Loose String

Let Me Remember Things I Love

One of the great joys - for me - about being the mother of a teenager is that his taste in music has finally matured to a point where we enjoy much of the same music.  This is not to say that we listen to all the same bands but we certainly share a good number of favorites.

In my mind I had always imagined that I would have a child that was really into some awful music that I just never wanted to hear.  Maybe boy bands or Britney Spears or something like that.  I just knew that I would never be able to share my music with my son because music means so much to me.  He would end up being one of those white boys that runs around dressed in gansta rap gear.  He would have a fascination with Armenian folk songs.  Listen only to Polka or Sousa marches.  Some way there would be no musical common ground for us.

When my son was younger he liked a lot of the things that all kids his age liked.  "Mama Said Knock You Out" by LL Cool J was really big.  Because we spent a good deal of time together in the car while commuting, he did pick up on some of the songs that were playing on my choice of radio station.  He liked "Kiss That Frog" by Peter Gabriel.  I think it was because it was, on the surface, a song about a frog.  And, God knows, kissing anyone, especially a frog, is hilarious.  He also commuted with his stepdad (Husband #2) sometimes.  One of our favorite childhood stories comes from their time commuting.  Husband #2 had an old mix tape that he played from time to time.  Nick seemed to enjoy it and it gave them some time to rock out before school and work.  One of the songs on the tape happened to be "Turbo Lover" by Judas Priest.  They were driving along one day, jamming to the tunes and singing along when Husband #2 noticed the words my son was singing.  My beautiful little boy was singing along with all of his heart: : "I'm a terrible lover!".  Husband #2 says it was all he could do to keep the car on the road because he was laughing so hard.

Then,  when my son was about 12 or 13, we were driving in the car again and a Nirvana song came on the radio.  He listened for a few seconds and then he turned to me and said, "Who is this? It's pretty good."  I saw my moment and I seized it.  I said, "This is Nirvana.  You know that band you like, The Foo Fighters?  This is the band that Dave Grohl was in before that."  He looked at me as though I had just spoken magic words.  From that point on, he paid a little more attention to the music on the radio and he would ask me about the things that interested him.  He would talk to me about the bands that he was interested in and I would buy tickets to their concerts and even accompany him sometimes.  I would also point out bands that I thought he might like.  There was still a lot of stuff that I was never going to enjoy but there was a common ground being forged. 

Cut to a few years later and we talk about music a lot while we are in the car.  He asks me about a lot of Classic Rock.  He listens as I explain that if he likes Deep Purple he really needs to check out Rainbow.  He listens to stories of seeing Black Flag, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Black Sabbath and even Judas Priest.  Lately he showed interest in John Fogerty which led to a discussion of Creedence Clearwater Revival.   He downloads music off of my ITunes playlist.  He consults with me at used CD stores as to which Elvis Costello CD he should buy.  Which T Rex CD is the best one?  These are questions I can answwer with some authority.  He asks to attend shows and concerts with me.  He comes along when I suggest he might be interested in a show.  And, when he is given control of the IPod on our trip to Milwaukee, he actually plays a mix of music that we all enjoy. 

Of course, he does not understand my frequent and inappropriate - if short-lived - interest in some rap songs.  He is mortified that I know the lyrics to 50 Cent songs and Nelly songs.  Gotta keep him on his toes somehow.

My New Home Has a Flashing Neon Sign

Today I am feeling as though someone inserted a hand mixer in my ear and scrambled my brains.  I have been fluctuating between high and low emotionally so it seems appropriate that I pull out the old story book.  Pull up your cushions kiddies.

As I once mentioned, I have a great number of stories that begin, "I was in this bar...", this is one of those.

I had been dating a much younger man during the period immediately following my divorce.  I had come to the conclusion that we were not meant to be and had ended the relationship.

One night not long after the breakup I was in a bar that I frequented and I ran into the young man.  I spotted him from across the room and made a concerted effort to speak to everyone in the bar in order to prolong the inevitable conversation.  He was quite unhappy over our breakup and convinced that he could talk me into giving it another chance.   I was equally convinced that this was not a possibility but I did not want to have to be mean to him in order to get this point across to him.  I was concerned that this was where the whole thing was headed.  So, anyway, I finally made my way over to him and said hello.  He was all smiles and kept telling me how good I looked and touching me.  Mostly just stroking my arm but it was not welcome.   I was trying to be gracious and stepping back to avoid him.  Fake laughing and stepping back at the same time.   Just trying to stay out of reach.  I made this big laugh and step back movement one more time and promptly found myself on the floor.

I had stepped back and simultaneously slid the cover off of a heating vent in the floor.  The opening was just large enough for me to get my foot down into with my toe pointed but the exit was impeded by a large nail that was poking through the duct work into the top of my foot.   That combined with my shoe was making standing up impossible.  I was up to my knee in a heating vent in the middle of a crowded bar floor. Let me say that I was wearing a rather tiny, little skirt.  There was quite a war going on in my head over strugging to rise and trying to keep my cooter from being seen by all and sundry.  I was also just a bit mortified to be the center of attention (pretty much all bar activity ceased in my immediate vicinity) for such an asinine move.

There were suggestions being made from all spectators (and the crowd was growing).  I was trying to reach down into the duct and unfasten my shoe but the opening was just too small.  There were a couple of people who tried to see if they were able to reach my foot to get the shoe undone.  One of the guys wanted to pull me out but only succeeded in driving the aforementioned nail farther into my instep.  The bartender brought me drinks to enjoy as we tried to decide how best to resolve the situation.  There was talk of  the little girl who was trapped in the well.  There was talk of paramedics.  I was not keen on the paramedics.  Finally an enterprising young barback went down to the basement and knocked apart the duct and took my shoe off for me.

I was free.

In the activity surrounding my rescue the conversation with my former young boyfriend fell by the wayside.  For just this fact alone, I do not consider the  evening an entire loss.  

Hush, hush

Since I can remember, words have always been my comfort.  During times of stress I play weird word games in my head.  The rules can vary in complexity depending upon the level of stress.  I can't explain why this is soothing or distracting but I can remember pulling words apart in my head as far back as my memory goes.  I learned to read by four years of age and I have continued to read for pleasure since that time.  Many times I have several books going at the same  time.  I enjoy the sound of certain words and strongly dislike the sound of others.

That said, there are some days when I wake up and words are too cumbersome and require too much effort.  They seem to have weight and density and I am driven to frustration at the thought of speaking or hearing words.  Even reading can seem like a chore rather than the pleasure it usually seems.  It's kind of hard to explain but it is almost a physical aversion to speech.  Like choking or gagging.  If I had to give an explanation, the closest I could get would be that it is sort of like going to dig into a big bowl of ice cream and finding out that it has gone all gritty and the flavor is off.

Sometimes it is as simple as a reaction to having to tell a story over and over again.  Especially if the story is one that I am not happy to dwell on or that I find  irritatingly stupid.  I start to feel as though my mouth requires too much energy to move and my jaw feels cramped.  I want to go somewhere quiet and dark where there are no people or noises and lay down.  I want a time out and I need complete silence. 

On these days, the best I can hope for is to get through without screaming at someone or banging my head against the wall.

Today was one of those days.

The Year of Living Dangerously

Whenever I become nostalgic for the "good old single and carefree" days, my friend J. asks me to tell her the story of the year of bad dates:

I had been newly-single for a short time when I started dating a younger guy.  I mean ten years younger.  I thought it was really fun being worshipped as the goddess that I am but the lack of intelligent conversation began to wear thin.  The proverbial last straw was the morning I woke up to find that my bed was rather damp.  I was not fully conscious so it took me several moments to realize that my young man had wet the bed during the night.  I decided, as I lay shivering in my cold, wet bed, that I had potty trained all the boys I wanted to for this lifetime.  I never told him the real reason.  I just said that I was moving on.

Later that year I met a friend of a friend in a bar that I frequented.  I was definitely not interested in this guy but he seemed quite taken with me.  He was about my age but he was just sort of nerdy and dumpy and not in a good way.  (I tend to like my men a little on the nerdy side). Plus, he had the worst mullet of all time.  The hair was normal in the front and almost down to his ass in the back.  What the hell is that?  The friend who introduced us was a juggler/performer at parties. The nerd was a  CLOWN.   By profession.  So, he was trying to chat me up during a game of pool and I was trying to be polite but distant.  Eventually he asked me for my phone number.  I attempted to do the "write down your number but change a digit or two" thing  but I suck at this and ended up writing down my real number.  I figured that this was the type of situation for which caller id was invented.  So, I monitored my caller id and did not answer when he began to call the next day and every day thereafter.

Through a series of problems involving the Commonwealth Edison disaster of the Summer of 1999 (the electricity went out every other day that year) I ended up having an old-fashioned phone with no caller id plugged in while I was waiting for an important phone call.  The phone rang and as soon as I heard the voice my stomach fell.  I was trying to sound normal and scrambling to come up with excuses for why I was busy every day for the next ten years or so.  (Okay, I am a lousy liar and I was trying to be polite to this guy because of the mutual friend)  I ended up getting talked into lunch.  I figured lunch was a harmless proposition and hardly even constituted a date.

I showed up for lunch (I drove myself to give an even less date-like atmosphere) and he was all primped up in what appeared to be sansabelt slacks like your grandpa would wear.  Yikes!  Okay, grit your teeth, order a margarita and let's get this over with.  We sat down and started to have a relatively normal conversation until he ran out to his car to get something to show to me.  It turned out to be his "clown book".  He had an album about six inches thick filled with pictures of  him in all of his different clown incarnations.  I tried to keep a polite smile on my face as I paged through.  Finally (4 margaritas later) lunch was over and I made my escape vowing to never answer my phone unless I knew who was calling.  And he continued to call.  Several times a day for the next several weeks and to show up outside my work or at the bar or anywhere he knew I might be.  I was being stalked by a clown.  My sick ass friends took to referring to him as "Shakes" and inquiring as to his well-being. Finally, I had enough and I told him that I wanted him to leave me alone.

The saddest part of this is that I ran into the friend who we had in common and when I told him this story he said, "I couldn't believe you gave that loser your phone number in the first place."  So much for trying to be polite to the guy.

I instituted the policy that I would never give out my phone number again unless I was really interested.

So, a month later, I was in a bar with some friends and this guy comes up and starts talking to me.  He seems nice enough but there is no chemistry for me.  He keeps trying to buy me drinks (which I politely refuse) and asking me for my phone number (which I also politely refuse).  I explain that I do not give out my number but I come to the bar frequently so he can try to meet up with me and maybe if I get to know him I might think about it.  I run into him again a couple of times and the scenario is much the same.  Eventually, he gets me to agree to go out on a date with him.

So, we go out for a nice meal but I can tell that he has gotten a head start on the drinking.  He is not sloppy drunk but he is definitely on his way.  We have an okay conversation during dinner.  I realize that there is nothing happening but everything seems to be pleasant enough.  He decides that after dinner we have to go play pool.  I like a game of pool and this seems like a safe activity so I am in.  We go to the bar to play pool and about halfway through the game he decides he is too hot to keep his shirt on so he takes it off.  Exposing his love handles to all and sundry. (I have nothing against the love handles but I do not want to see anyone with their shirt off in public) I am not too happy about it but I decide to try nicely to persuade him to put it back on and I vow to end this evening soon.

As soon as we walk outside, I realize that he is too drunk to drive and especially too drunk to drive to the very distant suburb in which he lives.  My conscience gets the better of me and I explain that I am going to take him to my place and he can sleep on my couch.  I am very careful to explain that I do mean sleep and I am not going to be sharing a couch with him nor will there be any sex involved in his visit.  I am fairly sure we have an understanding so I drive to my apartment, negotiate his drunk ass up the stairs and begin to make up the couch as he heads off to my bathroom.  I get the couch made up and he is still not back from the bathroom so I go to locate him.  He is not in the bathroom.  Next door down is my bedroom and this is where I find Prince Charming.  Naked as a baby and sprawled across my comfy bed.  The horrified look on my cat's face was priceless.

I spent the night on my own couch and pretended to sleep through his departure the next morning.

I did not date again for two years.

Before Janie Got a Gun

I am kind of tired of this phrase that has been rolling around in my head.  Lots of room to roll and these things make big echo-y crashing noises as they careen about.  It can be a bit distracting.  The phrase is this, "When I was fifteen.."  I suppose this could more rightly be described as a sentence fragment.  But, whatever it is, it is starting to bug me. 

See, here's the thing, I get stories or ideas.  They usually begin with something similiar to this phrase or sentence fragment.  There is a combination of words that comes into my mind and it just sort of grows from there.  The words that come first trigger the words that follow.  They serve as the catalyst.  But I keep thinking, "When I was fifteen..." and that is as far as I get.  I have tried to think of myself at fifteen.  I have tried to think about the things that were going on in my life or the things that happened around me but nothing is jumping out,  I can't think of anything that comes after, "When I was fifteen...".

I was in 9th grade and I was awkward.  Aside from the 9th grade qualifier, this could describe almost any of the years between twelve and nineteen.  Hell, let's be honest, any of the years between four and thirty-four. 

It was 1979.  There was punk rock, the beginning of the high school years, the end of the 70's, death to disco, lots of long bus rides to and from school, feathered hair, the very first inkling of the Reagan era, weekend trips to the rollerskating rink and all of the tedium of being a teenaged girl in a small town.  Nothing stands out.

Now, if the phrase is, "When I was thirteen..." then the ending is, "...my parents got divorced." or, "...I got drunk for the first time."  If the phrase is, "When I was sixteen..." then the ending is, "...I lost my virginity." or "...I had my first real Summer job that did not involve babysitting." 

And the lights have all come on.  I remember.  I remember the thing that happened when I was fifteen.

When I was fifteen I decided that all I wanted for my birthday was to go to a concert.  I wanted to go to a real rock concert.  With several of my friends.  The concert I chose was Aerosmith.

I had listened to Aerosmith with my older sister when I was twelve.  She played Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin in her bedroom when her friend Nancy came to visit.  They sat around and talked about drugs and boys and sex.  They were sixteen and so they were very mature.  And they let me sit and listen to them as long as I promised not to tell and did not talk too much.  In my mind, Aerosmith was a very mature kind of band.  So naturally that was my choice.

I grew up in The Middle of Nowhere, NH.  There were not such things as concert venues in our town.  Or even in the next town over.  In fact, there were no stores other than hardware and grocery, no movie theaters, no bowling alleys, no rollerskating rink, not anything related to entertainment in our small town.  For any of those pursuits it was necessary to drive to another town.  Sometimes 25 miles or sometimes all the way to Boston, MA or Portland, ME.  That was where we would have to go to see Aerosmith.  Portland, ME.  An hour and half drive. 

The first hurdle was convincing my mother that it was a good idea.  The second was convincing her that it was a good enough idea that she should buy tickets and arrange to drive us.  Fortunately, my mother was easily convinced.  The only safety measure she insisted upon was that my stepdad should chaperone us.  This would ensure that we would survive the trip to the big city and not be abducted by drug dealers or white slavers.  It was mortifyingly embarassing that my stepdad had to go with me but the cool factor of the concert was more than enough to compensate.

So it was, on a cold Winter night in December of 1979, me and five of my closest friends found ourselves at our first ever, real live rock concert.  We made our way to our seats in the gigantic Cumberland County Civic Center and settled in for the show.  We arrived early enough that the lights were still up.  There were people milling around.  There was a lot of movement and conversation and excitement.  There was a big crowd on the main floor. 

This was back in the days of General Admission.  Back when you could by a ticket and then fight for a position on the main floor.  Back when you could get crushed and groped, fall in love with a stranger, make out, break up and see a concert all at the same time.  Back before mosh pits.  But there was some aura of danger to the main floor.  There were those kids who got crushed at a Who concert.  So, we were not allowed to go there.  Not this time.  Not yet.

My girlfriends and I chattered excitedly.  We about spun our heads off of our shoulders people watching.  We were so thrilled.  My stepdad settled in for a nap.  A nap.  For the entire concert.  Even through the opening act (Great White), even through the gazillion decibels, even through the screaming crowd.  But this was okay by us.  As soon as the lights went down the cute college boys sitting in front of us offered us a joint.  And we were free to accept because our chaperone was napping.

I do not remember a lot about the opening act.  Perhaps it was the haze of pot smoke that obscures the memory.  But I do remember that it was loud.  And fun.  Really the most excitement I had had in my life.  I knew that I wanted to go to more concerts.  Lots more.  I wanted to see every band.  Ever.

Then the opening act was done.  The lights came back up.  My stepdad slept on.  We became even more excited about seeing Aerosmith.  If the opening act was good, Aerosmith was going to be great.  Mind-blowing.  Stupendous.

The lights went down.  The crowd went crazy.  The hooting and hollering and stomping and whistling was deafening.  Then the band took the stage.  The familiar opening strains of "Back In The Saddle" started and the crowd quieted a bit and the lights went up.  There was Steven Tyler.  In all his rock-excess glory.  The Steven Tyler we had listened to for years.  It was way too much.  I think there may have been some peeing of pants.  I am not going to point fingers.

The first song ended and Steven Tyler mumbled something unintelligible.  Then they lanched into the second song.  And the third.  About ten seconds into the third song Steven Tyler did this slow motion slump to the ground.  He just sort of faded away for a nap.  It took the band a couple of seconds longer to realize that he was no longer with them.  Then lots of people rushed on stage and took Mr. Tyler away.  And the lights went back up.  There was a buzzing commotion of speculation.  This went on for about twenty more minutes.  During which time my stepdad woke up and wanted to know what was going on.  Apparently he could not sleep without the soothing sounds of metal feedback.

Finally someone came out and announced that Mr. Tyler was not feeling well.  The show was going to be cancelled.  There would be a rain date announced.  Thank you all and good night.

It was a bit of a let down.  A bit of a buzz kill.  But it was a great story.  Our very first concert involved a first hand experience with rock-excess.

Of course, we went to the rain date.  It was good.  Pretty darned good. And all of the band members remained concious throughout the entire show.  This time we did not have to have the chaperone.  My stepdad and my mom went to hang out at a bar while we went to the show.  We did not have to wait for anyone to fall asleep before getting high with the boys sitting in front of us.

So, that solves the mystery of what happened when I was fifteen.

They thin my heart with little things

I am waiting for the words to come. Waiting for them to roll out and down and spill over. This is the thing I can count on: the words will come. Welcome or not, ready or not. But there seems to be some malfunction. Some sort of kink in the line.The words are all jammed up, backed up inside my head. They are expanding and cramping my brain making the everyday thoughts compressed and uncomfortable.

I suppose the backup may be of my own making. Too many things to say that are uncomfortable or too painful or just too damned crazy. You have to make sure that you dispense the crazy in small doses. You bury it inside of something pleasant. You mask the bitterness with a big spoonful of sugar. It slides by unnoticed.You maintain the delicate equilibrium. Everything is a-okay.

But, the thing is, that there has just been too much new information these last few months. Too many big realizations and other shoes dropping. Like all of the answers have been coasting along behind me on a cart attached with a bungee cord and I have come to a sudden stop and they have crashed into me.

They have hit me hard and knocked me flat mentally. But you cannot stay knocked flat. You cannot lay down and wait for it to pass. You have to get yourself up and dust yourself off and carry on. Though it would be so lovely to sit quietly for a few moments and catch your breath.

There are a bunch of words rolling around in my head.  Just bumping off my brain like the ball in a pinball machine.  They are elusive and erratic and I just can’t seem to get a control on them.  It feels like there is a big idea or the answer to a complicated question just outside my grasp.  I can see it but only from an odd angle and then only for just a moment.  Less than the blink of an eye.  I am sure that if I could just pin the words down - spend a few minutes with them - I could figure something out. 

Maybe it is the key to the meaning of the life and everything.  Maybe it is the cure for cancer. Maybe it’s the perfect wording for the essay I blew on my AP English Exam in 1983.  Maybe it is just the name of a good Thai restaurant. 

I am not sure and it is the not knowing that is so frustrating.  I think that tends to be a theme with me.  I get very agitated and disturbed by the absence of clear answers to complex questions.  There is too much unknown.  I don’t like the suspense of waiting and finding out what is next.  I do not truly enjoy surprises.  The automatic assumption on my part is that it will always be a bad surprise.  Not the “You’ve Just Won A Million Dollars” surprise but the “You Will Now Be Audited” surprise.

I suppose this makes me a pessimist.  Or a realist – depending on your point of view.  My glass is definitely never half full.  Whatever can go wrong will and usually does.  In a spectacular and explosive way.

So, I keep up my search for the ever-elusive happy thoughts.  I look for the silver lining.  I try to match my expectations to my reality.  I try.  I try.  I try. 

But, I am easily distracted from the task.  My mind wanders off and I end up wondering about silly little things that don’t add up to nothing.  I am captivated by events that have no bearing on my world.  I scan Perez Hilton and DListed just as often as I read the real news.  It is a sickness.  Wish I knew the cure.

I loved them, 'til they loved me

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye

Inventory – Dorothy Parker

When I was a bit younger I worshipped Dorothy Parker. She was strong and flawed. She spoke her mind and followed her heart.  She wrote with wit and truth and a dash of wistful sentiment.  Her poems were not proper.  Her words were not prim.  She was one of the guys but still very much a woman.  She did not seem to buy into all the societal norms of her day.  She was colorful.

I once dated a guy who said that I had a Dorothy Parker kind of personality.  At first I thought it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said about me. Upon further consideration, I decided it was not meant to be a compliment. But I will still take it as one.

I still feel that the humor and honesty with which Parker wrote are truly unique. The seeming simplicity of her style is deceptive.  She wrote what she knew.  She was unafraid to lay bare her own flaws. Her words have changed in meaning to me over the years. This is one of my favorite things about literature: the mutability of the written word.

I re-read many of my favorite authors every couple of years as the mood strikes me.  Recently I have been a bit melancholy and also a little misanthropic. Parker is a good companion for those moments.

A New Beginning

I am starting over, beginning anew, coming at this from a different angle.