So here I am, the day after the final Chariots Race recording date, and I am so glad it's over, for a lot of reasons. Would you like me to list them? Okay, I will.
1. Greg won't be in Green Bay every weekend. He will be able to stay home and play with me, which is a great relief on the universe because we all know that it should be everyone's primary motivation in life to entertain, amuse, cuddle, coddle, spoil, and otherwise adore me, because if you don't, bad things will happen (if you can't hear the sarcasm here, well, you're just not listening).
2. I can move on to my own projects, like smashing my head against the wall as I try desperately to come up with something to show for the last ten years of napkin scratches and pathetic excuses for bar chords. Fingerpicking: for the six-strings-held-down-at-once-impaired.
3. I can stop worrying about how bad my voice will sound on the recording, why Greg wants me to do this at all, etc., because it's done now.
4. One more slash mark in the Albums Greg Made category. Big props to him for having the courage and the stamina to keep doing what he does best (and what I love more than anything in this world): being himself, and sharing his wisdom, insanity, and overall humanity with other people (especially me; see item 1 above; have I told you yet that he is my absolute favoritest? 'cause I can tell you again)(here's me, embarassing you again.... hey. you have a band. I have a website. to each their own).
I'm sure there are more but I'm running out of steam here. I do want to give big, huge thanks to Chuck and Brian, whom I didn't get the chance to thank as we were leaving last night. Thank you for being such wonderful people, for mixing an entire album with a 3-year-old in the room and NOT COMPLAINING AT ALL, NOT EVEN ONCE, about her jumping on the couch, disturbing the tambourine, tripping over mic cords, and otherwise acting like, well, a 3-year-old. And thanks for letting me sing. You are musicians; I am a mom. Even if that CD goes no further than your own bedrooms, it makes me happy in a huge way that I was allowed to be a part of something in my own little tiny way. It was an experience I may never have again in this lifetime, and one that has given me more inspiration than you realize. It's a big deal to me, and I want to thank you for that. Big kisses and hugs to you, and to Greg and Erin, whom I've already tortured with my mush (and here I am, doing it again! more mush for you! yay!).
Enough talking. Time to start doing.
So I went to register Maddie for school this past week...thus begins a new chapter. It's both interesting and somewhat horrifying for me to realize, again and again, how fast the years go by, and how the rate of acceleration only seems to increase as I get older. There's such a dualistic quality to it: on the one hand, it seems like it was just a blink ago that I was folding a mountain of onesies and spending every spare cent of credit on diapers and formula; on the other hand, it's been two years since Maddie and I moved out on our own and I can hardly remember it being any other way (which is a good thing!).
The most disturbing part of the whole process was not only the thought that Maddie will be in school with other nose-pickers and bed-wetters, future truants and criminals next fall, but the realization that I am now in a position to join the PTA. There we were, sitting in the waiting area as I filled out the forms, surrounded by parents who had brought in their frisky teenagers for meetings with administrators. There's Mr. and Mrs. Jones, the annoyed and busy parents ("Yes, Mr. Administrator, we are aware of Nathan's truancy and are doing everything in our power to change his behavior. He won't be playing any video games for the next month, and we've taken away his driving privileges."), and there's Nathan, slouching in his chair, awaiting his punishment from the Grand Marshall of MPS.
And then there's me. At least ten years older than dear Nathan, but twenty years younger than the folks. Old enough to have a child of my own (or I wouldn't have even been there), but young enough to remember how it feels to be in one of those chairs, with my mom sitting two feet away, waiting for the administrative assault to begin. It was at that moment, sitting in the second-hand sofa, filling out the forms, that I realized a shift had occurred. Somewhere in the last ten years, I was slowly and covertly metamorphosed - brilliantly! so intricately and quietly as to be undetected even by myself! - from a deviant, misdirected, angst-ridden teenager much like young Nathan over there in the corner, to an Official Member of the Parent Class! No one's going to search my pockets when I leave! I have cigarettes in my purse, and I won't be punished! Do you know what this means? Do you?
I HAVE INFILTRATED THE SYSTEM.
Maddie
My family
My family of friends - The Gessners
Jeff and Carmen
Majella
Sonya
Rip
Kyle, for being my friend, and most of all for getting out and making it.
Greg, for giving me the best year of my life.
For those who can't be at the table today...I'm saving a spot for you.
Dad
Grandma Vi
Grandpa Thorvalson
Great-Grandma and Grandpa Jones
Uncle Dave
Dwight Gail
Mary Anderson
Jeremy Williamson
Blaize Blouin
Prayers for...
Rip, because he's the first person I think of when I think of prayer.
Ollie, for his health.
Jenny and Paul, for safe travels this weekend.
George E. Benske
Baby Radtke
I can't stop. Two of my most recently developed and most insidious addictions combined into one: Linking (which I'm doing right now), and Magnetic Boxes of Words, particularly these ones, which also have to do with politics (and thus ends perhaps the longest link I've written so far, also displaying the afore-mentioned (OHMYGOD! CAN I LINK WITHIN A LINK?) (no, must separate) Return of the Freakishly Long Run-On Sentence.
Whew.
I've been reading waaaaaay too much code today.
But if you think I'm nuts.... Check out this asshole.
Hey - just trying to achieve equilibrium after (I could really get obnoxious and link this, too, but I WON'T. 'CAUSE I'M NICE) the sparkly pink scarf letter.
Getting really bad idea for really bad play.... A homosexual, highly campy version of "The Scarlet Letter," only we'll call it...you see where I'm going here.
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!
(Hi, love. I promise I'll be totally normal by the time you get back, as soon as I get the little chip out of my head that the government implanted upon your departure.)
Anything intended for a meal cannot be consumed unless we feed each other the first bite.
Okay, I just wrote this HUGE essay on Why I Feel Like An Absolute Basketcase Tonight, and after covering my basic household needs, Maddie's school registration, my (anti)reproductive needs, Dad's cancer and how it relates to Thanksgiving, my battle to try to prevent my own cancer (i.e., trying, and failing miserably, to quit smoking), the return of the Freakishly Long Run-On Sentence and its subsequent signal for me to either Chill Out or Get On With the Prozac Already, I decided to forget all that shit, lay down, and read a book, because all of that stuff is such a temporary state of madness, which will be eliminated by my New Brilliant and Wonderful Plan, the Main Idea of which is that my love and I need a good stretch of hours to just BE. This week is going to be SO fucking busy for both of us, and I'm hoping that each of us will, in our spare moments, have time to individually decompress. And then...
This Saturday, so help me God, when Greg gets off of work, I am bringing him to my house, where I will be temporarily and for 24-hours-only instituting a few rules:
No County Clare.
No alcohol, whether for distribution or consumption.
No kids.
No Irish music.
No lists.
No unnecessary phone calls.
No computer.
No housework.
No bills.
Lots of laziness.
Lots of love.
Lots of smooching.
Lots of reading poetry.
Lots of exercise, if you know what I mean.
Lots of talking.
Lots of silence.
Lots of water.
Lots of love.
Lots of love.
Lots of love.
I just want to let it be known that, given 17 layers of green eyeshadow, a pair of pewter pumps, an off-white pair of vintage leather over-the-elbow gloves, and more hairspray and bobby pins than my hair has seen since 1987, I AM ONE HOT BITCH.
Evidence of My Prophetic Abilities, or, Yeah, That's About Right (See "Cool By Association?").
Photographic proof that I was a junkie in the 1920s to come as soon as I either get my STUPID BLASTED CAMERA fixed, or buy a Mac-friendly cord for Greg's.
"...like, when I did the Vanity Fair show? like, there were these girls sitting on my stuff, and I was, like... and one of my girls was, like, crying? because she couldn't walk in high heels, and I was like, 'You're not a lady if you can't walk in heels.' And like, at the Vanity Fair show?... did I mention I was in the Vanity Fair show?"
Really, she was kind of nice. I guess. In that completely shallow, "I'm 20 years old but I'VE BEEN TO NEW YORK so I KNOW," my-whole-sense-of-self-worth-is-contained-in-my-portfolio sort of way. I tried. Really, I did. I just couldn't find a single thing this girl and I have in common other than the fact that she bears an uncanny resemblance to a porn star version of Margit Anderson. Which is hot, yes. But WHO CARES?
It was a good time. Kind of a choreographed version of Let's Play Dress Up, but with free beer. The backstage area of any show I've ever been in - and let it be said here that I have very little experience - always reminds me of the waiting room in a psychiatrist's office, which I have a lot of experience with. A bunch of anxious girls sitting around twiddling their hair, biting their nails, fighting off a caffeine- or psychotropic drug-induced twitchiness. Only with more talk amongst each other, said talk usually centered around one of three topics: 1) gossiping by hair-twiddlers about the other hair-twiddlers, 2) the male gender and its vast assortment of inherent defects (there is nothing I hate more than to hear members of either gender bitching about their partners, as though they were betrothed and have no choice in who to be with) 3) shopping; specifically, shoe shopping.
I got nothin'. I fold.
And then I took one of the other models home, a local girl I've seen around who was very nice and as it turns out is the owner of the "terrible voice" of a local band which shall remain nameless and which I heard a co-worker bitching about the other day ("I love that band, but MAN her voice is grating"). And the sad thing is, I could actually hear what he was talking about as she was speaking. But that's not what I wanted to share. What I wanted to share is that on the way to her house, she mentioned her boyfriend and referred to him as "my boy thing."
Repeating for effect: My boy thing.
Who are these people? How did I get here?
Hey. Free beer.
1. Maddie, running around with no pants on no matter how many times I tell her to put them on; surprising me with my very first Just Because You're My Mom Card on green construction paper, exclaiming in 3-year-old handwriting, "I LOVE YOU, MOM," and covered in Care Bears stickers. And lots of other things.
2. Greg, being Greg and letting me watch and take part in his life; speaking to me in Russian in his sleep; sitting quietly with a brandy alexander and staring at fish; putting up Xmas decorations at the Clare, allowing me to help create the magic I was only witness to last year. And lots of other things.
3. Knowing enough creative people that I am somehow going to be in a fashion show and recording on something a little more sophisticated than a purple cassette tape boombox circa 1987 this weekend (even though my voice is probably only worthy of the purple boombox).
4. This woman and anyone who is either a direct result of or a partner in her procreation.
5. Patience is a virtue, and thank God my landlord has plenty of it for me these last two months.
6. Thanksgiving is next week, and I have a family to spend it with.
I just wanted to say that I was in a conversation with two Catholics last night, and of the three of us, I was the only one that knew the name of (and hence the one pertinent line of) the Apostolic Creed. See? See? I'm cool. AND I know how to spell it.
Pffttttptptptptp.
Hi. My name is Stephanie and I will be your hostess this afternoon. Please be a dear and kindly follow me to your table, where I will seat you with gentle lovingkindness and offer you some reading material while you wait for your server.
The link above is from Jon Armstrong, husband of The Dooce. I really related to some of what he said here and thought that some others may as well, so I'm sharing. 'Cause that's what my mommy taught me to do.
Part of loving someone unconditionally is wishing for their complete happiness, even if their future happiness does not include yourself. HOWEVER, ALSO: Part of allowing yourself to BE loved unconditionally is knowing full well that perhaps your partner could find someone smarter, older, younger, prettier, more challenging, more forgiving, etc., and yet stick around, faults and all, because the bottom line is, NO ONE MAKES YOU HAPPIER. I have spent years running away from people, and one of the things I've learned is that it is much more difficult for me to accept love than it is for me to give it. The idea that someone could love me as I am, for who I am, and love me through my changes and struggles, not in spite of but in conjunction with my weaknesses, terrifies the shit out of me. What. Sort. Of. Gift. Am. I. Knowing he could be with someone different from me (and therefore perhaps better) is part of what makes me appreciate his presence in my life that much more. It's what makes me struggle to be a better person, a more complete and self-actualized human being. Without his presence, without the respect and love that I feel for him and the motivation that gives me, I barely even try. That's just the truth. It's part of my weakness: that I will do, because of this gift in my life, what I would not do for myself had I not been given this gift, or if this gift suddenly vanished. What is my growth, anything I learn in this lifetime, what is my spirit worth if I cannot share it with you? I should love myself more than that, I know. And I'm workin' on it. The world is a constantly evolving place, and we cannot possibly choose all of our own experiences. All we can choose is how we will react to what happens to and around us. And if one of those experiences is that of another human being opening up to you, and yourself opening up to them, you have a responsibility to yourself, to God, and to those who have yet to gain that experience, to ACCEPT IT as a gift.
You are the first person I haven't run away from. Opening my heart to love another human being in the way that I love you has been and continues to be a work in progress. The path to enlightenment is paved in shit, and part of our growth comes by shovelling through it together. Horrible analogy, and I'm sorry I can't come up with something prettier to say right now. And I don't mean that everything is shit, I don't mean that it has to be a constant struggle. It's not. I just mean there are challenges to face, and part of growing, part of loving someone else, is facing fears, stepping out of your comfort zone. That's the only way to learn. And in those moments outside of the box, in those moments when you feel most vulnerable, the holiest and most precious thing you can do is to reach out and cling to the ones you love, because they will be there waiting for your nervousness, your anxieties and fears, your faults and weaknesses, with open arms. Allowing yourself to be loved is perhaps the closest we can come as human beings to connecting with God. Realizing yourself. Facing yourself. Accepting yourself. And offering yourself to someone else, and letting them take you for what you are. That is true strength. It's a kind of trust that happens so rarely in this lifetime. That is the way in which I trust you. I trust you enough to come to you broken, knowing you won't try to fix me or change me, but that you'll just love me and hold me in a warm bath while I try to fix myself. That is what the human experience, what the love of two people is all about. And now I'm going to stop before I start crying.
Here's the link to Greg's band. Not like I care or anything. But just, you know, in case you might wanna, like, check it out, all nonchalant like. They're just some band. You know. And you might. Um. Yeah. I'm gonna go now.
Before I do anything, I just want to celebrate the fact that this is the fourth time in a row I have logged onto my blog and found exactly ZERO comments from TrimSpa and co. And now, simply because I've said this, blog spammers from across the universe are aligning for a malicious assault, but that's okay. 'Cause right now, there are ZERO. I just wanted to celebrate that for a moment. Okay, I'm done.
I also want to celebrate that Kim Coletta from DeSoto Records listened in on the Chariots Race performance the other day on WMSE (how many links can I post in a single sentence? hmm...) and was kind enough to request a CD once they're done recording. I don't wanna get all Yoko on your ass, and I don't want to offend anyone (i.e., Kim), but let me just do this one little yelp for joy in the hopes that DeSoto picks up the new album for distribution, because that would be FUCKING HUGE. Oh, and by the way, my boyfriend is fucking amazing (see: "Yoko"). I'm so glad I didn't know he was this cool when we first met, or I never would have had the courage to go up and talk to him that night at the Palomino. Not that "Greg the General Manager from the County Clare" was any less intimidating in my tiny little world. Seriously. You're pretty fucking cool. I'll stop embarassing you now.
See? Here's me. Being Yoko even though I said I didn't want to. The recording session went great, minus one giant computer fuck-up that thank GOD seems okay now. I only wish I'd brought the camera to get pictures of the "Guitar Jihad," which basically consisted of Greg and Brian affixing their headphones to their heads with t-shirts and duct tape. Ali baba ram dass holy holy mackerel hallelujah al-guitar jihad, it was hilarious. Maddie had a great time being completely oblivious to how many punk rock points she is racking up these last few months. And I will be totally happy once I get their songs out of my head. Catchy pop hooks: good for the kids, good for selling records. Bad for Stephanie, whose head is going to explode and leave a giant fucking mess if those little ch-chang-changs don't go away soon. No offense, dear. I love your music. I just would like to hear something else in the mix. A little Frank Black, perhaps? Some Lou Reed? No. It's just BEHR NEHR NEHR, D-BEHR NEHR NEHR, D-BEHR-NEHR-NEHR (break) TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING all the live long day (that was "please," by the way. Excellent translation, if I do say so myself). I love it. I really do. It's just that the TING-TING-TING-TINGS are so Fugazi, and I thought for years that Guy Piccioto was the sexiest man alive. And then I met you. And now you're all amazing and wonderful and kind and humble and TING-TING-TING and ch-chang chang and if I don't stop thinking about it, you're going to get mauled tonight, sick or not.
Clean cup, move down. THE PIXIES. I'm not going to get started on how much I love them, how I've waited ten years to see them (wait, how old am I? make that twelve years - yikes), how cute Kim Deal is, how this is my favorite band of all time and there will never, ever be another Pixies in my life, and how much it means to me that Tracey and I are about to have our wildest shared fantasy come true (not only that, but we didn't have to get rich and pay them exorbitant amounts of money to reunite - they did it all by themselves). This is all well-known documented history (see Stephanie's Journals, Vols. 1-30, the covers of which are scratched nearly through the paper with lyrics from "Tame" and "The Sad Punk"). The show Tuesday night was mind-blowing. I really thought that after seeing them in Milwaukee, I wouldn't be as excited about Chicago. The opposite is true. I am even more excited, because at the Aragon, unlike the Milwaukee Theatre, there are no seats, which will finally allow me to jump up and down clapping my hands and beating the shit out of my poor tenderized thighs to the polyrhythmic ecstasy that is The Pixies. I. Love. The Pixies. Monday night will forever be etched into my brain. Seeing my favorite band ever with my best friend of almost fourteen years, the love of her life, and the love of my life. It just doesn't get any better than this.
I am going out tonight. You had the audacity to leave me, forgotten like ... like,.... well, I don't know what right now. But I was totally disregarded all because you were too busy flying out of the Palomino to go see Greg's rock band. Therefore, I am rebelling by going to see the Pixies tonight, before you will. SO THERE. Stephanie will be wearing me, and I know she will take extra special care of me while she is jumping up and down screaming along to "Letter to Memphis," unlike some people, who just leave my lying on the back of their chair after eating dinner.
In your face,
Your sparkly pink scarf
Tell me you're coming over to my house after work, not show up, not call to say you're not going to show up, and then call me the next day on the way to Green Bay, where your awesome band that I really like is going to be recording for the next two days, and respond to my "hello?" by screaming into the phone, "THIS IS THE SOUND OF MY SOUL!" as the sound of wind rushing through the windows of the rocker van breezes in the background.
Off to Green Bay I go to, well, mooch. Staying at St. Brendan's while Greg records, going out with the mighty Fitzgeralds this evening. Recording my scratchy smoker voice (WHEN WILL I BE CONVINCED THAT THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING FUN WHATSOEVER ABOUT SMOKING? WHEN?) in backup vocals tomorrow, which I feel is a bit like Picasso asking Mr. Rogers to help with a painting, but hey. Whaddo I know. The artiste hath spoken. It will be a learning experience and fun will be had by all, especially Eric the Studio Master Dude, who will be struck with shock and awe once he hears me singing and discovers that his ol' pal Greg really has finally and forever lost his freakin' gourd.
Oh, sweet bed, how thou hast evaded my longings for sleep... Actually, I can't bitch. The bed has been there, I just haven't been in it before 2 a.m. all week. Elections, work, pizza after work, and the fact that I cannot seem to complete any of my household chores until I finish this book have all taken precedence over my need to LAY THE FUCK DOWN. And the thing that sucks about it is, it's not like I've been out partying all week. Greg and I usually have a pint together after I'm done working, as this is our time to unwind, swap stories about our day, and maybe talk to a friend or two. But both of us have been making it a point lately to take better care of ourselves - working out, getting more sleep, spending more time just laying around reading. I've hardly been smoking at all, Greg's not been drinking as much. Yet I still manage to wind up being the one who's being lifted off the couch mid-sentence and carried to bed because if he doesn't physically remove me from the couch, I will sit there and talk until his ears bleed. Don't get me wrong - he's got the chat bug as well. Put together, we could have our own talk show. Or two. And an "After the Show" like Oprah has. And then a web-cam reality show, and a few holiday specials. And don't forget the tantric sex instructional DVD, due out this spring, or as soon our animal magnetism lessens to a degree which makes it remotely possible for us to physically peel ourselves off each other. I mean it. We're stuck back to back on each other right now. Seriously. I had to pull off this crazy contortionist backbend manouver this morning just so he could lean every so slightly forward to take a whiz. (And is it "whiz" if you're talking about pee? or "wizz"? 'cause "whiz" makes it seem as though I mean to say that he kidnapped a ten-year-old genius). Anyway.
Speaking of the sexy rocker, tra-la! there's a show tonight. Onopa, 10 p.m., opening for The Firebird Band (feat. Chris Broach from Braid) and Travis Morrison (of the Dismemberment Plan). Also, in News of My Beloved, the website should be up sometime today! Yay! I will post a link as soon as I find the address (note: the name of the band has been changed from Seahorses to Chariots Race because some other dorks own the word and all variations of it. Bastards. But I like the new name. Not that my opinion matters).
Off I go to calm the storm that is now running circles around the house, churning up the dust and torturing poor Solomon with a shoelace. I let her have chocolate pudding for breakfast. .....
Yeah, I don't really know what to say after that. I'll let your imaginations work for themselves.
Here we are on the morning after the morning after. I avoided writing any entries yesterday because of my mood, however, today I can see that that mood hasn't shifted too much in terms of how I feel about the election, so fuck it, I'm posting. I cannot tell you how utterly defeated, disappointed, and sad I feel. The fact that 51% of our nation agrees with bans on gay marriage, bans on stem cell research, the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the continued blurring of the line separating church and state - not to mention this ridiculous and destructive war - is a total bitchslap out of the dark for me. I'm not so optimistic as to be naive, however, I really thought there were more of us than them. And maybe there still are: 40% of eligible voters stayed home, which is another little stat that makes my stomach turn. I truly thought we were going to win. I've been so elated, so hopeful, that this would be the beginning of a real turn for our country toward taking care of ourselves, putting the health and safety and freedom of our own citizens ahead of the supposed "liberation" of other countries and the unchecked pursuit of big business. And now I just feel like... I just can't believe there are that many ignorant, self-serving people out there. I realize not all Republicans are far right conservatives, just as not all Democrats are bleeding-heart liberals. Most of the people who voted for W probably did so because of one or two issues that were important to them, not because they whole-heartedly agree with every word uttered by the administration. Or maybe they do, and I'm just trying to make myself feel better. It just breaks my heart to think of where this country could go in the next four years, the permanent changes - for what I believe would be the worst - that could affect my daughter and her future children. Greg gave me some comfort yesterday, and I'm hanging on to what he said for dear life: that the positive side of W's election (notice I didn't say "re-election") is that this will be his last term. He will be more concerned with leaving a legacy behind, with leaving the White House with some sort of dignity, rather than a large national memory of a horrible mistake. I can't believe that W would *want* to leave the Oval Office with the rest of the world's backs turned toward us. He said yesterday in his acceptance speech, "To make this nation stronger and better, I will need your support and I will work to earn it. I will do all I can do to deserve your trust." I just hope and pray he means it.