Sunday Funnies

This Sunday's paper had not one, not two, but three hilarious clothing options.  You know how I love the hideous Sunday paper shoe offerings.  This week we have more than shoes.  Behold:

I call this one the Blair Fleece Project (because Blair is the company that makes this ensemble).

I don't know what makes it so bad.  I just know I'm not ordering a sweatsuit from a newspaper ad.  Or from anywhere else, for that matter.

This is a real beaut.  They claim it is the (all CAPS) COZIEST FLANNEL LOUNGER you'll ever wear!

It makes me sad to think I would possibly wear more than one flannel lounger in my life.  If you're interested, the price is right.  2 for $19.99.  Keep one for yourself, and give one away to someone you loathe.

The final item is scaring me a little.  Because I think it is somewhat cute.

They are designed for ultimate comfort!.  They look like the perfect winter maternity shoes, for when your feet get all fat and freaky and don't fit into normal footwear.  Or maybe they just look like loaves of bread for your feet.  You be the judge.

In final Sunday paper news, I am a little pissed at the Chicago Tribune (and will be writing them a letter accordingly).  They have this feature in the funnies where they pit two comics against each other.  The one who gets the most votes stays, and the other one leaves the paper.  Originally they were doing this with comics new to the Trib, so not a bad way to figure out what their readers like.  But as of last week, they pitted one of the newbies against Broom Hilda.  That's so insulting to a classic like good o'l Broom Hilda!  How rude.  I shall exercise my right when it comes time to vote and call one million times, to prove my loyalty to the oldies.  I hope you all will do the same.  I'll let you know when it's voting time.

Enjoy your Sunday!

I'm Still Alive

After the past two days of musical discussion, I wanted to address something I've thought about quite a bit as a young adult author.  You see, and you probably already know, I was music.  My music defined me.  I'm sure I'm not alone in this, since so many of you had things to say about me going to see one of my favorite bands of ten or so years ago.  The question is: when did it change?  When did my life stop being fueled by my passion for music?  When did going to shows become more of a burden than my lifeblood?  When did I stop wanting to hear new music, be on top of my musical game, and discuss obscure bands with other obscure band obsessors?  I don't know when it stopped.

I do know when it started.

It was the summer before seventh grade, when The Monkees were celebrating their 20th anniversary.  MTV aired old episodes, as did a local channel, and I was hooked.  Not that I wasn't into music before that.  We had cable very early on, and I watched MTV religiously.  I knew every video, bought tons of tapes, sang along with the radio, etc.  But it wasn't until The Monkees that it became love.  Maybe it was the hormones of middle school.  I adored The Monkees.  I owned every album (in both tape and record format), watched the show multiple times per day, and even cried when I saw them in concert (good thing my seats were so far away I couldn't see how old they became).

Eventually, I branched out into what was then known as "alternative" or "college" rock: U2, INXS, REM, The Church.  The thing I remember the most was the need to let everyone else know how much I liked these bands, how I knew more than they did about them, how I was the true fan.  And tears.  Lots of tears.  I loved crying for my music.  I moved on to harder groups, not quite metal, mostly grunge, like Soundgarden, Faith No More, and Pearl Jam.  I can even remember the first time I heard (saw) Pearl Jam: I was watching Headbanger's Ball on a Saturday night (the usual), and they had on a segment called "Frantic Fringe" where they showcased newer bands.  The video for "Alive" came on.  I was at first totally excited when I recognized the drummer in the video.  (I can't remember any names at this point, and I don't want to slow this post down with doing research.)  It was the drummer from Edie Brickell and New Bohemians, one of my favorite early high school bands (I totally had Edie Brickell hair).  But then I heard the song.  And I was lost.  Or found.  It happened to coincide with a period of my life where I was clinically depressed.  So depressed that my parents put me in a mental hospital the beginning of my senior year (which eventually became the story for my novel, GET WELL SOON).  Pearl Jam saved me.  They came around at the right time, had the right angst level, and a beautiful front man for me to swoon over.  Then I met Eddie Vedder.  I have a whole story about it that I can post if you'd like.  Maybe I already did once.  I wrote it for my zine, cul-de-sac.  Anyway, it was a hugely important moment in my life, meeting Eddie.  It showed me that good things could actually happen to me.

In college, I was all out indie girl.  It was such an annoyingly guy-heavy scene, but I could always go to bat with my hipster knowledge.  I had a fake ID at 18, not to drink, but to get into bars to see bands.  And I saw a ton of them.  It was easy in Madison, since the shows were frequent and in walking distance.  That's was the Guided by Voices era.  The music didn't make me all weepy and withdrawn like my high school choices.  Instead, it made me feel like I rocked.

But when did it all stop?  Was it as I got older and saw how annoying it was that even though I liked the same bands as people I talked to, it was never about a shared appreciation but more of an I know more than you pissing contest?  Was it that the music didn't speak to me anymore?  Was it the whole scene, standing around in sweaty clubs, buying albums I thought I was supposed to buy, paying more and more money for shows that weren't worth it?

No clue.

What I do know is that I don't have that drive inside me anymore, that one that makes me need certain bands and songs for specific moments.  Of course I still love music.  I listen whenever I'm in the car, and we play it all the time in the house.  But it's different music.  Happier music.  Ella Jenkins.  The Monkees (I guess they're the same, but for certain not angsty any more).  Elvis.  Music that doesn't make me feel guilty when my daughter listens, too.  Sure, I still blast NWA and Metallica in my car when I'm alone, but it doesn't make me feel like I'm the only person left in the world like it used to.  Instead of rolling my windows down so people can hear what I'm listening to, I put the AC on, embarrassed that my thirty-five year old, white, Jewish self is singing along to "Straight Outta Compton."

Do you know what I mean?  Do you still have it?  That musical drive that you felt when you were younger?  Or do others out there feel what I'm saying?  Maybe I should go put on my headphones and let Slick Rick give me the answers.

The Decision

The Guided by Voices decision has been made.  Not by me, however.  Romy woke up this morning with a wicked cold.  I believe I would be a crappy mom if I left Romy to a sitter tonight while she is sick.  You can believe whatever you want.  Truly.  I feel all weird and a little judged by yesterday's post.  I had a bunch of comments both here and on my facebook page, and it made me feel like people were going to look at me badly if I decided not to go to the show.  Maybe you thought I was asking for encouragement, something to get me off the couch and out of the house.  Thing is, I am ALWAYS off the couch and out of the house!  Last week, that's all I was!  And you know what?  I'm tired.  I'm trying to take care of myself (sleep), take care of my daughter, and type up my 400 page novel that needs to get going.  Not going to a concert doesn't mean I'm compromising something of myself; it just means I have different priorities nowadays.  I worked insanely hard to have a child, so I don't think that choosing to be with her instead of not with her for a night is something I should feel bad about.  And as far as missing a GBV show?  Seen 'em.  Like, a dozen times.  And they weren't always good shows.  Sometimes it's a huge bummer to watch a man who used to be a married elementary school teacher continue to act out his rockstar fantasies now that he's divorced and permanently drunk.  Maybe he's not that way anymore.  I hope not.  But that's how it was the last few times I saw them.  Whatever.  They'll be back.  They always are.  Maybe by then Romy will be too busy going to her own concerts to care where I am.

Old Lady and the GBV

In most situations, I don't consider myself young anymore.  I look younger than I am, or so people tell me, which I appreciate.  But I don't feel young.  My body isn't what it used to be (not that I was ever some bikini-clad Bond girl.  I'm referring to the creaks and cracks of not being able to move as fluidly as I once could.).  I definitely have a few lines and gray hairs.  Even at work, when I'm there, I don't feel as young as I used to.  Once, I was the go-getter, youthful librarian.  Now, there are teachers ten years younger than me.  At least the students stay the same age.  My not-so-to-the-point point is this: one of my favorite bands of all time is reuniting with its original members, I bought tickets, and now I'm trying to get rid of them before the concert tomorrow.  The band?  Guided by Voices, an incredible indie group whom I adored during my college years.  I've already seen them more than ten times live, several times with the original line-up, and even hung out with them a few times.  Musically, I still think they're wonderful, although I don't know if the hit or miss nature of their songs and albums fits into my current musical frame of mind.  Why did I buy the tickets?  I guess I was in a mood where I thought, yeah!, I can stay up late and hear some good music and not mind driving over an hour into the city and find and pay an exorbitant amount of money for parking.  Yeah! I say again.  But, who was I kidding?  I hate sitting in the car, I hate staying up late, especially now that I'm on meds to try and regulate my sleep, I hate trying to find parking, and I hate standing close to sweaty, drunk idiots who are all at least half a foot taller than me.

So now I'm kicking myself, thinking about how I could have spent the money on clothes for Romy or a movie or books.  People aren't even buying cheaply-priced By It Now tickets on eBay.  I'll probably just end up giving them away.  Will I feel less guilty if I go?  Perhaps, but then the guilt will be placed in other areas: too much money spent for parking, not being home to put Romy to bed, being tired and grumpy the next day for Romy because of lack of sleep.  So I can't win.  Unless someone buys the tickets.  And I'm so old I forget the whole thing even happened.

I'm Back! And in Finnish!

I'm back!  But it's a holiday, isn't it?  So maybe you are away from your computers and not reading my blog.  This is a good one, though, so read up.  I just returned from a fabulous, laughter-filled, sleep-deprived trip to Disney World with Matt and Romy.  Romy met twelve thousand characters, and every moment is captured on film.  She also very much enjoyed watching some manatees in rehabilitation and will tell you their names are Lou and Jasper because that's what their handler said.  Lou and Jasper.  Love that.

When I arrived home, there were twenty million boxes and packages at my house.  Apparently, Romy's grandmas on her dad's side were itching to get her birthday gifts off her Amazon wishlist ASAP, even though her birthday isn't until November.  So there were those.  And then there was an envelope that contained THIS:

A Finnish version of INTO THE WILD NERD YONDER!!!  From Finland!!!  I had no idea my book had been translated.  Do other authors know when their books are being translated?  It was such an awesome surprise.  The book is slightly smaller than the original, with no dust jacket.  From what I can gather from the wacky google translator, the book is being published under some sort of girly series called Sister Disco (yes!!!!).  So cool.  So so so cool!  Here's the spine (you can click on the pictures to make them bigger):

So Scandinavian.  And here's the back:

The first page:

And check out the acknowledgments:

 

All of the names have been Finn-ified!  I hope this is the first of many translations of my books.  Because I love this one so much, I keep it right next to my bed in case I want to look at it in the middle of the night.

Ow, Baby

I'll be away from my computer next week, so please don't forget to come back to my blog when I'm back.  Seriously.  Because there are a lot of blogs out there, and I know when someone doesn't blog regularly it makes you forget.  So, in order to help you remember, here is a classic Poison tune (WAY better than "Every Rose Has Its Thorn, IMHO).  Weep not, friends.  I'll be back.  No Unskinny Bop about it.

Foiled

I wanted to blog yesterday, but I didn't sleep at all the night before and then Romy didn't nap well.  It's all about sleep, and we're not getting any here.  I still haven't started on the meds the sleep doctor gave me because I wanted to read more about them.  Now that I have, of course I'm afraid to take them.  The cycle of sleeplessness never ends.  Today, Matt woke up really early to head out to his first ever solo school visit!  We did one together years ago for "Toby and the Snowflakes," but that didn't totally count because it was at the school where I worked.  He's going to do great today, I know it!  And then hopefully he'll have conquered his phobia and do a million more school visits.  Because of the early wake up, but more probably because Romy can sense my every location at every moment, she woke up hella early.  She's awake as I type this.  But mama needs her time!  I get no time!  I need a little bit, for sanity's sake!

This is sounding like a crazy mom blog.

Today is the last day of the farmer's market in my town.  So sad.  So officially the end of summer.  Not that I covet summer.  I'm a winter baby.  But there's always something a tad bit sad about it.  It's definitely different not being at school or on a school schedule.  Maybe even a little more sad.

So let's talk happy!  I tested typing the first page of the GET WELL SOON sequel this morning.  It took me about six minutes (maybe five, but my mind wandered, and I couldn't get comfortable).  I multiplied that by the 397 pages I wrote and divided it by sixty (minutes).  It came to almost forty.  That's forty hours it will take me to type the beast up.  I thought it might make me feel better to know, but it kind of doesn't.  Even if I get to type for one hour a day (which is, seriously, seeming like a pipe dream right now) that's forty days!  And then I have to revise it again!  I guess I thought I'd be finished sooner.  But how?  I guess that wasn't so happy.  How about: Thanks to everyone who attended Adam Selzer and my Banned Books Week event at The Book Cellar on Wednesday night!  The crowd was a little rough.  I mean, not like biker chick rough, but they didn't seem to be in laughy moods.  I like my audiences laughy.  So does Adam, I'm guessing.  But it was a lovely night, and I finally got to visit The Book Cellar, which was awesome.  I'm hoping to be back there someday for more events.  And it was just down the street from my old martial arts studio!  I wanted to stop by and visit, give a little bow, but I thought they might kick my ass for quitting every time I was up for my yellow belt test.  I didn't want to spar!!!

Romy is doing her "Pick-er-up-a-momma" chant, so I gots ta go.