Moral of the Story? Don't Knit Your Own Wick.

(Fiona sitting behind the new fireplace screen, compliments of mother-in-law, Lani.)

So, my mother in law, Lani, is in town.  And we're having a good time.

But.

She worries.  Like grandmas do I suppose.  As far as our family's grandparentry goes, we've got all the worries covered on both sides of the family.  My mom worries about all things outside of the home (safe travels, going outside after dark, boogie men, and charged cellphones [in case the boogie men steal our car and leave us stranded]), while my mother in law worries about all things in the home (making sure we have covers on our outlets, having a fire extinguisher in each room, keeping fresh batteries in our carbon monoxide detector, black mold, and the responsibility of the parents of her grandchildren).

When the grandmothers talk, it always ALWAYS results in trouble for me and Terry.  Yesterday, my parents and grandparents came over for lunch.

Lani (Terry's mom): "Ask your mom what she thinks about your fireplace."

Dera (victim): "Oh jeez.  Mom, what do you think about my fireplace?"

Rosanne (my mom):  (she makes a face of disapproval)

Faye (matriarchal worrier or my grandmother or Nana): "Don't even ask me what I think, becawse I'll tell you the truth."

Dera: "Just say it, grandma."

Faye: "Alright.  There's FIYA in there!" (fire)


Rosanne: "And because you got kids!"

Lani: "And does anyone see a screen over it?"

Rosanne, Faye, and Lani (in unison): "NOOOO!"

Dera: "Mom, we grew up in a log cabin (i.e. a matchbox) that was heated only by a furnace and fireplace.  (My hippie upbringing deserves it's own post.)  Why is it different when I do it?"

Rosanne: "Because your father was careful to always watch the fire.  AND we had an asbestos rug.  AND I was always ready with a bucket of water, just in case."  (All of which were untrue.)

Faye: "And they don't make houses like they used to."

Dera: "But, Grandma, this house was built in 1940."

Faye: "Exactly."

I'm confused and annoyed, so I leave the table of worriers to continue their fun.  From the other room I hear whispers and see heads shake in further disapproval.  Because I turn into an angsty teenager when parents are present, I yelled, "Will you all please stop!?"

Rosanne: "NO I WON'T BECAUSE YOU ONCE HAD AN AUNT WHO WATCHED HER MOTHER KNIT A SCARF TOO CLOSE TO THE FIRE AND GO UP IN FLAMES!"

{Silence falls over the room, as no one knows what to say.}

Lani: "Pffffft." (stifling laughter)

Worry Winner- Mom: 1/ Mom-in-law: 0

The Gift That Keeps On Giving... I Hope

Smacksy once wrote something about her grandmother (here) that stuck with me.  Aside from the awesome photo and delightful story about her, I thought the idea alone was great:

Give grandparent(s) an empty journal, and write a question (relating to their life) on every other page.  Have them fill it out at their leisure, and enjoy reading their answers later.


And so, I bought my grandparents a [joint] journal, in which I gave both of them enough space to fill out their [separate] answers.  I thought long and hard about each question, one different in their curiosity from the next.  While one question was as simple as "What is your favorite song?", the next could be as weighty as "What is your favorite memory, and why?".  I found myself getting choked up at the possibility of what and who would find their way onto the pages of this book... well-thought answers, possible confessions, sincere sentiments that were too hard to speak in person.  I imagined what it will feel like when I am in my 40's when I'm reading the journal with my children and thinking about my grandparents as a memory.  This, of course, made me feel a sense of incredible thankfulness that I still have them around now, and it renewed my appreciation of these two wonderful people who happen to live only 40 miles away from me.  Suddenly I was eager to sit next to them at the Christmas table the following day, and I vowed to never take these days with them for granted again.

When the extended family gathered around my parents' living room to open their presents on Christmas day, I had hoped to take a moment to pull my grandparents to the side.  In the confusion of flying paper and "thank you!'s", I wanted to calmly and quietly explain the meaning behind the almost-empty-book they were about to open.

Before I could make my way across the room however, my grandmother's fingers had already ripped the wrap off and flipped through the first few pages of the journal.  And then...

I watched her fling it over her shoulder... much like a child who'd just received a pair of socks.

In the hopes that my explanation would change her feelings toward the gift, she cut me off with, "I know what it is, and I don't like gifts that make me work."

∞

I suppose the gift was more for me than for them.  But don't think I didn't remind her that I also bought her a pair of earrings.  Ahem.  At least Grandpa promised to fill out as much as "he could remembuh."

Sunshine Grandpa, Christmas 2009:

p.s.  Lisa, I think my grandfather in the first photo looks a little like your Jeff.  ???

7 anni e volare

On this day* seven years ago, Terry took my hand in marriage.  I cried (while he laughed) through the course of our vows in the small chapel of the church I attended as a child.  We rode to the Carter Center for our reception in a haze of unbelief.  The day had finally arrived.

By the time we pulled up to the Center, we were escorted again by 2 bossy wedding specialists in 2 different directions.  The dreaded moment for our first dance debut was imminent.  And in true Italian-American fashion, we would meet each other on the dance floor after our bridal party like a Broadway production, and the musician would cue the sacred sounds of this magical first song.

There were 3 big problems, however:

1. We're not Fred and Ginger.  While we had danced before, it was usually separate and ugly.  And we're certainly not the types to rehearse dancing beforehand either.

2. We kinda didn't want the over-the-top Italian-American thing.  Concessions were made (for my grandmother and the many other older Italian family and friends who would be present) for Italian wedding cookies, a non-fondant cake due to the "numbuh of diabetics who'd be theyuh", those wrist pouches that brides are to wear on their thrones when accepting the Italian cash gift, certain menu items that I could have gone without, having it held indoors because "no one wants to remembuh your day with bug bites, Deruh" (and when our hall overlooked the most beautiful gardens in Atlanta!), the flower toss and awful garder thing, and... the first dance.  So already, bad attitude about the whole thing.

3.  Our biggest request (requesting because my mama was shelling out for all of this, by the way) was that we had a real band (good music) there instead of a DJ that would spin Celene Dion, Kool and the Gang, and Richard Marx.  No offense to that music or the weddings that played them, but we just wanted different.  And so, we hired a friend and his band who could be trusted. But, every wedding has it's snafus, and our wedding's snafu was that our friend's band wound up being only our friend, the solo act, that night.  He did pretty well considering he was short 3 guys (and had to rent a PA system an hour before the reception), but he was not ready for that first dagnabbit song.  This ultimately only made the awkward even more awkward.

Let me paint this doozie of a picture for you.  This moment, by the way, is my favorite memory from that entire day:

While the guests (or my Broadway audience) sat waiting for the music to begin, and as Terry and I stood in the most awkward embrace of our life, what was probably only 30 seconds felt like an eternity.  And in swooped the most unsuspecting super hero.

 

My great aunt Diana (on the left), in her 70's, whose body was failing from emphysema, who was small and frail only in appearance but who's intoxicating personality was bigger than anyone else I've ever known... she stood up and belted out:



Aunt Diana saved the day, and it's oneof the last memories I have of her before she passed away.  Terry and I think about it often, and the song has a special place in our hearts.  Viva la guido weddings!

As for the original song, we decided on this:



The song eventually came, and it was good. Our first dance/songs were memorable to say the least.

(Terry is going to kill me, if he finds out I posted these.  He always said that these first 2 photos appear as though I was teaching him how to walk for the first time.  Can you feel the awkward?  Oh, and forgive the quality... nothing like taking a photo of a photo in an unlit house.)

 

(Yup. Still awkward.)

As the night progressed and cheeks became ever more cramped from forced smiles, the champagne cured my ailments. We had the most amazingly beautiful day, thanks to my parents, my extended familia, Terry's mom, friends, and the groom... who has yet to forget our anniversary, sohelpme. We left the reception late into the night under a canopy of sparklers, hopped into our tiny VW unscathed, and drove off into newlywed bliss (drunk and fast asleep on our wedding night.)

Keep liking me, Terry.


*pretend like this is October 5, 2009.

Greetings From Wonderland

We are on vacation, and it is so good. It's a place where:

Skin is sun-kissed, heads are clear, smiles are frequent and big, tummies are always full, and grandmas get unsolicited hugs.

In the midst of all the fun, Fiona and I had a moment to discuss birthday plans. She will be 6 years old next month (I can't believe it!!!), and every year she challenges me to launch a fun party around the most bizarre themes. Luckily, this year she chose something I'm sure to have a lot of fun with:

I was so excited, I spent this entire evening making her invitation (above). Imagining:

a not-what-it-seems tea party, a round of plastic flamingo croquet, and a kiddie hookah bar.

Maybe not the hookah bar... but my wheels are spinning. If she changes her mind, so help me.

So Fresh, So Clean*

Washed hair- check.

Home manicure- check.

Good night sleep- check.

A (still in progress) clean house- check.

Pressed shirts- check.

Cup of (good) coffee- check.

Walked dog- check.

Happy children- check.

Clean sheets- check.

Quality prayer time this morning- check.

I took the day off in the garden today, per Terry's request. In a rather diplomatic way, he suggested that I may not be the person I like (see previous post) when I spend the entire day out there. Being the oracular hormonal woman that I am (ladies, tell me you are too?), I read between the lines and assumed he was saying I've been a neglectful wife and mother. He assured me that his suggestion was for my own good. Besides, if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

It was with great relief that I met Sarah in the garden this morning to alert her that "I can't play today". She seemed somewhat relieved herself, saying that she felt the same way yesterday when she returned home to her hungry family. With Taco Bell in hand. Tell me, why do we eat so poorly when we're working so hard to grow the good stuff? Seriously, we study the labels on our organic fertilizer containers, but we default to the nearest drive-thru window at the end of the day. I swore that stuff off years ago. Before the garden.

Anyway, Garden Hos Farm is not the offender. Like anything in life, too much of a good thing can become bad. It always amazes me to see what weird things I put on pedestals. I think of myself as relatively low-maintenance gal, with a love for thrift stores, a passion for vegetation, a weakness for a tall man in plaid flannel, and a morning primping routine that consists of a splash of water on the face and some brushed teeth. But when certain "low maintenance" things come in between me and my responsibilities, I've gone and put excursions to Ace Hardware and a flock of rare chickens on a pedestal. (Remind me to one day tell you about the crush I had on a homeless man. Terry drew a picture of this scenario, making it worthy of it's own post.)

I took the girls to a Catholic cathedral in town this morning to pray. We've never done this before. We're Presbyterian. It's a Thursday morning. But I knew it's doors would be open, and I knew it would be quiet. It was the best decision I've made in a long time. Both girls were amazed. Fiona exclaimed in a loud whisper, "God is here!". Neve was just taking it all in. All three of us knelt and prayed for at least 15 minutes (which was much longer than I thought the girls would give me). In fact, I don't think they were even ready, but I wanted to leave on a high note. I think we'll be doing that more before summer's end.

*From Rogers and Hammerstein to Boi and 3000. Janet (Oijoy) used to be my older RA college friend that was the only nurturing maternal figure in our depraved dormitory when I was a freshman. She used to sing "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair" to certain friends who'd just been through a very sad daramtic break-up after a month long relationship. The best.

A Good Song Part 2: The Test of Time

In an attempt to keep it short and sweet and posting only a song that I love, not the history of music and my fascinating parallel autobiography yesterday, I failed. So, this is part 2.

The song that spurred this epic blog post is My Bloody Valentine's When You Sleep.

I was a sophmore in highschool when I first heard this. Up until that day, my collection of cds, vinyl, and mixed tapes consisted of 80's bubblegum pop (think Tiffany, Debbie Gibson, and the Go Gos), NKOTB (a category unto itself when I was 8-10), classic rock (from Lynard Skynard to Steve Miller- it was like a middle aged bikini clad boozehound lived inside my 12 year old body), and everything Beatles (still deserving it's own category, in my opinion). And that was it. I was too proud of myself for not dying on the Pearl Jam cross with every other kid in highschool to realize that there actually was amazing music being made elsewhere.

I befriended a girl who was 2 years younger than me when I was in 10th grade. She went to the mega-private school near me that bred many ivy league cocaine addicts. (Joking. Sort of.) She knew everything I didn't. She knew about boys and, ahem, what they liked. She knew about drugs, and which ones were ok to take when simultaneously getting drunk. She knew which restaurants in the city served the most authentic french food (seriously- in 8th grade!). She knew how to tell her parents the most convincing lies. She knew how to transform her boring school uniform into a parent's worst nightmare (in the school bathroom with the help of safety pins and rolling waistbands). And she knew about music. She schooled me in everything I wanted to know and everything I didn't know I wanted to know.

She played this track on her cd player in the basement of her house (also known as the love den at certain parties she threw), while showing me the vampire-teeth-marked-tattoo she had done on her upper inner thigh. (Did I mention that she was only in 8th grade?) I was preparing myself to listen to some Industrial Goth music or something, judging by the name of the band. But I was pleased to hear this instead. Very pleased. I'm embarrassed to admit that she was also responsible for introducing me to the Smiths, Elvis Costello, and the Cure. (She swore that she would name her child Bob Smith insert-married-name-here, regardless of the baby's gender. She would also force me to stare at the poster of Robert over her bed, saying, "Gawd, don't you just want to die, he's so sexy!?" I would agree and then silently pray that God would wash his filthy face from my nightmares.)

We were different, but I kinda needed her. I was the Molly Ringwald to her Ally Sheedy. M.B.V.'s Loveless would always resonant as the soundtrack to discovery and teenage thrills. (Even if my mentor was still considered a "tween".)

***

Fast forward 3 or 4 years, and I meet Terry. I'll spare you the details of that journey of love (I'm learning that it's not as terribly interesting to those who were not doing the loving). But needless to say, some songs will sound sweeter because of some memories, while others spark less sweet memories. I remember listening to When You Sleep in my dorm room on my lunch break, hoping and praying that I'd run into him on the way to my Art History class. At 18, it was the sound excitement, adrenaline, and starry-eyed happiness.

***

Fast forward to yesterday, and I'm childless. The kids are in summer camp for the week, and I'm driving through the city with the windows rolled down and clutching an especially delicious iced coffee. I realize how ridiculous it is that I'm as giddy as I am, but I don't care. I go searching for the perfect musical accompaniment to my mood, and BEEDOW- Loveless. As sure as the kids are gluing fruity cereal O's to paper crowns, I find myself excited as track 3 is ending and I know track 4 (When You Sleep) is about to begin. At 28 (almost 29), it's the sound of freedom, entitlement, and solitude.

This is one of the few bands in my repertoire that has stood the test of time. I wonder if when I'm 80, sitting in my rocker, knitting Terry a terry-cloth diaper, I'll dust off my trusty My Bloody Valentine's Loveless cd for some throwback.

A Good Song Part 1: The History Of Liking

After years of being told by parents, teachers, doctors, optometrists, friends, and diary entries from the days of yore that don't lie (and should be burned) that I am over-emotional and sensitive, I decided to turn a new leaf in college. I would try my darndest to remove the emotional tendencies from my artistic vocabulary.

Was that beautiful? No, it was sentimental.

Was that ugly? No, it was an accurate portrayal of the reality of life.

Am I a good artist? (Or, will I get my BFA when all is said and done?) Good is too subjective. But here's your degree.

It has been ingrained in me that loving something for nostalgic purposes, or sentimentality, or for the sheer fact that it stirs emotions within you is a form of weakness. The farther I move from the days of college and wanting to believe that I have the omniscient ability to remain objective in all things, I'm realizing that I am still emotional and sensitive. And not an art robot.

Although, in the case of music especially, I find that I have a hard time liking something upon first listen. Or even more so, I hate that unless I can connect a song to a memory, or a feeling, or a particular experience (pleasurable, mind you), I probably won't like it. Time, space, memory, and all of those other humanly sensations factor into my loves and my dislikes.

I wish I could be more like those whose range in tastes and genres seem to be influenced more by their ear than their id. I don't know this to be true in every case (ahem, Josh?), but I'm reminded that some people* love mediums in art for just that: the love of the medium. The stirring of emotions seems to be a byproduct of their initial interest.

In my case, I do not like most kinds of jazz (for example) because it makes me nervous. It never really stood a chance. And I hate that. I want to go to a night club with Mr. and Mrs. Huxtable and I want to like free jazz, so-help-me. So stop making me nervous, with your beeda-bahdo-dop-DEE-DEEEE-DEEEEE!

I remember sitting in my experimental sound class listening to Steve Reich's Come Out

(which I do love), and thinking,

"Now do I really like this, or do I just get it, therefore liking it?"

(as I would later discover that Reich was one of the easier artists to listen to in a cold, dark, screening room at 9:00am, unlike some of his other Minimalist or Fluxus buds.)

And the bigger answer:

"Dera, you're over-analytical. Stop thinking so much and just enjoy."

Or as a professor once said to me, "You're too self-correcting." How does one correct that problem?

So, when I'm not over-analyzing, over-correcting, and over-emotionalizing everything, I am over-delighting... sifting through the photo-albums and home videos in my mind that accompany the precipitating sounds.

Now, I have to admit something. This was not the post I set out to write. I wanted to write a 2 sentence blurb about one of my favorite songs. I should know better. Every thought has a precursor, every interest has a story. Hopefully Part 2 to this post won't need any more forwards or introductions.

John Cage

George Brecht

Steve Reich

Phillip Corner

My favorite ivory tickler, Schroder.

* Magical Metal Playground is a shared blog of some friends, some family, and some people that I may have to wait to meet in Blogger Glory. I was flattered to be asked to write on there, as most of the other writers are either amazing musicians/artists or just have amazing musical/visual lovelies to recommend.

On Record

When I first met Terry, he embodied everything I wanted in a man. He was tall, handsome, kind, gentle but masculine, he made art (that I fell in love with before meeting him actually), he liked my food which made me feel like a rescuer (some inherited busomy Italian gene?), he was weird in all the right ways, he was of pedigree extraction (McKay's and White's probably had high tea while the Bennett's and Angileri's were drinking homemade wine from the bathtub), and he was forward thinking, I thought. He was always thinking, in fact. And drawing. Quiet. Funny. Musical. The list could go on and on, for the record.

However. He once said something to me, very early in our "courting" days, that struck me odd and out of character for someone who I had classified as "forward thinking".

We were looking at something drawn, perhaps a childrens book illustration or something, that I mentioned I liked. He, without a second thought, said:

Terry: "A woman drew that."

Just by his tone, I knew that was not a good thing.

Me: "How do you know?"

Terry: "It looks like butterflies are about to fly off the page. It's flowery and curly and... look at how she drew the man in the book."

The man looked just like the way I'd have drawn a man.

Terry: "He's soft and sweet. I bet she was in love with him when she drew him."

By the way, Terry and I met in art school. Where I had planned on making art. For a statement to come so easily from his mouth, as though he'd thought this gem up long before then and waited for the perfect time to reveal his true chauvinistic side (once I was locked into the relationship, I guess), I was annoyed. And paranoid that I was one of those Lilith Fair artists. I shouldn't have cared, but it sunk deep at 18. Not completely his doing but having played a big part, I changed my major to experimental video. A major deserving an explanation for another post.

Since then, the issue has come up as we see illustrations, cartoons, and art made by women who draw with their {a word that looks like Regina, sounds like angina} apparently. Or so says Terry. And I still find offense in that after all these years.

Last night, he said it again:

Terry: "...like that time you drew me when I went to your mom and dad's house for the first time?", har, har, har.

I remembered exactly which drawing he was referring to, inside the very first sketchbook I kept in college, as sentimental as his shoe boxes full of concert stubs he's stashed away under our bed. I drew his profile sitting on the couch watching tv, and it was a darn good portrait, if I may say so myself. It wasn't sappy. He was fully clothed. It was just his profile. Because he was there. What hurt most was that I had no idea, 11 years later, that he thought it was bad.

Terry: "I never said it was bad. I said it looked like a girl did it. And you're a girl."

Me: "Don't patronize me. You think it looks fairy-ish."

Terry: "I think it looks like you loved me when you drew it."

Me: "Then I need to draw a picture of you now..."

Terry: "It was cute. Don't get your feelings hurt. I loved it. It was like this...", he pulls out Fiona's sketchbook and starts drawing.

{5 minutes later, and stifling a mouthful of laughter}

While he drew this, I tried drawing him again. And it looked like this:

I made his hair extra fluffy and lips extra pursed just to make him extra mad.

Instead, he tried to make me feel better with these:

Terry: "Ok. Well, here's how I would have drawn you in 5th grade."

"...or like this":

I laugh. Things are better. But, for added insurance...

Terry: "And here's how one of Banjo's {rhymes with witches} would draw him."