show--me, a nearly 30-year old accountant, grooving with the hipster high school kid standing next to me.
And at the end of the show, happy fans wrapping scarves and buttoning coats, preparing to face the cold rain... and we realize with awe that the rain has turned into a down-pillow fight of snow. Several inches had already fallen, providing the city with that layer of insulation that makes a snowy night as silent as a sunrise. Few things are more beautiful than untouched, newly fallen snow, illuminated under streetlights as it continues to fall. I felt joy and love and art and thankfulness for life (music has such a profound impact on my spirits!)
I hope the Shins remember Lawrence for that fantastic night.

dancing with the Shins

Elise and I "danced" to the Shins tonight. She's really into trying to mimic what we do these days, and she loves it when I clap my hands to music--she just bounces and sways and I'm thrilled that she's responding to it. Listening to the Shins reminded me of when I had the pleasure of seeing them in concert in early 2007. They played two sold out nights in Lawrence, at Liberty Hall, and my ridiculous ex-husband insisted on accompanying me to the show, despite his indifference to this wonderful band, claiming he just "liked going to shows." I allowed him to go, thinking what a waste it was that I had this highly coveted ticket and at least 5 friends who would love to have it, and was taking someone who didn't really care. But, I felt obligated.

I swear, its the sum of these little things that made me divorce him.

He was a huge stick in the mud the whole time. I, meanwhile, was so excited and wanted to share the excitement with someone else. Like, someone who knows when my favorite song is on, or knows any of the songs and can sing along. He was a smug butt the whole night.

As we were leaving, something magical happened: the day had been cold and rainy, and while we were in the concert, it turned to snow. Not just a little snow, a thick coat of snow, and enormous flakes were falling as we exited the venue, creating the softest, quietest, most beautiful denouement to an awesomely loud, epic rock concert. It took my breath away--and he refused to share it with me. Refused to acknowledge that he had any fun at all. Refused to let me revel in what was a magical night for me. He was the definition of a turd, and my joy melted as fast as a snowflake on a hotplate.

I don't miss him. I've heard some horrible stories of how he's treated friends lately, and the consequences of said actions, and it gives me a little bit of satisfaction that people are seeing the side of him that I saw (finally.) I feel like a disgusting person for feeling this way (the satisfaction, that is) but its very hard not to, in light of *everything.*

I wish I would have shared the show with Danny. I will re-write that in my memory right now.