Bad Music

The hardest part of my job, some days, is listening to bad music. Mr. and Mrs. D have a high tech Sonos music system that plays in four places: the pool, the patio, the living room, and some other place. You can set different music to play in each area if you want to.

The girls had the day off from school, and we decided to have a pool party. Since no party is complete without music, the Sonos remote came outside with us.

The day had potential for stardom. I had the luxury of being in the pool for five hours. This truly was a luxury. I just floated around and invented pool yoga stretches. Sometimes the girls would summon me to a seat in the pool where they pretended to wash my hair. They poured little watering cans of water down my hair and back and gently patted my hair to "dry" it. And I did butterfly strokes down the length of the pool and back probably a hundred times.

But the music was atrocious! Not just because it was pop music. True, I don't really care for pop. And this was pop. But specifically it was Pandora's Lady Gaga station. The lyrics, vibe, and overall feel to most of the songs played on this station should be condemned to hell now. The worst of these songs is already blocked from ever playing again on Sonos. I blocked it.  Last Spring when I first heard it, and watched an innocent seven-year-old girl sweetly singing along.

Chains and whips excite me. Is that even the title? I refuse to Google it. Britney must have gotten really into Shades of Grey. That's just whack. The song's just putrid and wrong on so many levels.

Also last Spring I blocked a song with the lyric "I kissed a girl and I liked it." Nope not going there. Just didn't like the song. Didn't like it a lot.

Today I was tortured with Kelly Clarkson's "Dark Side." I hate everything about this song, but mostly that it gets stuck in my head. Probably because it's a ripoff of the kids' show "H2O: Just Add Water" theme song. The show is about girls turning into mermaids, and every little girl I've babysat in the past five years loves it.

But seriously Kelly Clarkson, I don't need to hear you scream about your dark side. I already know you suck, you don't need to tell me so. If I were that rich and famous I'd have lost the weight by now. You're so close to being unchubby. Maybe just fifteen pounds more. You should start juicing, go to a few yoga classes a week, write better songs, and enjoy your stardom.

I have to wrap this up. I'm getting very upset thinking about Kelly Clarkson. I'll save what little negativity I have left for Lady Gaga. I think it was her, singing about how she wanted to jump on someone's disco stick and take a ride. I don't even remember the lyrics. I'm trying to forget it altogether.

To be fair, Mr. D is always playing Phish and The Beatles when he comes home from work. His kids hear the cool stuff too. But they prefer the Lady Gaga station. 

If you heard any bad music today, let me recommend a tune I'm listening to right now to sanitize my mind. "Have a Heart," by Bonnie Raitt. Good stuff.

Gluttony

Gluttony is a sin. Especially for those that know better, like me. It's a wonder anyone in this country is skinny, given the mass temptations all around. I gave into temptation today. I don't feel like writing about it. But I'm going to. I need to confess and get this off my chest.

I had a really bad eating day today.

Sidenote: The bikini pic above was taken exactly 3 years later. Yes, it took 3 more years after this gluttonous day in August of 2012 to get a grip on that last 20 lbs. And then I lost another 10 the following year after I quit drinking alcohol altogether. So now I weigh 110 instead of 140.

Seriously, it was horrible. It all started when I made breakfast for the three girls I babysit. The oldest wanted oatmeal, the youngest wanted pancakes, and the middle child wanted granola. Fine. Done.

Oh, but I think I'll step into the pantry just one more time, to make one last thing, in case they're all still hungry...

The devil is sneaky. I thought I would toast four thin slices of that Cinnamon Raisin Bread that Mrs. D always has around. However, when I scanned the entire bread shelf in the pantry, I noticed a new kind of Cinnamon Raisin Bread; It was Strawberry Cinnamon Raisin Bread, and twice as thick!

So I grab the bag of intensely thick Strawberry Cinnamon Raisin Bread, toast four slices, and layer each one with thick blocks of butter until each piece of toast is completely soaked and heavy with butter. I must have used a half stick of butter.

Then I sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on each of the four slices. I cut them in half. Eight very shiny, thick, butter soaked, rectangular Strawberry Cinnamon Raisin Bread pieces of toast, with extra cinnamon and sugar to boot. A delight to any child's eye.

This is for the kids, I tell myself. A nice treat for them as I send them off to school with a happy little sugar high. Sorry teachers.

Except none of the girls wanted any. I waited and waited for them, just one of them, to change her mind. Slowly I realized I might have to eat the toast myself. I ended up doing just that.

After dropping off the two older girls at school, I returned to the house with the three-year-old. I played hide-and-seek with her, and hid in the pantry, so I could eat more. I was eating Pirate Booty White Cheddar Popcorn by the handfuls, and Mini Reese's Cups. An hour later I ate a chocolate chip cookie with peanut butter on top, and for lunch, half a box of macaroni and cheese.

I was possessed by a gluttonous demon. This was not me at all. Though it has happened a few times before.

I was depressed all day after eating that toast. And I felt my belly really pushing on my shorts. So like a rational human being, I decided I would be proactive and fix this mess I'd put my body through.

I decided to eat some healthy food. I found an applesauce and a banana, and devoured them quickly, so they could catch and fight the butter and sugar before the butter and sugar disappeared off into my ass, hips, and thighs.

An hour or so went by. I still felt more full than ever, and my relaxed belly looked like it was five-months-pregnant. If fruit couldn't solve this problem, I needed to do something drastic.

So I ate some fermented cabbage. Oh God. I'd followed a recipe last week for "Pro-biotic and Digestive Enzyme Salad."  You can view all kinds of YouTube videos that teach you how to make it. Supposedly the ingredients: shredded cabbage, carrots, onions, garlic, and water, can ferment themselves without the use of vinegar, when contained in a glass jar at room temperature for five to eight days. Refrigerate after opening. Seemed simple enough. Six days of fermentation had passed, and I'd brought it with me to work, so I decided I'd give it a try.

I should mention that I left my Pro-biotic and Digestive Enzyme Salad in Mrs. D's pantry last weekend. On Monday morning she ever so politely asked me to take it home, as it stunk up her entire house. When I brought it with me today, I had to store it in the garage, hidden in a bag. I was planning on trying it today or tomorrow anyhow.

So I opened the glass jar. The smell slapped me in the face. It was nasty. Like really sour sauerkraut. But I was desperate, and force-fed myself 8 or 10 fork-fulls while plugging my nose.

It was tolerable and actually didn't taste half as bad as it smelled. But it was nowhere close to being delicious. I don't know if it helped. At least I feel I punished myself.

That about sums up my day. I'm PMS'ing if you really want to know. And I'm going out for ice cream later.

Blue and Green

I'm home enjoying a quiet, sunny summer day. It's nice to just sit on my back patio and stare at the trees when I'm alone. I don't fantasize about food or sex so much anymore. I dream of being old, like my Grandma, and sitting on a back porch by a lake, like she does, and having nothing better to do than stare off into the distance.               

I awoke at eight thirty, my t-shirt twisted and my legs bent and awkwardly stretched this way and that. Pillows were everywhere but under my head. I drew up the blinds and just marveled at the day. Blue and green. I knew this day would be special, and I thanked God for it right away. I've enjoyed silence and stillness all morning. The air smells salty, the ocean just a ten-minute drive away. I can't spot a cloud in the sky. It's a blue and green day as I sit at a glass patio table, glancing over my condo development's well-groomed back lawn, and what Bob Ross calls, "happy little trees." Quiet, nature-inspired days like this remind me of my Grandma's house.      

I remember being five years old, when Grandpa was still very much alive, and when his guitar and bluegrass music filled the green living room. I remember his foot stomping, and the smoke from his cigar moving up into the room and floating like stretched strands of cotton over our heads. The half-drawn blinds scattered light on the smoke and made the dust sparkle.                  

The television aired a muted football game. Grandma's fingers dangled over the rim of her chair's arm rest as she tapped the air and quietly sang non-words or words I couldn't understand. She would swing her short legs and tiny feet to the music and eventually return to some knitting project buried in her leather ottoman footstool.                                     

Summer days spent at Grandma's had a sense of stillness. The hours of the day stretched out into an eternity. The backyard enchanted me. There was this really cool tree, actually three trees growing out of one stump. It was large and green and dreamy. I poked the sap bubbles with sticks and collected bugs to trap in the sap blobs. One day Grandpa came out with a box of toothpicks and twisted one into a bump. Then to my horror, he ate the sap. He gave me a toothpick and I gave it a try. It wasn’t much better than the sip of beer he gave me once before, and I made an awful face. Grandpa laughed. Then he retrieved a fishing pole and a bucket from under the back porch, put a bobber on my line, then organized trash into various barrels and retreated indoors, leaving me to my own vices and imagination.

I dug worms under the woodpile, fished from the lake, and picked blueberries that grew along the fence between Grandma's house and the next door Boat Marina. Grandma and Grandpa had a really cool camping trailer parked in the backyard too, and I would ask them to unlock it for me when I played outside. I always went straight to the candy jar and sucked on a piece of butterscotch or cinnamon hard candy while playing with Barrel of Monkeys and Wordsearch books. Later I would go back outside and lay on the dock spread out like a snow angel in the summer heat. Squinting, I could watch the dreamy tree's leaves delicately waver back and forth, high up against the backdrop of barely passing clouds.

I probably slept on that dock, too. Nobody checked on me for what felt like hours. I was uninhabited and carefree, with dirt under my fingernails and grass stains on my knees. I could close my eyes and listen to the Marina's boats rock back and forth in their places. There was the occasional creak of a lone bullfrog, the fluttering of a duck's wings against the water as it took flight, and the distant lull of human activity far, far away. Everything seemed far away then.          

Far away... like the memory of it now. Every summer I lost a few lines of bait and tackle to the community of lily pads and cattails that lay just over the end of Grandma's dock. Even when I cast out to the left or right of the weeds, the current would sometimes move my line back into the path of them. I could only reel so close when this happened. The line would get stuck and I would lie on my belly and try everything to loosen the hook. I would reach and pull the line vertically, then find a long stick and poke under the water at where the hook might be. I'd pull this way and that, gently, then yank as hard as I could, to no avail. 

Writing about memory is kind of like casting out a fishing line. Some memories get stuck in the weeds that grow between then and now.  Others come back easily. My heart aches as I get to the end of this memory and say, that's it, I can't remember too much more. I remember just enough to wish I could go back and spend another day, an eternity, playing in Grandma's backyard.  

I wish I could go back and have the chance to be five years old again. I'd even settle for being reincarnated into a time traveling black fly. I'd fly back to the summer of 1986 and buzz around on Grandma's back porch, and watch myself from a distance.

Writing

There's something romantic about writing. Especially writing with a pen. Besides the occasional to-do list or bill signature, its rarely done for pleasure. I'm going to do an exercise.

Okay I wrote down a stream of thoughts on paper. There were too many to record them all. I noticed that using a pen to write held me back a little.

First, when writing on paper, I have to write slowly. My thoughts have to slow down, almost to the point of stillness. The pen is rather intimidating. I haven't felt anything romantic about this yet. If I make a mistake, I have to start over. Think it out all over again. What was I thinking? What was that thought? Is there a point or main idea to all this? Hold that thought. I have to finish this one first. I'll go back to that later. Wait, what was I thinking?

Slow. Down. And take the risk I might forget what I was going towards, or where I started. Just. Write.

I notice that writing down my passing thoughts with a pen is like driving down a seldom used back-country road. It takes more time. When I type on a computer, it's like taking the highway.

A back-country road might be bumpy, but it still gets me somewhere. There are new sights along the way. I slow down for the bumps and see what's around me. Even if I come to a dead end, I can backtrack, and revisit everything I just saw. There aren't many distractions on this road. I pay attention to small details.

On the highway, I get to my destination faster, and racing thoughts become speeding drivers whizzing past me. I notice them in my peripheral vision, briefly. Then they're forgotten. I miss a lot along the way. I'm going too fast. I'm typing 100 wpm. Or driving 80 mph. It's all the same hypnotic cocktail. Highway hypnosis. Add a cell phone and some music and a beverage and it's like I'm not even driving at all.

The highway is more evolved though, and I imagine most great writers type up volumes of books under the influence of divine inspiration at an incredulous pace. If a writer writes for a living, he is monetarily and circumstantially motivated, and he'll create even when he's not inspired to. A writer practices and eventually, perhaps, learns to pay attention to small details on the highway.

Must there be a thesis or main idea or elaborate story or agenda?

The writers I read and wrote about in college usually had a drug or alcohol problem, or both. Or they were earning a living in desperate times. Or they fell into it from a privileged educational background which gave them a full command of the English language. Some simply had an incredible story to tell, with editors to help tell it.

There is a language in the mind that, without arbitrary symbols exposing it in laymen terms, speaks in colors, melodies, and introspective judgments. A kaleidoscope lens through which we perceive the world. We recall our present struggles, future goals, and distant memories.

At present, I enjoy my job. A new school year began today for two of the girls I babysit. While they were in school, I enjoyed a long walk with their three-year-old little sister to a playground, where she and I had a picnic on the grass in the shade. Later, back at the girls' house, I played with My-Little-Ponies, Play-Doh, and sidewalk chalk. And the parents sent me home with a brown paper bag full of leftovers from their dinner party the night before.

I also enjoy being single. I wonder why the Old Testament is against it. I think the Eunuchs, they called them, the single people, were treated as outcasts. But Jesus thankfully clarified that it wasn't such a bad thing. Thank God for Jesus, clarifying all the Old Testament nonsense. I mean it wasn't really nonsense, if you understand that people were having sex with their moms and with animals and stuff like that. Obviously God had to lay down some strict rules for those creepy sinners.

My single self has been revisiting activities I enjoyed as a kid, as well as some new activities. I went rollerblading for the first time in over 10 years. I'm playing guitar. I'm cooking more often. I take long walks. I eat ice cream cones on those long walks. I call and talk to my 92 year old grandma. I read books. I go to Yoga.

I've been babysitting kids for 20 years now. Many are grown up. Some have children of their own. Some have drinking problems. Some have extraordinarily successful lives. But I don't really know them anymore. I will only ever be connected to their past selves. They are older and changed now. Change is not always a good thing.

Maybe I could be a writer someday. I enjoy solitude, probably a little too much. I like to lay in bed: reading, stretching, facebooking, or listening to my dad's sermons online through little headphones. I watch episodes of "Intervention" and "Locked Up Abroad," on A&E and National Geographic websites.

So maybe I'll write. I'll write about something, or nothing, or potential somethings in-between. An Adirondack Author named Charles Brumley once told me, "When you write, mostly it comes out bad. But you keep writing. And you'll get a little bit of really good stuff eventually."

I guess that's a hopeful thought. We'll see.