Eternal Life

I don't know what combination of heroin and Pilates Mick Jagger is on, but I want in.

No, its not that kind of book

I never had the courage to write a book when I was young. I had no problem writing lots of really horrible poetry and forcing people to listen to me read it. I wrote a lot of short stories, and I wrote a whole lot of stuff for my school papers. I really thought I was something, but I was too much of a coward to write an actual book.
No more.
I finished my first book about two months ago. So now I can cross that off of my list of things I should have done when I was younger list. Now, don't get your hopes up. It is not the Great American Novel. It is a coming of age story I wrote for 14 year olds. It is kind of a niche market. But I started writing this book without thinking I would ever finish it, and I did. So now I am desperately trying to find an agent so I can sell it.
The weird thing is not that I wrote a book, but how everyone has reacted about it. I have a fantastic writer friend who I made while I was writing this book. She has been helpful, supportive and a fantastic resource because not only has she written a book, but she now has an agent and her book is about to be published. So when I tell my mother I wrote a book, her first instinct is, "Because your friend wrote one, you decided to write one too?"
Now granted, I am not saying I am the most Independent thinker, I mean I wore jellies because all the other girls had them, but maybe my mom could have given me a little more credit.
Unfortunately that has been the opinion of every family member that I have told, with the exception of my sister who said, "Oh," and went back to telling me about the funny thing her boyfriend just texted her. Did I mention she was the book's inspiration? Yeah, its a comedy.
My favorite conversation about my book has been with my great aunt. She has always been really supportive of my education and used to clip my news articles from the paper. This aunt has also always loved the fact that I am a big craft geek and will spend hours talking to her about knitting, crochet and quilting. My mother was so proud I wrote a book in my poor poor aunts lifetime because "she will be so proud."
(This is the actual conversation with my aunt)
Aunt - What have you been making lately?
Me - Not much. I haven't had a lot of time. Well, actually I have made something. I made a book. I wrote a book.
Aunt - A craft book?
Me - No. Its a. . . story book.
Aunt - Oh, (smiling) a children's book.
Me - No. It is for adults. You see, a friend of mine has written a boo. . .
Aunt - And you had to write one, too.
Me - No, I actually started writing it and then we became friends and started working on our books together.
Aunt - Oh.
And then the conversation became something compeletely different, and she started describing this scrap fabric she will most likely leave me after her passing in hopes that I can, "make something out of it."
I'm not really sure why I expected anything different from my family. When I was 10 years old, I told my grandmother I wanted to be a writer. She bought me a calligraphy set.

Oops

This lady needs to do her research better. Turns out Vicious Mistress was wrongly listed as an acoustic band. They are not acoustic but hard-core punk. All is right with the world.
I hate being wrong, but I am not afraid to admit it.
Rock on Vicious Mistress.
Check them out on their My Space page.

Easy Listening, BAH

I'm bored with acoustic.
Bored.
Back in the day I couldn't get enough acoustic. I watched MTV Unplugged. I wailed along with Jewel and Ani Difranco. I wanted to be a folky songstress with only my acoustic guitar and my horrible, horrible poetry. Oh yeah, I was at Lillith Fair. Eventually I gave up the poetry and the guitar, but I still gravitated to the songbirds of the acoustic guitar. I'm over that now.
The sad thing about being over something, is when other people are not. I get a listing in my e-mail of all the events that are going down in my town, and apparently slow acoustic jams are still all the rage. There was a listing one for a band called Vicious Mistress. That is an awesome name for a band. I go to read the little description, and it say, "You will love this all acoustic set." What a waste of a band name. Vicious Mistress sounds like a punk name, or at least hair metal band. If there was any wit in the form it would be a great name for a country band.
I get really frustrated that the only socially acceptable music in our small town is either country or acoustic. My husband and I sitting Rafferties the other evening (oh yeah, I am that hard core) drinking Tom Collins and listening to some of the worst country music ever created. Not Waylon or Willie or Johnny Cash but some song about some girl saying yes. It was almost unbearable.
I'm bored. So what have I embraced? Punk.
Oh yeah, 30 years old and making my two year old son listen to the Clash. And he likes it. When I sing Mary had a little lamb, he screams out "NO." I play London Calling, and he's like a little tranquilized monkey.
So, as fitting to the theme of the blog, I am embracing what I should have discovered when I was 12 years old. The beauty and simplicity of Punk music.
Currently on my playlist are the Clash, Sex Pistols, Patti Smith and for a newer spin PJ Harvey.
I love me some PJ Harvey.
She's not quite punk, but she's loud, angry, and she likes sex. She is my mother's worst nightmare. Why didn't I embrace her in my youth? There could have been hours and hours of my mother's torment. Torment the level of when our church handed out pamphlets of the bands who worshiped Satan, and my brother's favorite band KISS was at the top of the list. I could have cause endless exclamations of, "What is she saying?" and "Long Snake what?" But instead I was listening to Cowboy Junkies.
If you or someone you know are also bored with acoustic and you live in the Paducah, KY area, please check out the Punk shows at the KC Hall. The word around the campfire is the bands are pretty excellent. There are CDs available all over town. I would go, but it is mostly for teens, and I have a tendency to mother. No 16 year old needs some crazy stranger telling them why they shouldn't smoke, drink or experiment with sex and drugs.

Sisterhood?

Last night - Vagina Monologues.
This is what I discovered. I am possibly the cattiest woman on the planet. I have been spoiled and ruined by all the social gatherings that I got laughs and applause for calling what some woman wear a "hot tranny mess." I love being catty, and I have yet to determine whether it is part of my nature, or if society has made me that way.
The cast of the Vagina Monologues was surprisingly supportive, and non-catty. I interacted in a group of women that did not have one bad thing to say about each other, and usually I bring that side out of people. People can take one look at me and know that I am going to be good for the gossip. One of the things my husband loves about me is that I am unashamed in my cattiness, and I encourage him to join in.
So when the show was over, we were driving to dinner, and we were done talking about how great I was and what aspects of the show made him the most uncomfortable, he asked, "What's all the catty gossip?" and I had nothing. I had no drama filled stories, no snide remarks made by one woman behind another's back, and no embarrassing flops that everyone teased mercilessly. As far as I knew, none of them were in the middle of a messy divorce, none of them suspected their boyfriends were cheating on them, and none of them were embarrassed by one of their kid's latest incarceration.
In fact, I got swept up in the feeling of sisterhood, just like I had hoped. There was a bond with these women that I have only seen before with drunk girls. You know when you are at a party and suddenly you and this girl you have never met before make plans to be in each others weddings just because on that night you became, "Jello Shot Sisters."
I would love to say that I became a changed woman. That I learned that being catty is not a helpful or encouraging way to be with my fellow women. That we could exist together in a supportive environment unashamed about what the others would think about us. Being around women who don't celebrate each other's flaws should have been refreshing, but really, it was kind of off-putting. Which is incredibly sad. Why can't I be pleased with the successes of my fellow woman. Why can't I offer encouragement to all women, not just my closest friends.
I want to be a better person. I want to spend more time with these women. I can't wait to be in the Vagina Monologues next year. But in the mean time, I have to get this out of my system. (If you do not want to think of me as a bad person, I would quit reading now):
* A little advice, if you have aspirations to run for a political office, take a speech class. Don't just assume that being idealistic, opinionated and up on the law makes you electable. You have to be able to stand up in front of large groups of people and speak to them without sounding like your constipated. If you can't do that, hang it up honey. Be the woman behind the woman.
* I met a very lovely woman who very graciously supplied us with food. Fun food. She brought donuts for breakfast, or would have a Tupperware container of cookies with her at every rehearsal. I spent most of the evening of the show backstage shoving my face with cookies. I just waited for someone to say, "There are a million calories in each cookie, are you sure you want another one?" It never happened. Later on I discovered that our cookie supplier recently had gastric bypass surgery. If your diet consisted of donuts and cookies, then that would explain the need for gastric bypass surgery.
* They words genital mutilation are two words either together or separate that are seen and heard with some frequency for anyone who reads the paper or watches the news. Imagine my embarrassment when I watched one of the women stumble over both those words during rehearsal. She nailed it in the show, but I peaked over her shoulder at her script and found where someone had written out the pronunciation key out for her.
* Whenever a group of people is together, you might wonder, "Who here loves weed." Well it doesn't take Veronica Mars to figure it out because the stoner will be the first one to tell you. At rehearsal, we were sitting together chatting about, of course, our periods. One girl confessed that she has to take a combination of over the counter pain killers during her time of the month. It was like a little stoner bell went off somewhere. One woman declared, "If they would just legalize marijuana then all of our problems would be solved." In that context she meant pain related, but I'm sure she really means it in the broader sense too. That and she would be able to get high legally now. Of course, she started her statement with the disclaimer of, "You might not agree with this. . ." and then followed it with a bunch of weed cliches about how "No one gets high and beats the crap out of someone," and "There would be less accidents because they only drive 10 miles an hour." Maybe she thought she was being funny rehashing a Bill Maher comedy routine from 1997. I can't say. I do know that if I'm looking to score a quarter, I'm probably going to ask her. Or the punk girl with the two-toned hair. Oh hell, if I wanted to bad enough I'd probably ask them both. We're sisters right. Who are they to judge?
All joking aside, local V-Day events are just a small part of the global movement to end violence toward women. Find V-Day events or get cast in your own Vagina Monologues production at http://v10.vday.org/.

Sports love

I fell in love with a sports nut. We watch all the sports except Hockey and Soccer. Right now is a very important time in our household because the NCAA Tournaments are coming up. A holiday in Kentucky that can only be compared to Christmas. My husband takes off work the first weekend of the tournament, and invites all of his friends over, so my house (or apartment actually) becomes a haven of BOY. They are laying on my couch, monopolizing the computer, and screaming obscenities at the television. My favorite maneuver is when they flick their been caps at the TV. Its loud, drunken and very, very serious. Especially when one of their teams is up. Almost every male in the state of Kentucky is a UK fan, but my husband, ever desperate to be different is a staunch Louisville fan. For the past five years of our romance and marriage, I have been a de facto Louisville fan although I have never, ever in my life cared for sports. No one in my family, with the exception of my sister, has cared anything about sports, which is further proof to my husband that I was raised on another planet not a small farm in West Tennessee.
So in an effort to understand my husband better, and to embrace my inner cheerleader, I made the conscious decision at Christmas to become a more active participant in sports. I selected my teams and broke it to my husband over burgers at Red Robin. He was so proud he gave me his order of French fries. He always knows how to woo me.
So here are the teams I selected: Baseball: Boston Red Sox; Basketball: Phoenix Suns; College Basketball: Louisville (actually my husband demanded it and I relented); and Football: NY Giants. Just to clarify, I have always had a fondness for the Giants and had no idea how well they were doing when I chose them as my team, so I would appreciate not being called out for being a bandwagon fan.
I chose my teams according to boy rules. For anyone not familiar, boys choose their favorite teams when they start liking the sports for the first time. Usually that is when they are 9 years old. Then they have to keep that team for life. Even if that team starts to suck soon after they choose it. If they choose the Cleveland Browns at the age of nine because they are having a good year, then they are stuck with the Browns forever. And they suck. So I knew that whatever teams I chose would be the ones I would be stuck with forever. I started following the Suns in high school, so I kept them. I have always had a fondness for the Red Sox because they have suck a long history, and as I mentioned before, my husband really wanted us to root for the same basketball team so that's why I chose Louisville.
The Giants, I actually chose according to girl rules. Girl Rules is when your best friend calls dibs on pink first, you have to pick blue, or else you are called a copy-cat. My sister is a Peyton Manning fan. She watched him play in Tennessee when he was in college, and when we went to play for the Colts, she became a Colts fan. She picked pink; I picked blue. I went with Eli.
I have always kept my eye on what Eli has been up to ever since he went to play for the Giants, mostly because he was constantly getting a lot of crap because he wasn't his brother. I wanted to root for him because I believed he had it in him. I almost chose the Packers because Bret Favre is hot. Unfortunately I also knew he was going to be retiring soon. I knew I was going to be stuck with this team forever. I didn't want to fall for the fling with the hot senior who was going to graduate soon. I wanted to pick a cute sophomore so then I could get three more years of hallway hand-holding and lunchtime make-out sessions.
It goes without saying watching the Giants win the Super Bowl has me eagerly anticipating next season. I even told my husband I wanted to watch the draft this year so I could keep up with who was going to be on their team.
Its a sickness. I get it now.

His name is Dalton

Jeff Healey died this week. In case you are puzzled, let me lay on you two words: Angel Eyes. Yep, Jeff wrote the song that you most likely heard last sandwiched between Wonderful Tonight and I Swear at someone's wedding reception. I first heard the song when I was 10 years old and was watching Friday Night Videos. Country kids like me and my brother had to watch crappy network video shows because we did not have cable, and therefore no MTV. We didn't even have Night Trax. Sally Struthers came to our house to film a "Please Help the Children" infomercial because of the underprivileged way my parents insisted we live, but that's a different story. My brother and I were watching Jeff rock out to the smooth power ballad with his guitar stretched across his lap, and my brother said, "He's blind?" This is one of the many obvious statements my brother uttered while watching Friday Night Videos, including: "KD Lang is gay?" and "Hootie is black?" Reading the obit today, I was informed that Jeff Healey had quite a life. Diagnosed with retinal cancer at the age of one, as he aged, he turned to the guitar. By the age of 12 was a well known musical prodigy. He got to perform with BB King, George Harrison and Stevie Ray Vaughan. But his greatest achievement. He was in Roadhouse. Farewell Jeff. Your hit song will forevermore play at school dances, wedding receptions and bars on Valentines Day. And your moment of telling Patrick Swayzee, "I thought you'd be bigger," will live on without you.
Check out www.jeffhealey.com/ for fan info.

Clever Vaginas

When I was in college, I was never a participant of Feminist events. I was a feminist, or at least I claimed to be, but I never really spent a lot of time bonding with my sistas at Take Back the Night Events or even Breast Cancer Awareness Rallies. In fact, I could barely bring myself to wear a Breast Cancer awareness ribbon because the little pin would stick me all day.
So in an attempt to embrace my own coolness, I am going to be in our local production of the Vagina Monologues. I don't have a real monologue. Apparently my uncoolness oozed off me during my reading, so I'm stuck with reading two different introductions. But I get to be in the play, and that is what is important. I went to the rehearsal the other day, and I was so happy in my sisterhood solidarity mindset. I introduced myself to women instead of hiding in the corner, and I proudly gave an interview to the local paper. I had my picture taken, using all the advice Tyra gives to her ingenues on Top Model, "Smile with the eyes, girl."
Then yesterday I get an e-mail telling me to send the director the answer to these two questions: If your vagina wore clothing, what would it wear? and If your vagina could speak, what would it say (in two words)? These questions are part of the Monologues, but I have always hated them. I understand the point of personifying our female parts to keep us from trivializing them, but seriously? I addressed my friend M. with these questions, and here is our e-mail conversation:

B. If my vagina could speak, what would it say? Worship Me! Do you think anyone other than me would realize that was a joke? What would it wear? I have a hard enough time finding clothes to stretch across my hips, much less to fit my vagina.

M. Oh dear Jesus. Well, I like the "Worship Me!" line. It is clearly a joke. I also like "Deliveries Here" and "No Trespassing" I think your hooha would wear stilettos and a smile, but I don't really want to think about it all that much

B. Aww, that's sweet. But you are probably right, we shouldn't think about it too much. I am thinking a caftan would be my wardrobe choice. I like to think it is a more earthy Erykah Badu hooha than Sex in the City. Oh witty, witty vaginas. Suddenly I can't stop thinking about the South Park about Oprah's vagina.

M. If your hooha develops a British accent, I will stop talking to you.

What Would Lane Do?

This is Lane Kim. She is my inspiration. In my quest of finding out what was cool from the years of 1978 to 2000, I keep thinking about Lane. Anyone who has watched Gilmore Girls is familiar with this character. Lane Kim is the only child of a strict Korean 7th Day Adventist antique store owner in the small town of Stars Hollow. Mrs. Kim kept Lane on a very short leash, and everything about their interactions remind me of being a teenager with my own mother.

We were not Korean or 7th Day Adventist, but we were Southern Baptist, which means you can't drink, you can't dance, and all social activities should happen at church. My mom lived in fear that I would run away and join a cult. I'm sure she had all the other fears that parents had about drug use and premarital sex, but in her head she took all those little fears and balled them up into one big paranoid tale of me being brainwashed by the Moonies. She she kept me on a short leash as well. I was so afraid of doing anything wrong that I felt like I had to sneak around to do things normal teenagers did all the time. Lane kept her rock and roll CDs hidden in the floorboards of her room; I would hide in my closet just to write in my journal. Lane would wear her band T-shirts under her Korean Bible Camp shirts; I would sneak ripped jeans out of the house to change into on the bus. Lane dyed her hair purple and quickly died it back in fear of her mother's wrath; I was not allowed to color my hair until I was in college, and there was shock and awe over the scandalous auburn color I chose. A color I still use today.

The main difference between me and Lane, beyond the fact that she is fictional, is that while Lane was relentless in her search of cool. She was diligent in her passion for finding and embracing things she found cool. She was enthusiastic, creative, and persistent in being who she is. Check out any season of the Gilmore Girls and you will see what I mean.

Once upon a time, I thought I was incredibly cool. I was 16 years old, I was rocking a pair of knock-off Doc Martins and I read Sassy magazine like it was the Bible. I thought I knew everything about what was cool. I was wrong.
You hear about those 16 year olds who are starting their own rock bands, writing novels, becoming Internet sensations (with their clothes on), and all I remember about being 16 is sitting on top of my friend's Honda Accord in an abandoned parking lot smoking cigarettes and wondering if the guy in the next car liked me. I had no ambition and no drive.
I am coming up on my 30th birthday this June. Recently, I have started discovering things that were going on while I was in high school and college that are amazingly cool, and I totally missed. This blog is an attempt to reclaim all that time wasted watching re-runs of 21 Jumpstreet and learning the words to Baby Got Back.