because it’s new year’s eve (for us red sea pedestrians), i thought i’d make a somewhat appropriate entry into the book of my musical guilty pleasures:
it’s hard for me to believe that simply red was one of the bands that resulted from a famous sex pistols stint in manchester in 1976 (a set of shows that ultimately inspired the creation of the buzzcocks, the smiths, joy division/new order, not to mention factory records. this bit of history, by the way, is chronicled in the movie 24 hour party people, a painful but interesting work. i defy you to not hate the happy mondays once you’ve seen it.) i mean, here’s the seminal british punk act inspiring other complete musical departures… and simply red?
simply red? holding back the years, the major hit for the band in the states, is a lulling, wistful ode to growing up, moving on, yet holding on to your dreams. this is no anarchy in the uk, kids — mick is wishing for the arms of mater. (mater? pater? who the hell calls their parents in latin?) apparently, the song originally was not so subdued.
and yet, that’s exactly what i love about it. it’s meditative elevator music, an earworm of a song that never leaves you. when i was 20 and starting my life over (the first time) in a variety of ways (moved away from our childhood home, starting out at a new university, etc.), i completely glommed onto a song that captured the way i felt. and whenever i hear it, it brings me back straightaway to a spring and summer i cried through after an excruciating, but expected, breakup.
good. times.
but the good thing about hearing the song now is that i did keep holding on — to myself. and i’m still here. still annoying people. still listening to bad music.
and still trying to make each year better than the last.
to those of you who celebrate rosh hashana, l’shanah tova!
yesterday, i had the pleasure of sitting beside two mothers, both with babies. one was armed with weisbluth’s healthy sleep habits, happy child. the two began to talk about sleep training. i began to smile, thinking about the joys of sleep training (or lack thereof) my kids.
in order to fully prepare yourself for sleep training, you ought to first start by watching a 72-hour marathon of something truly awful, never once allowing yourself to rest. (i recommend something like saved by the bell. or caillou. or, perhaps, jerry springer?) intermittently, you need to start a painful discussion with your partner every six hours or so, just so that you can get yourself swirled into an emotional fever pitch. fight about money? your in-laws? your politics? his wandering eye? whatever gets you truly exhausted and exasperated — that’s your topic. also, whack yourself in the head a few times. sporadically, of course, and not enough to cause brain damage. maybe you shouldn’t eat much, either, during this time.
once you’ve completed torture time, get ready to rumble.
seriously, i thought i was going to lose my mind when BC was a baby. nevermind that she had reflux, was colicky, did not gain weight well, and was often sick. she never. ever. slept. my mother would try to make me feel better: she’s always awake because she’s so smart — she’s curious about the world. [note to self: must remember this line when BC’s first child never sleeps.] but all the books i read said that a child naps a certain number of hours, a child goes to bed for certain hours.
BC never did either.
i would start the nightly walk with BC once the colic started. i sang the entire Beatles repertoire, i sang plenty of the crosby, stills, nash catalog, and of course, i sang her nightly bedtime song:
the girl loved my singing, but she’d never settle down to sleep. i’d rock her, she’d nap, i’d put her down, she’d wake up screaming. i had to feed her every time she wanted food — she was a poor weight gainer, so i was shoving a bottle at her every time i could, all hours, all the time. it was a dance that led her to poor sleep habits for awhile and led me to a horrific case of shingles.
girlfriend didn’t have a full night of sleep until she was 18 months old.
when jools started down that path, there was no way on Dog’s Green Earth we were reliving that fun. see, i am from the rock the child to sleep attachment parenting front but my husband is from the shut the door and let him scream until next tuesday front. (not to be confused with those women from venus and men from mars fronts.) in short, we could not agree.
there was a time when i’d laugh at the idea of paying for someone to help you learn parenting skills. i laugh no more. the woman who saved our sleep, our marriage, our sanity, cost us very little compared to what she gave us: she got BS and me on the same page about sleep training (read: gentle ferberization), and she got jools sleeping perfectly in no time. she gave us a plan; we followed it. and. it. worked.
i have friends who are serious attachment parenting people; and if that works for them, i am happy. live and let live. i think different kids have different temperaments, and so what works for one child may not work for them all. for me? well, i was always afraid i would roll over on a baby if i co-slept. i was that tired. and the funny thing that i notice about some of my friends who let the kids sleep in their rooms — they have a hell of a time getting their kids out of their bedrooms and into their own rooms later on.
so now, our sleep is interrupted more by other things: sick kids, kids who fear the impending death of their mother, angst. but we turn on our nighttime music, cuddle up with whatever (or whoever) is near, and attempt to re-enter that magical realm of morpheus.
so, as i listened to the mothers — one, a mother of a three-month old, and the other, a mother of a toddler and a newborn — talk about sleep theories, i chuckled to myself.
i’m woefully overdue for responding to this meme that my pal nylonthread assigned. you’ll find that i am not exactly a major carnivore. i don’t eat a ton of meat or fish; i don’t eat pork at all; and i don’t really have any interest whatsoever in eating most animals, exotic or not. i don’t like the taste, and i don’t see the point. but that’s just me: a girl who, as a child, would take a peanut butter and jelly sammich over a steak. i’ve never, ever been able to get excited about a steakhouse or a great seafood restaurant.
now a vegetarian restaurant? THAT i get excited about. i don’t mind chicken, though it’s not like i search it out most of the time. me, i like beans, cheese, nuts and nut butters, and veggies.
and chocolate, of course.
but to each his own.
the rules:
1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.
The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:
1. Venison 2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros 4. Steak tartare 5. Crocodile (does alligator count? i tried some on my honeymoon.) 6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp (does gefilte fish count?)
9. Borsch
10. Baba ghanoush 11. Calamari
12. Pho (LOVE PHO)
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle 18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes 19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries 23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans 25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper 27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters (had to have a few beers before i tried it. no more for me, thanks.)
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl (and no, i don’t especially like clam chowder. or clams.)
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar 37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40.Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects(unless you count my unintentional inhalation of bugs.)
43. Phaal 44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu 47. Chicken tikka masala (YUMMMMM)
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi – not sure.
53. Abalone 54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine 60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin (uhm, isn’t that clay?)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian 66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis 69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette 71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu 77. Hostess Fruit Pie (my lunch of choice senior year in high school)
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum (tom yum kai, to be more specific)
82. Eggs Benedict (ew.)
83. Pocky (but i’d be happy to try it!) 84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse 90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam (no spam was a cornerstone of our marital negotiations.)
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox (hello. what tribe am i from?)
97. Lobster Thermidor 98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake
the late, great sylvester james was a hell of a guy — and girl, i suppose, performing solo as well as part of a transvestite group which at one point included divine among it’s ranks. s/he did his bit for freedom and the american way, and it was a sad, sad day when we lost him to AIDS in 1988.
it’s pretty damn hard for me to choose between funk and you make me feel (mighty real), as they both put the fun into funky, HI-NRG disco. but back when i was allegedly too cool to like any sort of dance music, well, i secretly treasured this song among others.
good thing it has a great hook. his falsetto is SO damn high, there’s no WAY anyone over the age of four can sing along with it. acceptably, that is.
anyway, i’m too busy dancing right now to say anything terribly clever. besides, in disco, it’s not exactly about the lyrics, for the most part.
we have a sad little trend happening here in the wreke house: kids terrified that their mom (read: moi) is going to die.
my kids have been through an emotional mill. they remember a time when i went to the emergency room and didn’t emerge for a few days. they visited and saw a mom who was covered, head to toe, in purple blotches, with needles in her arms. (the perfect visual: my BFF jaxx came in, took one look at me, and announced: you look like a crack whore.) then, a day after i was released, i was back in the hospital for over a week. my recovery from ITP took months (and i’m still in remission — yay, me!), and during that time, i learned how each handles this stress.
while i was in the hospital, BC (ever her mother’s daughter) apparently cried every single day at school. her first grade teachers and the guidance counselor were absolutely amazing — they took her under their wings, they gave her TLC, and they let her know that they were in her corner. once i came home, she settled down a bit.
jools, on the other hand, a sturdy almost-three-year old at the time, was fine at school. once i returned from the hospital, though, he wanted to be with me at all times. at night, he didn’t want to go to bed for fear i would not be there in the morning.
the hardest thing about being a parent with a serious illness may very well be coping with, and for, your children. that peaceful, calm moment of childhood is ripped away from your children suddenly; and in it’s stead lies a terrifying potential reality of extreme loss. it never really leaves, either: my mother’s first bout with breast cancer happened when i was 15. she’s always very up-front with me about things, and yet, i still get nervous every time she goes to a doctor. and i’m a grown-up.
it stands to reason, then, that every time something seriously medical is on the horizon, my kids prepare for the worst. and, in short, i have to get my gallbladder out. and suddenly, everyone is afraid. BC isn’t sleeping; her upset makes her coughing so much worse. jools is randomly noting things, such as: “when you die, i want to give you my star (that he made in his kindergarten class earlier in the week.)” it is enough to make me wonder whether they know something i do not.
but, to paraphrase mark twain, the rumors of my impending death are greatly exaggerated.
sure, any operation is a little riskier for us CVID folks, as any infection is not something we need. but this is my gallbladder. it’s not brain surgery. it will go well; i’m not too terribly concerned. but it doesn’t matter how many times i tell my kids that so many of their loved ones have had this very same operation. girlfriend and mr. man are on the alert.
i have to get past my own angst here and do whatever i can to make them feel more comfortable. short of constantly reassuring them, though, i don’t know what else to do.
it crushes me to know that i am the reason they’re so distressed.
while you’re at it, make sure you throw pink into your reader. her posts are thought-provoking. and i especially enjoy her haiku, particularly this one.
and then, there’s john mccain. apparently, while he was in that awful POW camp, he was missing his beautiful, former model wife carol. what he didn’t know was that she was in a horrible car accident. she needed 23 operations. and she held it all together, children and all while he was away, serving the country of course, but still away.
when he returned, he essentially screwed around on this poor woman. he ended up dumping her for his current wife, a beer heiress 17 years his junior. even ross perot, who paid carol’s medical bills — and there were heaps of them — put it succinctly:
let the record show mccain’s cheating past. and let that info go straight to the working-class women voters he’s trying to woo. i’m sick and tired of public men getting away with this crap. they cloak themselves in the garments of American Hero, but somehow, the content of their character is betrayed by such cowardly acts of disloyalty.
it’s after midnight. and for over a week now, girlfriend awakes in this time, starts barking and coughing her head off, and generally gets hysterical. with her coughing history, we are never sure whether it’s allergies, reflux, an actual infection, a virus, or none of the above. a good friend’s twins also has this and was told it’s viral, which of course means we just have to suck it up and deal.
but it’s hard to suck it up and deal when no one is getting any sleep around here.
girlfriend already missed two days of school last week because she felt so incredibly awful. of course, this week is the week that her class is in mandated swim lessons. today, she told me she could barely make it through the laps she was required to swim; it was difficult to breathe. between the nasonex, albuterol, allegra (interspersed at times with benedryl, which gave her scary dreams last night when she was sleeping), and the z-pack, i just don’t know what the hell to do.
girlfriend gets hysterical because she knows she’s waking everyone up. getting hysterical, as we all know, doesn’t help. no one is mad at her because she’s coughing. we people of the adult variety may seem a little stiff and gruff at this hour only because we, too, are feeling the effects of negligible sleep; but no one is mad at the girl. we want to help her. we just feel completely helpless at the moment.
my magic wand is broken at the moment, so i can’t seem to wave it and make things all better. it just so figures it would fail me at this moment.
good old bronski beat. is it gayer than gay? you betcha. and i. don’t. care. see, a great dance song is a great dance song. period. it doesn’t matter, especially when the whole damn thing is infectious.
i certainly didn’t care about the band’s sexual orientation when i entered the melody, a now-defunct club in cespool scenic new brunswick, nj, [motto: it’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole] in the mid- to late-80s. club shmell, smell, hell, or any derivative you prefer, was the dive place you could often find me and my friends on a thursday, friday, saturday…hell, we loved that dirty old sinkhole, which has since been raized (but for which a devoted following still reunites to dance and reminisce.) i was wondering what would be painted on the walls that week, often in full dayglo technicolor. i was hoping i could make my fuzzy navel last for at least an hour while i bopped around. i was searching the upstairs and downstairs, pondering the sort of crowd that would be there (other than the regulars and often matt pinfield, who dj’d there among other souls. he is such a sweetie; i attended one of those reunions last february and was delighted to talk with him for a few minutes. in the words of junie b jones, i love that baldie.)
it was a filthy musical nirvana, a place where young johnson & johnson execs rubbed elbows with rutgers students who, in turn, danced around with the less-than-affluent townspeople at times. and it was the first place i heard hit that perfect beat, a song that, to me, screams flailing around with your girlfriends and ignoring the guys who are staring at you, wondering whether they ought to take a chance and ask you to dance. [answer: don’t bother.] ah yes. there i am, a gallon of stiff stuff in my punky tresses to make it stand up like a cockatiel.
(hey, i’m a jersey girl. i’m obligated to have big hair.)
so if you play smalltown boy or hit that perfect beat, you may make my hair stand on end; though now that i think of it, jimmy somerville’s banshee wail could do that to anyone, cosmetically-bolstered or otherwise.
