Our Ted Nugent-like neighbors, friendly beings that they are, greeted Mr. P this morning with the following nicety: "Happy NFL Draw-Out Day!" A non-NFL follower, Mr. P did not quite know how to respond. Which got me thinking: were they messing with us? And if so, how could I counter their greeting with one equally perplexing and obscure? Regretting that I didn't wish them a Happy Earth Day this week (which I'm guessing they did not observe), I did a little research.
Below are a few odd holidays- but real ones! - which I challenge you to say to your neighbor one morning.
Happy Anniversary of Women's Right to Vote Day!
Happy Birthday of the Hot Dog!
Happy Greek Orthodox Easter!
Happy National Puppetry Day!
Happy World Vegetarian Day! (my neighbors would hate that one)
Happy National Literacy Day!
Happy Black Friday!
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Friday Musings
1. I'm not too proud of the fact that it's almost May, and I've only read two books this year: The Echo Maker and The Piano Tuner. Both left me cold. Both had interesting starts, intriguing characters, but anti-climatic, or unsatisfying, endings. I learned about Echo Maker after reading The Stolen Child, which was one of my favorite reads of last year. It's possible I'm too distracted right now to enjoy a book that isn't slapping me in the face. But still, what the heck? Lacking a good book to read is like lacking a friend! Boo hoo. I aim to find a good book to dip into in the next week or two.
2. Growing up with my unusual first name meant that there wasn't usually someone in my vicinity who shared it. I also couldn't find monogrammed items like mugs or notepads at truckstops, but I have learned to live with that. There is really only one downside to possessing this name, and that is the twisted nature of "love ballads" devoted to Delia. For some reason, I am just learning that the famous Johnny Cash song about a "devilish" woman called Delia mentions her coming from Memphis. I grew up in Memphis! That would be a neat fact, if it weren't for Delia's nasty demise - and the singer's delight in inflicting her death!
Bob Dylan also revived an old folk song, "Delia" for his early 90's album, World Gone Wrong. Guess what? Delia is a gambler, and her lover shoots her.
Delilah gets love songs. Delia? Winds up shot and buried.
3. I was reunited last week with an old friend: a delicious glass of beer. I'm kind of a beer girl, in that I often will pick beer over wine. Maybe it's the carbs to which I am addicted, or maybe it's the refreshment factor. Whatever the case, I've decided that the best beer is from Germany, and her name is Spaten. Tasting the creamy brew immediately took me back to time I spent in Europe, namely, visiting my brother during his time in Germany, and drinking the beer that he had delivered by the case to his home. Seriously, this beer has it all: refreshment, body, flavor, balance, and, for me, memories. What drink has all that??!
2. Growing up with my unusual first name meant that there wasn't usually someone in my vicinity who shared it. I also couldn't find monogrammed items like mugs or notepads at truckstops, but I have learned to live with that. There is really only one downside to possessing this name, and that is the twisted nature of "love ballads" devoted to Delia. For some reason, I am just learning that the famous Johnny Cash song about a "devilish" woman called Delia mentions her coming from Memphis. I grew up in Memphis! That would be a neat fact, if it weren't for Delia's nasty demise - and the singer's delight in inflicting her death!
Bob Dylan also revived an old folk song, "Delia" for his early 90's album, World Gone Wrong. Guess what? Delia is a gambler, and her lover shoots her.
Delilah gets love songs. Delia? Winds up shot and buried.
3. I was reunited last week with an old friend: a delicious glass of beer. I'm kind of a beer girl, in that I often will pick beer over wine. Maybe it's the carbs to which I am addicted, or maybe it's the refreshment factor. Whatever the case, I've decided that the best beer is from Germany, and her name is Spaten. Tasting the creamy brew immediately took me back to time I spent in Europe, namely, visiting my brother during his time in Germany, and drinking the beer that he had delivered by the case to his home. Seriously, this beer has it all: refreshment, body, flavor, balance, and, for me, memories. What drink has all that??!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Looking a gift horse...huh?
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Patches the Horse.
I don't post this video because I want to share it with the world (ok, maybe a little bit), but because I want to talk about something. Thinking it was cute, amusing, and just a tiny bit disturbing, I showed the video to Mr. P, who chuckled over it, mused over how a horse can eat cheeseburgers, and then, about 5 minutes later, asked me, eh hem, exactly how much ___ I smoked in college. !! Why ever do you ask, I inquired. Oh, no reason. Does this have something to do with how easily amused I am by animal videos? Or, anything at all for that matter? I dunno, he answered.
Um, folks, I'm just a tad bit offended by this line of questioning. Does one have to be a p--head, or former p--head to find horses riding in cars funny? Just how serious a world do we live in? I realize that the internet gives everyone and his horse an opportunity to make themselves famous, but I claim that this is not a bad thing. Because, for someone like myself who thinks chia pets are the most hilarious things in the world, there are ample opportunities to distract myself from the sting of "real life" and live vicariously through animals who are unknowingly personified by their humans.
Look, my own cat is the greatest force of comic relief in our household, and you don't need to inhale catnip to appreciate that.
I don't post this video because I want to share it with the world (ok, maybe a little bit), but because I want to talk about something. Thinking it was cute, amusing, and just a tiny bit disturbing, I showed the video to Mr. P, who chuckled over it, mused over how a horse can eat cheeseburgers, and then, about 5 minutes later, asked me, eh hem, exactly how much ___ I smoked in college. !! Why ever do you ask, I inquired. Oh, no reason. Does this have something to do with how easily amused I am by animal videos? Or, anything at all for that matter? I dunno, he answered.
Um, folks, I'm just a tad bit offended by this line of questioning. Does one have to be a p--head, or former p--head to find horses riding in cars funny? Just how serious a world do we live in? I realize that the internet gives everyone and his horse an opportunity to make themselves famous, but I claim that this is not a bad thing. Because, for someone like myself who thinks chia pets are the most hilarious things in the world, there are ample opportunities to distract myself from the sting of "real life" and live vicariously through animals who are unknowingly personified by their humans.
Look, my own cat is the greatest force of comic relief in our household, and you don't need to inhale catnip to appreciate that.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Friday Musings
I have been watching Top Chef a little bit (not wholly committing to it, but dropping in from time to time), and my observations are the following:
1. a chef with an eyebrow piercing (Lisa) is disturbing. It seems somehow unhygienic. I know, I sound really conservative and square now; after all, what is the difference, really, between having one's ears pierced and having an eyebrow piercing? Well, one is a hole in one's FACE, how about that?
2. Said eyebrow piercing (I keep typing "eyebrown") is not as disturbing as a chef with an affinity to fedoras (Spike). In principle, I am anti-fedora. This hat should be banned everywhere except, perhaps, in the brothels of Buenos Aires where they most likely originated with the first dancers of Tango.
What? Those brothels don't exist anymore? Fine.
And furthermore:
3. My election fervor has officially worn off. I knew it would; it was just a question of when. I am tired of divided elections, and I have decided that the three candidates (yes, all three) will essentially be the same, except that one will most likely invade Iran, and the other two will be brow-beaten into invading Iran. Cynic, much? Yep. I'm cynical.
Perhaps I will start a new "Friday Musings" every week, as a therapeutic means of getting things off my chest. Thank you for listening, and stay tuned!
above: I can forgive a dachsund wearing a fedora, maybe, but not the person who put there, 'k?
Friday, April 4, 2008
Nervous Nellie
Hello: long time no post!
I have been recuperating from my latest adventure and rite of passage: my first solo vocal recital.
I'm not a recital virgin anymore. Hooray!
If you weren't there, here's how it went down:
Like in many rites of passages, I ran the gamut of emotions: from joy to despair and back again. I was well prepared for this concert, having planned to perform it back in October but postponing it due to a cough. I knew the rep. well, since I had lived with it for well over 6 months. All of the pieces, however, would be debuts for me, since I had performed none of them before (!) (other than one Faure, and one Schubert, which I performed the last time as a teenager). As you can see, I faced a daunting task.
Warming up in the hall before the concert, I noticed my high notes were not quite spinning, and my vocal chords were not as flexible as usual. Which is odd, because I am typically the queen of flexible singing. To a fault. I fretted that my voice felt locked and dry, but I attributed it up to nerves and tried to ride it out.
During the first piece, I could tell that something was wrong, but the voice was still coming out, and I was not yet in danger of completely bombing the concert. The dry, pinched feeling increased as a continued to sing, piece after piece, even after taking breaks between sets to speak about the program and sip some water. I remained perplexed. Fearing that everyone in the audience was picking up on my trouble and therefore hating this concert and hating me, I started the Faure set. At this point, danger descended upon me. Apres un reve, the one piece I had performed recently, and possibly my favorite on the entire program, was brutal. I could not sustain the breath through those long passages, and by the time I got to the low note at the end, my chest support collapsed and I barely squeaked out the final low note of the piece. I was mortified and wanted to run away. I thought, I'm going to have to leave the stage and possibly cut the rest of the program short. Then, a voice inside me said, just take a sip of water and a deep breath. It's going to be ok. So I did, and before I could start freaking out again, I was talking about the next piece, and I was on my way to finishing up the concert.
The final set of the recital, De Falla's 7 Spanish Songs, was the highlight, for both myself and the audience (I think), as somehow I finally managed to relax and be myself. Whatever I was struggling with, I was out of the woods, and I became centered, physically, emotionally, and vocally. In the end, the audience loved it, and I even had to come out for a second bow.
Whew!
Next project: learn how to freakin' relax already during a performance. This may take some practice.
I have been recuperating from my latest adventure and rite of passage: my first solo vocal recital.
I'm not a recital virgin anymore. Hooray!
If you weren't there, here's how it went down:
Like in many rites of passages, I ran the gamut of emotions: from joy to despair and back again. I was well prepared for this concert, having planned to perform it back in October but postponing it due to a cough. I knew the rep. well, since I had lived with it for well over 6 months. All of the pieces, however, would be debuts for me, since I had performed none of them before (!) (other than one Faure, and one Schubert, which I performed the last time as a teenager). As you can see, I faced a daunting task.
Warming up in the hall before the concert, I noticed my high notes were not quite spinning, and my vocal chords were not as flexible as usual. Which is odd, because I am typically the queen of flexible singing. To a fault. I fretted that my voice felt locked and dry, but I attributed it up to nerves and tried to ride it out.
During the first piece, I could tell that something was wrong, but the voice was still coming out, and I was not yet in danger of completely bombing the concert. The dry, pinched feeling increased as a continued to sing, piece after piece, even after taking breaks between sets to speak about the program and sip some water. I remained perplexed. Fearing that everyone in the audience was picking up on my trouble and therefore hating this concert and hating me, I started the Faure set. At this point, danger descended upon me. Apres un reve, the one piece I had performed recently, and possibly my favorite on the entire program, was brutal. I could not sustain the breath through those long passages, and by the time I got to the low note at the end, my chest support collapsed and I barely squeaked out the final low note of the piece. I was mortified and wanted to run away. I thought, I'm going to have to leave the stage and possibly cut the rest of the program short. Then, a voice inside me said, just take a sip of water and a deep breath. It's going to be ok. So I did, and before I could start freaking out again, I was talking about the next piece, and I was on my way to finishing up the concert.
The final set of the recital, De Falla's 7 Spanish Songs, was the highlight, for both myself and the audience (I think), as somehow I finally managed to relax and be myself. Whatever I was struggling with, I was out of the woods, and I became centered, physically, emotionally, and vocally. In the end, the audience loved it, and I even had to come out for a second bow.
Whew!
Next project: learn how to freakin' relax already during a performance. This may take some practice.
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