During my Baptism, the priest upon bringing me up from the 2nd dunk, prior to immerging me for the 3rd dunk looked at my father and said, "you can't deny this one, she looks just like you." Both my mom and dad share this recollection, thus, I know it is true.
For most of my life, I was the spitting image of my father, as I got older more his family's side in general. Most people at the church his family attended for years knew me as one of them on site. At Vatra (church camp) the other parents would know I was related to the family, of the children they knew from childhood, when my jelly shoes and pony tail got out of the car.
When I was in junior high I was sitting watching a little league baseball game in my uniform waiting for my coach. There were two women a few "seats" away from me talking. I overheard part of their conversation-- "...the woman with the sunglasses and long hair, she's beautiful. I looked over, my mom was sitting a few feet away, she must have just arrived for my game. I asked the women, "excuse me are you talking about that woman there?" Yes, they said. "That's my mom", I said. The one woman smiled and the other looked at me and after a brief pause said "yes, yes I see she is".
I can't remember my exact age (high school years), but I do remember seeing it. I looked in the mirror, and I saw it. I had her nose. The little bump about half way down, was just like hers. For the next several weeks, I would look at it long and hard when I washed my face or put make up on. Hmm, I do resemble her, I would think. So I have some Moore genes, I would think.
Years later, I would find myself doing laundry at 2am during the few hours Gabriel, the baby, was sleeping. It occured to me, I had turned into her. The only other person I knew that did laundry at 2am after a long day was my mother. The only difference was I wasn't cooking a dinner as well for the babysitter (the term nanny didn't exist in the middle class yet) to warm up the next evening, while she was at work.
A few years later, we would rent a house across the street from my mother's parents. Gabriel was a toddler, so he has limited memories of the house, but he does remember the gumballs (see previous post) at his great-grandparents house. After we bought our house, we would visit. At some point during this time period, a picture, the only picture of my mom and her 9 siblings would appear above my grandparent's entertainment system. My grandma immediately showed it to me upon it's framing and showcase in her house. "Look at this picture", she said, smiling. I saw myself, I saw myself with 9 siblings of various ages around me. I stared at my mother. Later, Gabriel was shown the picture and his response was "mom, who are those kids and babies with you and where was I?".
Over the course of years, I have not only grown into looking more like my mom, but I have also grown into her unconditional love, exhasperating caring (my nieces and nephew "lovingly" refer to me as grandma sometimes), overly worrying ways, and dedication to children (in her case two, in mine one).
My mom has shaped the woman I am, the lioness mother, the dedicated professional, the helper of others. There will definitely be a place for her in Heaven, I can only hope she will argue with God enough to get me there too. Somehow, I think she will prevail.
Happy Birthday, Mom. You are amazing in more ways than you will ever know. You are my inspiration every day and I can only hope I leave this Earth giving it as much as you have.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Friday, May 17, 2013
Closed for Business, The End of Dirty Mondays
For a few months, Dirty Mondays "the establishment" hasn't seen much action. Gabriel, "the owner" has moved onto other activities. However, he assured me he was not ready to give it away. I inquired on several occassions.
I rearranged a few items in our kitchen (see blog entitled "Dirty Mondays") and as a result "the establishment" was to be relocated to the playroom. However, the husband, "the father", relocated "the establishment" to the garage.
"The owner" asked several times regarding the whereabouts of "the establishment", wanting confirmation "the establishment" was indeed still in our possession. He confirmed on multiple occassions he would like "the establishment" relocated to the playroom. I mentioned this several times to "the father". He did not seem phased or at all interested.
I tried to move "the establishment" to the playroom. This proved to be challenging due to our stairs (and the fact that "the establishment" stands nearly as tall as me). Obviously, a large plastic kitchen that lasts 7 years is a pretty serious piece of plastic. As a result, "the establishment" stayed in the garage. "The owner", must have noticed it more and more as he stopped inquiring regarding its whereabouts. "The father" became even less interested in hearing about the relocation procedure needed for "the establishment".
I know what you are thinking. "The owner" didn't notice it anymore than he had previously. He just outgrew it.
I know what you are thinking, "the owner" is almost 10 years old. Double digits.
I know what you are thinking. My ill fated attempt to move "the establishment" was a last ditch effort to hold onto my little boy.
I know what you are thinking. "The father" was not at all interested in the relocation because he was aware "the establishment" would not be relocating, but would be closing.
I know what you are thinking. The tears running down my face are pathetic.
Dirty Mondays is gone. There will be no more birthday hats, even when it's not your birthday.
Dirty Mondays is gone. There will be no more cheap meals, but expensive desserts.
Dirty Mondays is gone. There will be no more pizza girl.
Dirty Mondays is gone. The tears streaming down my face are full of memories.
I rearranged a few items in our kitchen (see blog entitled "Dirty Mondays") and as a result "the establishment" was to be relocated to the playroom. However, the husband, "the father", relocated "the establishment" to the garage.
"The owner" asked several times regarding the whereabouts of "the establishment", wanting confirmation "the establishment" was indeed still in our possession. He confirmed on multiple occassions he would like "the establishment" relocated to the playroom. I mentioned this several times to "the father". He did not seem phased or at all interested.
I tried to move "the establishment" to the playroom. This proved to be challenging due to our stairs (and the fact that "the establishment" stands nearly as tall as me). Obviously, a large plastic kitchen that lasts 7 years is a pretty serious piece of plastic. As a result, "the establishment" stayed in the garage. "The owner", must have noticed it more and more as he stopped inquiring regarding its whereabouts. "The father" became even less interested in hearing about the relocation procedure needed for "the establishment".
I know what you are thinking. "The owner" didn't notice it anymore than he had previously. He just outgrew it.
I know what you are thinking, "the owner" is almost 10 years old. Double digits.
I know what you are thinking. My ill fated attempt to move "the establishment" was a last ditch effort to hold onto my little boy.
I know what you are thinking. "The father" was not at all interested in the relocation because he was aware "the establishment" would not be relocating, but would be closing.
I know what you are thinking. The tears running down my face are pathetic.
Dirty Mondays is gone. There will be no more birthday hats, even when it's not your birthday.
Dirty Mondays is gone. There will be no more cheap meals, but expensive desserts.
Dirty Mondays is gone. There will be no more pizza girl.
Dirty Mondays is gone. The tears streaming down my face are full of memories.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Someday, I May Shower Alone
When Gabriel was a baby and I was back at work, I tried to shower before he would wake up. It became a task of tip toeing and wondering if the city knew just how loud the water actually was. Maybe I should call them? Seriously, how did I not notice the octaves of water prior? While he didn't sleep through the night until he was a year old, he did always sleep through my shower.
Eventually, sleep cycles changed and I would strap Gabriel into his carseat and take a very quick shower hoping he either didn't cry or the cries wouldn't break my heart too much. The loud anguishing cries were probably similar to what torture victims sound like when they still have voices. He was much happier free and exploring, something that still hasn't changed, nor do I expect it will. This is the type of experience that can make one sweat in the shower. The stress, the rush, the forgetting to shave the 2nd leg, just anything to end the experience and give your child what they want. This is how they train you...to always think about them and what they need, want, desire. It starts with your morning shower. Someday, I thought, I will be able to take a peaceful shower.
Approaching the "not so much a baby not really a toddler" years, I was very lucky to have the help of my step-daughter. She would help get Gabriel ready in the morning during the week---changed, sometimes cereal fed. At the time she probably enjoyed this (to an extent), but until she had a child of her own, she probably never realized what her minutes to an hour of help actually did for my well being. A semi-peaceful shower no matter if 2 minutes or 15 minutes is a jackpot of diamonds to a mother. Of course, I still rushed, thought of a million things that could be going wrong, dissected if i really needed to wash my hair, justified shaving my legs a few days apart. Someday, I will shave both legs in the same day I thought.
I'm pretty certain that somehow toddlers and small children have brains that automatically switch into need mode when they hear anything related to the closing of a door. Is this what they are really doing that first night at the nursery hosptial? Does a nurse walk around with a clipboard instructing the others which babies still need "the chip" inserted? This chip turns the very word you couldn't wait for them to say into a shrilling blood curling, cringing, and sigh inducing word: Mom. Someday, I will manage an entire hair and make-up session without being needed. I often go without make-up. Someday, I will look like a movie star every time I leave my house. Well, I do have some pretty cool sunglasses...
When Gabriel started school he used to sit in the bathroom while I did my hair or put make-up on (ok so both didn't normally happen on the same day). We would talk, the dog would often get in the way, first Lobo, later Arlo. It became our time and it brought us closer. I enjoyed it. Of course, there were still times I got aggrevated when I tripped over Gabriel or the dog, or for a short time the dogs. I would remind myself, this time won't last forever, be in the moment, enjoy the moment.
My brother's children started coming over in the morning several years ago. The only visitor to the bathroom in the mornings now is Memphis and the occasional child letting me know of some discrepancy by another child that morning. At times, I leave the bathroom stressed because of the noises in the other rooms (are they fighting, playing, an ER visit needed?), but for the most part I do my thing and they do theirs. Occassionally, the click of the door in non-morning hours activates "the chip", but at 9, Gabriel can wait a minute or two and sometimes I purposefuly take longer. He has to learn patience, you know.
Over the weekend, I had the radio on full blast while in the shower. Something I don't do often if I'm the only adult home. A song by Gabriel's favorite band, F.U.N., filled the speakers. Only this time my dormant chip was activated. When I heard the opening of the door, I smiled. For the next several minutes, we sang at the top of our lungs, me in the shower and him dancing on the tile floor. I will miss these days because they really are limited. They really are coming to an end.
Eventually, sleep cycles changed and I would strap Gabriel into his carseat and take a very quick shower hoping he either didn't cry or the cries wouldn't break my heart too much. The loud anguishing cries were probably similar to what torture victims sound like when they still have voices. He was much happier free and exploring, something that still hasn't changed, nor do I expect it will. This is the type of experience that can make one sweat in the shower. The stress, the rush, the forgetting to shave the 2nd leg, just anything to end the experience and give your child what they want. This is how they train you...to always think about them and what they need, want, desire. It starts with your morning shower. Someday, I thought, I will be able to take a peaceful shower.
Approaching the "not so much a baby not really a toddler" years, I was very lucky to have the help of my step-daughter. She would help get Gabriel ready in the morning during the week---changed, sometimes cereal fed. At the time she probably enjoyed this (to an extent), but until she had a child of her own, she probably never realized what her minutes to an hour of help actually did for my well being. A semi-peaceful shower no matter if 2 minutes or 15 minutes is a jackpot of diamonds to a mother. Of course, I still rushed, thought of a million things that could be going wrong, dissected if i really needed to wash my hair, justified shaving my legs a few days apart. Someday, I will shave both legs in the same day I thought.
I'm pretty certain that somehow toddlers and small children have brains that automatically switch into need mode when they hear anything related to the closing of a door. Is this what they are really doing that first night at the nursery hosptial? Does a nurse walk around with a clipboard instructing the others which babies still need "the chip" inserted? This chip turns the very word you couldn't wait for them to say into a shrilling blood curling, cringing, and sigh inducing word: Mom. Someday, I will manage an entire hair and make-up session without being needed. I often go without make-up. Someday, I will look like a movie star every time I leave my house. Well, I do have some pretty cool sunglasses...
When Gabriel started school he used to sit in the bathroom while I did my hair or put make-up on (ok so both didn't normally happen on the same day). We would talk, the dog would often get in the way, first Lobo, later Arlo. It became our time and it brought us closer. I enjoyed it. Of course, there were still times I got aggrevated when I tripped over Gabriel or the dog, or for a short time the dogs. I would remind myself, this time won't last forever, be in the moment, enjoy the moment.
My brother's children started coming over in the morning several years ago. The only visitor to the bathroom in the mornings now is Memphis and the occasional child letting me know of some discrepancy by another child that morning. At times, I leave the bathroom stressed because of the noises in the other rooms (are they fighting, playing, an ER visit needed?), but for the most part I do my thing and they do theirs. Occassionally, the click of the door in non-morning hours activates "the chip", but at 9, Gabriel can wait a minute or two and sometimes I purposefuly take longer. He has to learn patience, you know.
Over the weekend, I had the radio on full blast while in the shower. Something I don't do often if I'm the only adult home. A song by Gabriel's favorite band, F.U.N., filled the speakers. Only this time my dormant chip was activated. When I heard the opening of the door, I smiled. For the next several minutes, we sang at the top of our lungs, me in the shower and him dancing on the tile floor. I will miss these days because they really are limited. They really are coming to an end.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
No, You Can't. Yes, I Can.
One of my biggest problems has always been listening when someone tells me what to do. No, you can't drive in this snow storm (I did without issue); no, you shouldn't wear those shoes with this ice (I fell); yes, you should always put the guards on your ice skates (cut lip). Sometimes, my stubborness or my belief that I know what is right, correct, better has worked out, sometimes, not so much.
It didn't help that I was raised by parents, who taught me that I could achieve anything I wanted to achieve. I could be anything, I could do anything. My mom worked long hours in the ICU Department as a RN, when I was young, she picked up over time hours whenever she could. I never wanted for anything to be honest. The latest K-Swiss shoes, had them. The hockey skates for Friday at Winterhurst when the borrowed figure skates were no longer "cool", bought. The new outfit for the dance even though I probably had clothes I hadn't worn yet, bought. The private liberal arts college, when she had prepared for only state school, paid. The wedding dress I ripped out of a magazine and saved for half a decade not realizing it was couture, wore it. My dad was working on a college degree when I was in grade school. I would attend classes with him at a very young age. I didn't know I wasn't "in the class". I aked questions. Professors shamed the college kids, who didn't pick up what this little girl did. He called out injustices in socio-economics, in treatment of people. I stood on the lines with him, I called out grown-ups, who used degrating words, that treated people poorly. I dreamed big, and they supported it.
In my early 20s, I became lost. I didn't know what I wanted to do anymore (see previous blogs). They say God laughs when you make plans, I despised Him for his laughter, for His lesson that I wasn't in control. Yes, I was, how dare He make me doubt. Show Yourself, play on my field. Show himself He did.
In the mist of confusion, in the mist of figuring it out, I found out I was pregnant. I hadn't really even thought about kids, and then bam, I had to think about the baby I would have. I had to grow up. I didn't make a plan, I did something out of my character. I took one step at a time, one step at a time towards the life I wanted not knowing yet really what I would do "when I grew up."
When asked on interviews why I chose HR as a profession, I tell the truth. I followed a lead a friend gave me and I applied for a recruiting job. I had done a lot with recruitment in college for my sorority, for Greek Life. Surely, it had to be similar. I fell in love with the world of recruitment, with training, with developing others. I knew I had found my calling. I had found my calling because of the angel, I would name Gabriel. I wanted more, I was hungry. I went back for my MBA. I worked around 45 hours a week, took my graduate classes, ran a household, and raised a baby. I graduated with a 3.87 GPA. I achieved it.
My career grew, I focused more on all areas of HR, stepping more and more away from talent acquisition and more and more into employee relations and performance management coaching. I started to earn a name as "the one to ask", the "one to get coaching from". My career was not without setbacks (see previous blogs), but I started to feel like those post college years spent in non-career jobs, were no longer important.
Gabriel has morals, he calls out adults who treat others poorly, he has a vocabularly that people don't believe. He plays soccer forty some weeks a year, baseball in the summers, piano lessons. He plays on his iPad, he doesn't understand why social injustice exists. He talks about Yale, Harvard, and sometimes how he's gonna move to New York City.
The past year has been challenging. My hours are often difficult, I've missed a few school functions, I've lost sleep, I've woken up in the middle of the night and turned on a lap top, I've arrived at work at 4am, I've left work at 4am. I found a mentor to help me help my employees even more. Turnover has decreased, employee morale has improved, employee engagement is strong. When asked in interviews why I am passionate about my field, I tell the truth. I make a difference to the business, to people's career path, to lives. I am one of the lucky few that gets to go to work everyday and earn a paycheck doing something I love, not something I have to do.
Today, I was told that if I truly wanted out of my career, what I have stated (executive level is my end goal), that I would have to dedicate more to work and less to sick child days, soccer games, family life. That I couldn't have it all. That in today's world, you have to make the hard choices.
I've made the hard choices. I finished an undergrad degree in Political Sciences, I knew I would never use. I ended a relationship with someone I loved very much, when I knew he didn't feel the same anymore, when I could barely stand up from the knowledge. I went back for a MBA when I still needed my full time job and was raising a child in diapers. I supported my husband when he quit his job and went back to nursing school, at a time when we were not fully prepared for my salary alone. I brought a puppy home when my work hours were long and my child's social calendar was reminiscent of my teen years. Those are just the ones I am willing to share on a social blog.
So tell me again, what I can't do? I don't think I heard you correctly. I can do anything I set my mind to achieve.
It didn't help that I was raised by parents, who taught me that I could achieve anything I wanted to achieve. I could be anything, I could do anything. My mom worked long hours in the ICU Department as a RN, when I was young, she picked up over time hours whenever she could. I never wanted for anything to be honest. The latest K-Swiss shoes, had them. The hockey skates for Friday at Winterhurst when the borrowed figure skates were no longer "cool", bought. The new outfit for the dance even though I probably had clothes I hadn't worn yet, bought. The private liberal arts college, when she had prepared for only state school, paid. The wedding dress I ripped out of a magazine and saved for half a decade not realizing it was couture, wore it. My dad was working on a college degree when I was in grade school. I would attend classes with him at a very young age. I didn't know I wasn't "in the class". I aked questions. Professors shamed the college kids, who didn't pick up what this little girl did. He called out injustices in socio-economics, in treatment of people. I stood on the lines with him, I called out grown-ups, who used degrating words, that treated people poorly. I dreamed big, and they supported it.
In my early 20s, I became lost. I didn't know what I wanted to do anymore (see previous blogs). They say God laughs when you make plans, I despised Him for his laughter, for His lesson that I wasn't in control. Yes, I was, how dare He make me doubt. Show Yourself, play on my field. Show himself He did.
In the mist of confusion, in the mist of figuring it out, I found out I was pregnant. I hadn't really even thought about kids, and then bam, I had to think about the baby I would have. I had to grow up. I didn't make a plan, I did something out of my character. I took one step at a time, one step at a time towards the life I wanted not knowing yet really what I would do "when I grew up."
When asked on interviews why I chose HR as a profession, I tell the truth. I followed a lead a friend gave me and I applied for a recruiting job. I had done a lot with recruitment in college for my sorority, for Greek Life. Surely, it had to be similar. I fell in love with the world of recruitment, with training, with developing others. I knew I had found my calling. I had found my calling because of the angel, I would name Gabriel. I wanted more, I was hungry. I went back for my MBA. I worked around 45 hours a week, took my graduate classes, ran a household, and raised a baby. I graduated with a 3.87 GPA. I achieved it.
My career grew, I focused more on all areas of HR, stepping more and more away from talent acquisition and more and more into employee relations and performance management coaching. I started to earn a name as "the one to ask", the "one to get coaching from". My career was not without setbacks (see previous blogs), but I started to feel like those post college years spent in non-career jobs, were no longer important.
Gabriel has morals, he calls out adults who treat others poorly, he has a vocabularly that people don't believe. He plays soccer forty some weeks a year, baseball in the summers, piano lessons. He plays on his iPad, he doesn't understand why social injustice exists. He talks about Yale, Harvard, and sometimes how he's gonna move to New York City.
The past year has been challenging. My hours are often difficult, I've missed a few school functions, I've lost sleep, I've woken up in the middle of the night and turned on a lap top, I've arrived at work at 4am, I've left work at 4am. I found a mentor to help me help my employees even more. Turnover has decreased, employee morale has improved, employee engagement is strong. When asked in interviews why I am passionate about my field, I tell the truth. I make a difference to the business, to people's career path, to lives. I am one of the lucky few that gets to go to work everyday and earn a paycheck doing something I love, not something I have to do.
Today, I was told that if I truly wanted out of my career, what I have stated (executive level is my end goal), that I would have to dedicate more to work and less to sick child days, soccer games, family life. That I couldn't have it all. That in today's world, you have to make the hard choices.
I've made the hard choices. I finished an undergrad degree in Political Sciences, I knew I would never use. I ended a relationship with someone I loved very much, when I knew he didn't feel the same anymore, when I could barely stand up from the knowledge. I went back for a MBA when I still needed my full time job and was raising a child in diapers. I supported my husband when he quit his job and went back to nursing school, at a time when we were not fully prepared for my salary alone. I brought a puppy home when my work hours were long and my child's social calendar was reminiscent of my teen years. Those are just the ones I am willing to share on a social blog.
So tell me again, what I can't do? I don't think I heard you correctly. I can do anything I set my mind to achieve.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
I Never Had a Sister Until...
When my brother was in high school, he ended a very long term relationship with the girl, who had been his first love. Like a typical teen boy, he started dating several girls over the course of a short time. As I was away at college, and none of these girls stayed around long, I didn't pay much attention. My mom had some concerns (her middle name is actually Worry), but I thought it was pretty normal.
I was home for a school break, and noticed a little bit about what my mom was worried about. My brother was not in a good place still. I understood. As a result, I did my sisterly duty and paid absolutely no attention to any of the girls that would show up at the house. ...and by that I mean, I was rude.
Then I was leaving to go out with friends and noticed there was a Tempo in the driveway. A girl that drove herself? Maybe she didn't care about the red Mustang my brother drove. Then I saw her, tall and blonde. I rolled my eyes and left.
Over the course of the next decade, she would prove me wrong. She would treat my oldest niece like her own daughter, she would drive the kids to Alliance for a family funeral, which my brother could not attend, when she wouldn't know anyone, she would put up with my brother, and my mother. Those are not easy tasks...
She's been there for me during mother doubts and marital challenges. Literally, sometimes arriving 5 minutes later to my house. She carried my dog when I could no longer pick him up, she was there when we had put put him to sleep.
As a little girl, I would sometimes pretend I had a long last sister, who I would find and then confront my parents. (This would at times mean painting my brother's nails...). I guess I just never knew that I would eventually have a sister, my brother just needed to find her.
I was home for a school break, and noticed a little bit about what my mom was worried about. My brother was not in a good place still. I understood. As a result, I did my sisterly duty and paid absolutely no attention to any of the girls that would show up at the house. ...and by that I mean, I was rude.
Then I was leaving to go out with friends and noticed there was a Tempo in the driveway. A girl that drove herself? Maybe she didn't care about the red Mustang my brother drove. Then I saw her, tall and blonde. I rolled my eyes and left.
Over the course of the next decade, she would prove me wrong. She would treat my oldest niece like her own daughter, she would drive the kids to Alliance for a family funeral, which my brother could not attend, when she wouldn't know anyone, she would put up with my brother, and my mother. Those are not easy tasks...
She's been there for me during mother doubts and marital challenges. Literally, sometimes arriving 5 minutes later to my house. She carried my dog when I could no longer pick him up, she was there when we had put put him to sleep.
As a little girl, I would sometimes pretend I had a long last sister, who I would find and then confront my parents. (This would at times mean painting my brother's nails...). I guess I just never knew that I would eventually have a sister, my brother just needed to find her.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
The First Time
The first time I heard Janis Joplin, I was in Junior High. It was the Summer before my 8th grade year and I was at my friend's house. She had the Pearl album, Me and Bobby McGee was the song she played. I immediately had to buy the CD too (I am proud to say with 3 exceptions, I own everything released. One item has never been opened as it is a limited edition). I had never heard anything like it: the rawness, you felt it, you knew, even when you you were 13 years old ("I figured it out at 13 years old...")
Over that school year, we drifted apart, her to her own blues and me to my world. Two junior high friends would go through situations that year that even at 35 I can't fathom. But my love for Janis and the Blues would only grow. In my early 20s, I would be the only white person and the youngest by generations to attend a tribute to Etta James' (one of Janis' favs) career (at the time, she was still alive, of course). I am not sure she, my friend, even knows (until she reads this) that she was my intro to this world.
Now let me be clear, my dad played Zeppelin, Floyd (my son, who he is with often sang 4 songs off The Wall for me the other day), Neil Young and Skynard. He played Joe Cocker, Rush, Beatles, and Stones. And yes, he played Janis. But it wasn't until my pre-teen years that I heard Janis.
The thing about Janis is that you feel her, you feel the anguish, the talent, the confusion, the love, the pain, the want. I am often struck by the Sublime lyric that says with music, you feel no pain. You feel it, people take drugs to numb it. You feel it in your core and if you don't, you are listening to the wrong band/singer at the wrong time.
I am sure I drove many a high school boyfriend crazy with my love of a blues/rock singer, who died years before we were born. Perhaps, being raised by a hippie dad and a not so hippie mom shaped me to my core.
Both my parents always supported this love, and when you have divorced parents, them agreeing on something isn't the norm. My mom bought me books, my dad shared Woodstock and 60s and 70s knowledge. Years later, You Tube would make many things "viewable" to a girl, who would never see a favorite live. I created a binder full of news articles, play bills, press releases, while I am certain there is far more out there than I have, it's my way of following someone who has been dead for over 30 years, but still lives through her art.
I've seen Love Janis, (of course, I own the actual book too) and I've seen A Night with Janis. When my mom first took me to see Love Janis, I was nervous. Who was Beth Hart and how would she be Janis? It wouldn't work, I thought. This is going to be disappointing. Beth Hart was Janis, she was amazing. She went on to have (last I knew) a tortured life of her own, I went on to buy her own actual CD. By far though, as many Janis shows I have seen (and been nervous for) Mary Bridget Davies was the best Janis. I forgot she wasn't Janis, I forgot it was a play, and for a few short hours I saw Janis live.
Throughout my 35 years, there have been trials, tribulations, second guesses, mistakes, love, heartbreak, joy, pure bliss. I have, for the most part, stayed true to myself -- my passions, my beliefs, my respect and love for myself. A woman, who was never truly able to do this for herself, has helped million of little girls do it for themselves. Janis will rock on in my house, in my heart, in my soul, because I feel it in my core.
Over that school year, we drifted apart, her to her own blues and me to my world. Two junior high friends would go through situations that year that even at 35 I can't fathom. But my love for Janis and the Blues would only grow. In my early 20s, I would be the only white person and the youngest by generations to attend a tribute to Etta James' (one of Janis' favs) career (at the time, she was still alive, of course). I am not sure she, my friend, even knows (until she reads this) that she was my intro to this world.
Now let me be clear, my dad played Zeppelin, Floyd (my son, who he is with often sang 4 songs off The Wall for me the other day), Neil Young and Skynard. He played Joe Cocker, Rush, Beatles, and Stones. And yes, he played Janis. But it wasn't until my pre-teen years that I heard Janis.
The thing about Janis is that you feel her, you feel the anguish, the talent, the confusion, the love, the pain, the want. I am often struck by the Sublime lyric that says with music, you feel no pain. You feel it, people take drugs to numb it. You feel it in your core and if you don't, you are listening to the wrong band/singer at the wrong time.
I am sure I drove many a high school boyfriend crazy with my love of a blues/rock singer, who died years before we were born. Perhaps, being raised by a hippie dad and a not so hippie mom shaped me to my core.
Both my parents always supported this love, and when you have divorced parents, them agreeing on something isn't the norm. My mom bought me books, my dad shared Woodstock and 60s and 70s knowledge. Years later, You Tube would make many things "viewable" to a girl, who would never see a favorite live. I created a binder full of news articles, play bills, press releases, while I am certain there is far more out there than I have, it's my way of following someone who has been dead for over 30 years, but still lives through her art.
I've seen Love Janis, (of course, I own the actual book too) and I've seen A Night with Janis. When my mom first took me to see Love Janis, I was nervous. Who was Beth Hart and how would she be Janis? It wouldn't work, I thought. This is going to be disappointing. Beth Hart was Janis, she was amazing. She went on to have (last I knew) a tortured life of her own, I went on to buy her own actual CD. By far though, as many Janis shows I have seen (and been nervous for) Mary Bridget Davies was the best Janis. I forgot she wasn't Janis, I forgot it was a play, and for a few short hours I saw Janis live.
Throughout my 35 years, there have been trials, tribulations, second guesses, mistakes, love, heartbreak, joy, pure bliss. I have, for the most part, stayed true to myself -- my passions, my beliefs, my respect and love for myself. A woman, who was never truly able to do this for herself, has helped million of little girls do it for themselves. Janis will rock on in my house, in my heart, in my soul, because I feel it in my core.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
...And Then There Were None
About 4 1/2 years ago, I saw him. He wasn't like the rest of his siblings. He didn't look like a American Bull, he looked like a Doberman. He wasn't running around playing, he was snuggled up tight in a ball. I wanted to take him home.
My husband and I had talked about another dog. Although we didn't talk about it often, we knew we probably had another year with our shepherd (his dog and then our dog). Two years would be asking too much. We weren't actively seeking to add to our fur family, but we were not against it.
Arlo came home with us 2 weeks later. Others wanted him, but it was too late---we had claimed him. He was a stubborn, cute, playful dog. He was something to look at--beautiful. Pounds of girth ran at you when he came -- some found it frightening. He loved kids and he loved people, he just didn't want you to know it. He was smart like that.
Lobo passed about 6 months later. It was sad, hard, and everything you can imagine for all of us. She had led a good, long life. We miss her and always will.
We often joked about how Arlo was either extremely smart or extremely dumb. It's not fair we said, we can't compare him to Lobo. Sheps are very smart. The motto "can't stop, too stupid" was coined by a family friend and it stuck. Of course, Arlo wasn't stupid, he was actually smart about a lot and just not smart enough to care about other things. Or maybe that was smart too?
This morning Arlo, 4 next month, was ill and laying down in an abnormal spot. He never came to my bed last night. He always sleeps with me. Arlo was sick, he didn't look well, he almost looked...well you know...on and off the last 6 months, our until then healthy dog hadd challenge after challenge (that's HR talk for problem after problem).
My husband took Arlo to the ER Vet. Neither of us knew if he would even make it there. We didn't know what was wrong, we just knew it wasn't good. Not good at all.
Arlo's liver was slowly shuting down. His body was shutting down. There was nothing the vet could do, nothing. So we did the only thing we could do. We took his suffering away. My husband was with him the entire time, showing him love and care. I was home with our son, curled on the couch as we both cried and hugged. Explaining "liver sickness" to a 9 year old and knowing Arlo could not be helped was not what I thought this Saturday would bring.
Gabriel wanted his cousins, we went to my brother's house for a bit. It was nice to have people, to not think for a bit.
We came home. There was no dog in the window anxiously awaiting our entrance. There was no dog to let outside. No water bowl to check. No dog to trip over. No dog to follow me around. No dog.
There was no dog. and then Gabriel summed it up.
"God is saying, can't stop too stupid." --Gabriel
My husband and I had talked about another dog. Although we didn't talk about it often, we knew we probably had another year with our shepherd (his dog and then our dog). Two years would be asking too much. We weren't actively seeking to add to our fur family, but we were not against it.
Arlo came home with us 2 weeks later. Others wanted him, but it was too late---we had claimed him. He was a stubborn, cute, playful dog. He was something to look at--beautiful. Pounds of girth ran at you when he came -- some found it frightening. He loved kids and he loved people, he just didn't want you to know it. He was smart like that.
Lobo passed about 6 months later. It was sad, hard, and everything you can imagine for all of us. She had led a good, long life. We miss her and always will.
We often joked about how Arlo was either extremely smart or extremely dumb. It's not fair we said, we can't compare him to Lobo. Sheps are very smart. The motto "can't stop, too stupid" was coined by a family friend and it stuck. Of course, Arlo wasn't stupid, he was actually smart about a lot and just not smart enough to care about other things. Or maybe that was smart too?
This morning Arlo, 4 next month, was ill and laying down in an abnormal spot. He never came to my bed last night. He always sleeps with me. Arlo was sick, he didn't look well, he almost looked...well you know...on and off the last 6 months, our until then healthy dog hadd challenge after challenge (that's HR talk for problem after problem).
My husband took Arlo to the ER Vet. Neither of us knew if he would even make it there. We didn't know what was wrong, we just knew it wasn't good. Not good at all.
Arlo's liver was slowly shuting down. His body was shutting down. There was nothing the vet could do, nothing. So we did the only thing we could do. We took his suffering away. My husband was with him the entire time, showing him love and care. I was home with our son, curled on the couch as we both cried and hugged. Explaining "liver sickness" to a 9 year old and knowing Arlo could not be helped was not what I thought this Saturday would bring.
Gabriel wanted his cousins, we went to my brother's house for a bit. It was nice to have people, to not think for a bit.
We came home. There was no dog in the window anxiously awaiting our entrance. There was no dog to let outside. No water bowl to check. No dog to trip over. No dog to follow me around. No dog.
There was no dog. and then Gabriel summed it up.
"God is saying, can't stop too stupid." --Gabriel
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