Today, Gentle Readers, I did something that I haven't done in months, possibly a year -- and maybe even longer than that.
I took a whole day for myself. I watched two full episodes of a television show that I knew I would like the first time I heard about it (but hadn't gotten around to until now), I messed around online for no other reason than to mess around online, I slept for a full 12 hours (went to bed at 3am, woke at 3pm), I did two loads of laundry (clean underwear!) and I did NOT think about anybody else, their needs, their wants, their whatevers. I just took a break from it all.
I didn't think about what I had to do, the many projects I have on the go, the deadlines coming up, work, play, friends (and the dire straits that some of them are in), my health or lack thereof, or anything else. In fact, I don't think I really thought at all, save to figure out what I wanted to do next.
It was heavenly. I felt as though, shortly after Fish came home and I realized that my me time was over, I was doing something incredibly sinful. Then I realized that while it wasn't a sin, it was definitely decadent. Indulgent. Like buying silk sheets or cheese that's $20/pound, just because you can, and for no other reason than because you want whatever it is you're buying. And I realized something else too. For the last however long, I have even been giving myself rewards not because I deserve them, but because it's merely one more duty. Even finding the time and money to reward myself has felt like a chore, one more thing checked off the To Do list.And then I'd go right on to the next thing on the list.
I don't know when I stopped feeling pleasure in doing things just because I want to, and not because I have to. I also don't know when I started doing things because they were part of my Duty and not merely because I enjoyed them. Somewhere along the line I got the idea that doing something for a noble purpose was better than doing something merely because you wanted to do it. If you were going to do a thing, it had better have a solid reason behind it, or else it wasn't worth doing. Which is ok up to a point, but . . . I think I may have taken it to excess.
I had a lot of fun today doing virtually nothing. What little I did I did solely because I wanted to do it. It wasn't a duty. It wasn't an obligation. It wasn't for a deadline. Or to save somebody else's ass, or to take up somebody's slack. It was just because I found it fun to do. For the last . . . year, maybe longer? I've been doing things that have a reason behind them. They're part of something else, or it's a Very Important Part Of My Life and I *must* do them, or else. Duty, obligation, fulfilling a need, taking care of a problem, something.
But today, I was free of all of that. And I've decided that I am going to have to do this again more often. And in token of this new resolve, I am hereby stating for the public record that I like Republic of Doyle, quite a lot really, and for no other reason than because its snarky, sarcastic humor makes me laugh. There is no other noble purpose. No socially acceptable reason. That television show is fun for me to watch. And I like to laugh, I haven't been doing a lot of that recently.
We Three
Three good reasons to get out of bed on a cold, rainy night!
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Waiting Patiently
Sorry, Gentle Readers, the update that I've promised is a bit behind schedule, due entirely to the vagaries of community theatre. When one deals entirely with volunteers, one must put up with people not making decisions until the last possible moment, sigh. This means, of course, that the 'trickle down effect' (thank you, Chief Fool, for the phrase) is resounding upon me with a mighty crash and I am still in limbo, and so, Gentle Readers, are you.
The volunteer coordinator assures me that by the middle of this week he'll have some news for me. So stay tuned, Gentle Readers, part 2 is indeed on the way!
The volunteer coordinator assures me that by the middle of this week he'll have some news for me. So stay tuned, Gentle Readers, part 2 is indeed on the way!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A Little Something I've Learned (Part 1 LONG)
Gentle Readers --
Most of you know that I am a stage manager, that I work in the live entertainment world as a non-touring freelance community (mostly) theatre stage manager, but there are two things you don't know:
A) I have been involved in live theatre in some way or other (with an alarming digression, courtesy of my mother, into child modeling -- for Sears -- when I was 9 or 10 years old) for 30 of my 36 years. True. My first show in front of paying audiences was my first (and last, and only!) ballet recital when I was 6. At 9 years old I was in summer stock in Chicago, by the time I was 12 I'd discovered technical theatre (in our summer community in Michigan) and by the time I was 16 I was working backstage doing props and backstage managing in San Diego, CA, for a well-regarded community theatre organization there. When I was 18 I managed my first backstage as a production assistant for my college, and from there I've never looked back.
The reason I'm telling you this, Gentle Readers, is so that you will get a feel for why the other thing you probably don't know (and what I'm about to tell you) is such a big deal. In short, theatre was my life for a very long time. So much so that everything else went down before it. Friends. Romance. Alan Doyle isn't the only one who's missed funerals (it was my grandmother too, and my favorite, but what could I do? I was in a show . . . ). If I had a choice, and I was in a show, there was no choice. The show came first. In my way, I've been as dedicated and ruthless in my chosen field as any of the core members of Great Big Sea, except that it's a thousand percent harder to make it in my field than in theirs, believe it or not, merely because the 'pond' (as in, big fish, small pond) is SO much smaller. There aren't nearly as many chances to make it big or to claw your way up by your own bootstraps with what I do, so it's that much smaller, that much harder, that much narrower to succeed.
But I was *focused*. I was like a narrow beam of light. I was sure I was equal to the task. I knew what I wanted and wouldn't let anything stand in my way. I fought for every step up the ladder I could get. My life was nothing but theatre. My wardrobe was nothing but black. The only time I was aware of the outside world was if one of my actors happened to mention the whatever-it-was, or if my director needed me to know it. I spent 6 years in a totally unsuitable university, chasing a degree, because I thought it would help. I understand Dear Home Town better than many because I have been there and walked in their moccasins and I have made the same decisions. I sold my soul also. That song, for me, is intensely personal and I can't listen to it without wincing. Great Big Sea is not telling me anything new. But . . . there is more to the story.
And all of that which I just told you, Gentle Readers, is why, B) in 2008, after a disastrous first time out with one of the big companies here in town (and it really was an epic fail, I took the job of stage manager against my own better judgment and paid dearly for it) it was such a big thing, for me to take a leave of absence. A sabbatical. A break. Whatever you want to call it.
Many things happened to make the very easy decision to walk away from everything. I turned my back on my world and cut every single tie. I left entirely. I had to. There was no, partial separation. It was like a divorce. It had to be complete.
I was in my mid-30's and still not making a living. Making money, despite being in the arts, was a higher priority the older I got. I'd met a very good man -- and THAT tends to change your priorities!! And during my last show the 35W bridge collapsed. People died. In a way, it was worse, to me, than the 9/11 attacks, because though I'd known people who were all supposed, for one reason or another, to be in the towers or on the planes, and who weren't, thank God, when the bridge collapsed it was intensely personal. And intensely horrible. I couldn't find all my actors, some of them weren't answering their phones and I knew -- as did the rest of the cast -- that they all would have driven on that bridge, as I'd done, not an hour before, to get to rehearsal. They finally showed up, late, eventually, having not heard the news or checked their cell phones, but those moments of carefully hidden panic and terror and despair were enough to make me rethink things. A LOT of things. A stage manager is not supposed to show any feeling beyond a cheerful competence. We are supposed to be a badge of reassurance to our actors that nothing is wrong. And as I kept that rehearsal going that night, being a rock, taking care of everything, calling people to make sure they were safe, gently but inexorably forcing the people who were already there to work (because the director knew that action was better than inaction) while waiting for our missing people, when what I really wanted to do was teleport home to put my head under the covers and shake, I knew right then that I would not be able to do this again. A disaster of that magnitude changes things. And all of a sudden, I started thinking about my priorities and what I *really* wanted out of life that I wasn't getting. And then I knew that to get what I wanted something else would have to give.
So, I quit. I had thought, and planned, that quitting was going to be a permanent thing. I wanted to actually experience LIFE. I wanted to not be at somebody else's beck and call, constantly, I wanted to say YES when my friends invited me somewhere, instead of always saying "I can't, I have rehearsal", I wanted to do the simple pleasures -- go to a movie on Friday night with my boyfriend. Walk the dog on Saturday morning. The little things that people who AREN'T in the live entertainment business take for granted. Grocery shopping during daylight hours. You know. To do laundry without having to do it all on one day -- Monday. Have an actual birthday party instead of bringing a cake to the green room. To wake up without a schedule regimented down to the second. Remember, I hadn't really had any of this as an adult. There was a lot I'd missed out on, that I wanted to experience, that everybody else in the world just does and doesn't think about.
And then, when Fish and I started getting serious and we moved in with each other and then he put a ring on my finger and then we bought a house together, I was happier than I'd ever been. And I was amazed to discover that other things had taken precedence naturally. There was no angst. No sorrow. I was actually happy to not be working. Of course, I was also planning a wedding virtually singlehandedly and then I had my first bout of iritis, but life was good.
And I got married and got the sight back in my left eye and had a garden and dogs and I was even more happy. Then . . . about 3 weeks after I got married I got called by a desperate director of a MN Fringe Festival show. Would I . . . could I . . . did I mind . . . it was in the summertime. It was only for two weeks. It didn't pay anything, but it was the FRINGE (do you know how hard it is to get in there? HARD.). I couldn't resist adding it to my resume. I was a last-minute substitution because their original had a sudden conflict (a death, I think) that made them have to leave.
So in the 8 weeks or so between my marriage and my honeymoon, I was being the stage manager and board operator for a live theatre production for about 4 of those weeks including rehearsal time.
Which should have told me something right there, I suppose. After we got back from a glorious week in Disneyworld in Florida, I decided that I wasn't ready to go back to the theatre world, indeed, I didn't know if I would EVER be ready. I told myself that the Fringe thing was just an oddball little deal, that it didn't matter.
And I stayed strong, happy and secure in my new life, for another year and a bit. But then . . . well . . . you can read about that, Dear Readers, in Part 2, which will happen later this week once I get some news that I've been waiting on, one way or another. The news forthcoming will dictate what I write, so I have to wait, and so, perforce, will you. But it will be worth it, one way or another. I promise.
Most of you know that I am a stage manager, that I work in the live entertainment world as a non-touring freelance community (mostly) theatre stage manager, but there are two things you don't know:
A) I have been involved in live theatre in some way or other (with an alarming digression, courtesy of my mother, into child modeling -- for Sears -- when I was 9 or 10 years old) for 30 of my 36 years. True. My first show in front of paying audiences was my first (and last, and only!) ballet recital when I was 6. At 9 years old I was in summer stock in Chicago, by the time I was 12 I'd discovered technical theatre (in our summer community in Michigan) and by the time I was 16 I was working backstage doing props and backstage managing in San Diego, CA, for a well-regarded community theatre organization there. When I was 18 I managed my first backstage as a production assistant for my college, and from there I've never looked back.
The reason I'm telling you this, Gentle Readers, is so that you will get a feel for why the other thing you probably don't know (and what I'm about to tell you) is such a big deal. In short, theatre was my life for a very long time. So much so that everything else went down before it. Friends. Romance. Alan Doyle isn't the only one who's missed funerals (it was my grandmother too, and my favorite, but what could I do? I was in a show . . . ). If I had a choice, and I was in a show, there was no choice. The show came first. In my way, I've been as dedicated and ruthless in my chosen field as any of the core members of Great Big Sea, except that it's a thousand percent harder to make it in my field than in theirs, believe it or not, merely because the 'pond' (as in, big fish, small pond) is SO much smaller. There aren't nearly as many chances to make it big or to claw your way up by your own bootstraps with what I do, so it's that much smaller, that much harder, that much narrower to succeed.
But I was *focused*. I was like a narrow beam of light. I was sure I was equal to the task. I knew what I wanted and wouldn't let anything stand in my way. I fought for every step up the ladder I could get. My life was nothing but theatre. My wardrobe was nothing but black. The only time I was aware of the outside world was if one of my actors happened to mention the whatever-it-was, or if my director needed me to know it. I spent 6 years in a totally unsuitable university, chasing a degree, because I thought it would help. I understand Dear Home Town better than many because I have been there and walked in their moccasins and I have made the same decisions. I sold my soul also. That song, for me, is intensely personal and I can't listen to it without wincing. Great Big Sea is not telling me anything new. But . . . there is more to the story.
And all of that which I just told you, Gentle Readers, is why, B) in 2008, after a disastrous first time out with one of the big companies here in town (and it really was an epic fail, I took the job of stage manager against my own better judgment and paid dearly for it) it was such a big thing, for me to take a leave of absence. A sabbatical. A break. Whatever you want to call it.
Many things happened to make the very easy decision to walk away from everything. I turned my back on my world and cut every single tie. I left entirely. I had to. There was no, partial separation. It was like a divorce. It had to be complete.
I was in my mid-30's and still not making a living. Making money, despite being in the arts, was a higher priority the older I got. I'd met a very good man -- and THAT tends to change your priorities!! And during my last show the 35W bridge collapsed. People died. In a way, it was worse, to me, than the 9/11 attacks, because though I'd known people who were all supposed, for one reason or another, to be in the towers or on the planes, and who weren't, thank God, when the bridge collapsed it was intensely personal. And intensely horrible. I couldn't find all my actors, some of them weren't answering their phones and I knew -- as did the rest of the cast -- that they all would have driven on that bridge, as I'd done, not an hour before, to get to rehearsal. They finally showed up, late, eventually, having not heard the news or checked their cell phones, but those moments of carefully hidden panic and terror and despair were enough to make me rethink things. A LOT of things. A stage manager is not supposed to show any feeling beyond a cheerful competence. We are supposed to be a badge of reassurance to our actors that nothing is wrong. And as I kept that rehearsal going that night, being a rock, taking care of everything, calling people to make sure they were safe, gently but inexorably forcing the people who were already there to work (because the director knew that action was better than inaction) while waiting for our missing people, when what I really wanted to do was teleport home to put my head under the covers and shake, I knew right then that I would not be able to do this again. A disaster of that magnitude changes things. And all of a sudden, I started thinking about my priorities and what I *really* wanted out of life that I wasn't getting. And then I knew that to get what I wanted something else would have to give.
So, I quit. I had thought, and planned, that quitting was going to be a permanent thing. I wanted to actually experience LIFE. I wanted to not be at somebody else's beck and call, constantly, I wanted to say YES when my friends invited me somewhere, instead of always saying "I can't, I have rehearsal", I wanted to do the simple pleasures -- go to a movie on Friday night with my boyfriend. Walk the dog on Saturday morning. The little things that people who AREN'T in the live entertainment business take for granted. Grocery shopping during daylight hours. You know. To do laundry without having to do it all on one day -- Monday. Have an actual birthday party instead of bringing a cake to the green room. To wake up without a schedule regimented down to the second. Remember, I hadn't really had any of this as an adult. There was a lot I'd missed out on, that I wanted to experience, that everybody else in the world just does and doesn't think about.
And then, when Fish and I started getting serious and we moved in with each other and then he put a ring on my finger and then we bought a house together, I was happier than I'd ever been. And I was amazed to discover that other things had taken precedence naturally. There was no angst. No sorrow. I was actually happy to not be working. Of course, I was also planning a wedding virtually singlehandedly and then I had my first bout of iritis, but life was good.
And I got married and got the sight back in my left eye and had a garden and dogs and I was even more happy. Then . . . about 3 weeks after I got married I got called by a desperate director of a MN Fringe Festival show. Would I . . . could I . . . did I mind . . . it was in the summertime. It was only for two weeks. It didn't pay anything, but it was the FRINGE (do you know how hard it is to get in there? HARD.). I couldn't resist adding it to my resume. I was a last-minute substitution because their original had a sudden conflict (a death, I think) that made them have to leave.
So in the 8 weeks or so between my marriage and my honeymoon, I was being the stage manager and board operator for a live theatre production for about 4 of those weeks including rehearsal time.
Which should have told me something right there, I suppose. After we got back from a glorious week in Disneyworld in Florida, I decided that I wasn't ready to go back to the theatre world, indeed, I didn't know if I would EVER be ready. I told myself that the Fringe thing was just an oddball little deal, that it didn't matter.
And I stayed strong, happy and secure in my new life, for another year and a bit. But then . . . well . . . you can read about that, Dear Readers, in Part 2, which will happen later this week once I get some news that I've been waiting on, one way or another. The news forthcoming will dictate what I write, so I have to wait, and so, perforce, will you. But it will be worth it, one way or another. I promise.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Dreams and My Subconscious
This past sleep, Gentle Readers (and yes, I know it's almost 2:30am, I am planning on going to bed soon!) I had a very interesting dream.
Apparently my subconscious has decided that for now, anyway, Success is going to show up in my dreams disguised as Alan Doyle from Great Big Sea. Makes sense, I guess, given his story, but I just thought that was a little odd. Out of everything I've experienced in my own life, wouldn't my own subconscious choose something from ME as a symbol of Success? What's with this folk singer instead?
And in this dream that I just had I, for the first time EVER, as long as I can remember, was in a wheelchair in the beginning of it. Research about wheelchairs in dreams suggests that this is a symbol for me feeling helpless in some way, either I feel unable to express some sort of feeling, or I feel as though I'm handicapped in some way. Well. We all know that I am in fact significantly disabled because of my two neurological condititions -- Non-Verbal Learning Disorder and Asperger's, but somehow I don't think my dream was referring to those.
'Cause, you see, as soon as I met Alan in my dream (along an ocean walk that drew from various ocean walks I've encountered in my life, but for some reason also incorporated a tunnel, wierd) he looked at me with an expression of great distaste, looked down at me, and commanded me, in that way he has, to "stop pretending."
I am now left with trying to figure out just what my subconscious thinks I am pretending about, and what I am hiding from success. Because, of course, when I refused (I remember watching myself saying quite piteously, 'but I can't' and Alan getting thoroughly disgusted at my refusal -- I was disgusted with myself too, to be honest, that weepy, 'I can't' handicapped little person didn't jive with how I see myself . . . I often dream in 3rd person, watching myself do whatever it is) Alan turned his back on me, stalking away, and ignoring me until I did indeed get up from the wheelchair, leaving it behind, and ran back along the beach cliffs until I caught up with him.
What am I not successful at that I should be? What is the meaning of my getting up out of the wheelchair? What is holding me back and shouldn't be? I hate to use the word 'should' (I agree with Hugh Jackman's Views on that word) but in this case I think it's the correct word for the circumstances.
I am going to have to think on this for a while, perhaps use prayer and meditation. It seems obvious to me that something in me is crying out to move forward -- but I have no idea what. Hmmm.
Apparently my subconscious has decided that for now, anyway, Success is going to show up in my dreams disguised as Alan Doyle from Great Big Sea. Makes sense, I guess, given his story, but I just thought that was a little odd. Out of everything I've experienced in my own life, wouldn't my own subconscious choose something from ME as a symbol of Success? What's with this folk singer instead?
And in this dream that I just had I, for the first time EVER, as long as I can remember, was in a wheelchair in the beginning of it. Research about wheelchairs in dreams suggests that this is a symbol for me feeling helpless in some way, either I feel unable to express some sort of feeling, or I feel as though I'm handicapped in some way. Well. We all know that I am in fact significantly disabled because of my two neurological condititions -- Non-Verbal Learning Disorder and Asperger's, but somehow I don't think my dream was referring to those.
'Cause, you see, as soon as I met Alan in my dream (along an ocean walk that drew from various ocean walks I've encountered in my life, but for some reason also incorporated a tunnel, wierd) he looked at me with an expression of great distaste, looked down at me, and commanded me, in that way he has, to "stop pretending."
I am now left with trying to figure out just what my subconscious thinks I am pretending about, and what I am hiding from success. Because, of course, when I refused (I remember watching myself saying quite piteously, 'but I can't' and Alan getting thoroughly disgusted at my refusal -- I was disgusted with myself too, to be honest, that weepy, 'I can't' handicapped little person didn't jive with how I see myself . . . I often dream in 3rd person, watching myself do whatever it is) Alan turned his back on me, stalking away, and ignoring me until I did indeed get up from the wheelchair, leaving it behind, and ran back along the beach cliffs until I caught up with him.
What am I not successful at that I should be? What is the meaning of my getting up out of the wheelchair? What is holding me back and shouldn't be? I hate to use the word 'should' (I agree with Hugh Jackman's Views on that word) but in this case I think it's the correct word for the circumstances.
I am going to have to think on this for a while, perhaps use prayer and meditation. It seems obvious to me that something in me is crying out to move forward -- but I have no idea what. Hmmm.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
An Update On Rosalie
Gentle Readers, I promised you an update on my new mandolin as soon as I've had her for a while and since it's been almost 30 days exactly since she arrived (and I've played her for about half of those days, I'd guess, somewhere between 15-20 days of practice), I have decided it's time to give you an update.
Dear folk, Rosalie is turning out to be a better instrument than anybody could have guessed. While she's not in the same class as a mandolin in the 4 digits for price, she's really pretty damn good, all things considered. So far, everybody who's heard her has been both surprised and impressed, and apparently (having never seen any other mandolins live and in person, at least, not close up enough to examine) Rosalie looks better than she 'ought' to for a $100 instrument, everybody who has seen her has asked me how much she was and when I say, they give me a look that says clearly that they don't believe me, so she must look pretty good.
I did some very basic set-up on her myself but there really wasn't much to do, she hasn't got a truss rod or any of the other internal components of a higher-priced mandolin. Her tuners are holding remarkably well and though they could perhaps get switched out for a higher-quality set, right now they're doing everything I ask them to. I'm not tuning any more than normal, which is nice.
I adjusted her bridge and, as I thought, her intonation problems have largely ceased. Intonation, for those of you -- like myself, before I figured it out -- who don't know what that means, is simply how the instrument sounds along the fingerboard, from the first fret to the last playable fret. If a string instrument's intonation is off, the strings will sound different at various points along the fingerboard, and occasionally play differently too. This is bad for a number of reasons! The 'action' of a stringed instrument is simply how high the strings rest off of the frets when a player's fingers aren't pushing them down. An action that's too high or too low can result in an unplayable instrument, and also affects the sound quality, among other things.
Many mandolins -- including mine, thank goodness -- have adjustable bridges. Unlike guitars, a mandolin's bridge (that piece of vertical wood where the strings pass over, usually over or near the hole in the body where the sound goes out) is often not attached to the body of the instrument by anything other than the tension inherent in the strings. Mandolin bridges can be adjusted up or down through two independent little gears, one on either side.
Whoever put Rosalie together in China obviously didn't give a damn about making the instrument actually SOUND good. When she got to me, she had cheap strings that had no life, no bounce, and didn't resonate at ALL, they were just lying there. Her bridge was lopsided and it was clear she'd never ever been touched.
The first time I played her, like I said in my earlier post, Rosalie was bright, tinny, and not very complex. When I adjusted her bridge so that it was straight *and* when I lowered the action of the strings (I like my strings a bit lower than normal), her intonation issues went away completely (which surprised the hell out of me) and suddenly she began to get some depth and richness to her sound. Huh. Whoda thunk?
Then I spent 2 days taking off the old crap strings and putting some new ones on. Now, with a mandolin, strings really are super ultra important. It's not like a guitar where you could probably get a decent sound out of any set of strings, old or new. With a mandolin, different sorts of strings can and will totally change the sound of the instrument. Knowing this, and knowing that Rosalie would need help to offset her tinny, sharp sound, I chose the gold standard for a rich, mellow tone when it comes to mandolin strings -- D'Addario J74's. These strings are phosphor bronze and have provided great sound for decades. I was already familiar with phosphor bronze strings and what they can do to an instrument because of the Ernie Ball Slinkies I use on my guitar, and I had high hopes for putting bronze strings on the mandolin too.
I was not disappointed. Though it took me just over two days (and I went through THREE sets of strings because I kept breaking the E string) I got the old, crappy strings off and the new D'Addario J74's on and within seconds of having them correctly tunes, I heard a HUGE difference.
With the new strings, Rosalie's voice has mellowed out considerably (she's still a little tinny and quite bright, but at least now dogs won't howl if I hit a high note!), her strings have considerable response, sustain and ring to them, the sound is clear (as opposed to very muddy before) and loud, she actually has a bit of bass to her now, and the characteristic, classic mandolin 'sweetness' -- as much as she'll ever have-- is starting to show.
Now that I have been playing her for a month and she's beginning to settle in (it's the same sort of thing as a brand new car, you know how you're not supposed to do any hard work or sudden maneuvering with a new car for the first 500 miles or so, in order to let the parts start moving together without stress), things are really improving. I wouldn't be ashamed to take her to play in public now, for one thing, and I will be able to perform with her at least during my historic re-enactment events, something I wasn't sure I could do when I got her because of her sound. I wouldn't take her to a really, truly professional session or concert or anything, but for my level of playing, she'll perform quite nicely -- much better than I'd ever hoped.
As I keep playing her, I hope that she'll mellow even further and get sweeter as time goes on. The wood will age, get affected by environmental factors, etc etc, and I hope this is all to the good.
The only thing is that Rosalie does NOT like the cold. Really, really. She detuned herself all the way down to a guitar's octave the last time I brought her out in December, LOL! Truly a southern gal :) She's going to have to learn to cope with it though, we do after all live in Minnesota, the Frozen North.
And now, Gentle Readers, back to practice!
Dear folk, Rosalie is turning out to be a better instrument than anybody could have guessed. While she's not in the same class as a mandolin in the 4 digits for price, she's really pretty damn good, all things considered. So far, everybody who's heard her has been both surprised and impressed, and apparently (having never seen any other mandolins live and in person, at least, not close up enough to examine) Rosalie looks better than she 'ought' to for a $100 instrument, everybody who has seen her has asked me how much she was and when I say, they give me a look that says clearly that they don't believe me, so she must look pretty good.
I did some very basic set-up on her myself but there really wasn't much to do, she hasn't got a truss rod or any of the other internal components of a higher-priced mandolin. Her tuners are holding remarkably well and though they could perhaps get switched out for a higher-quality set, right now they're doing everything I ask them to. I'm not tuning any more than normal, which is nice.
I adjusted her bridge and, as I thought, her intonation problems have largely ceased. Intonation, for those of you -- like myself, before I figured it out -- who don't know what that means, is simply how the instrument sounds along the fingerboard, from the first fret to the last playable fret. If a string instrument's intonation is off, the strings will sound different at various points along the fingerboard, and occasionally play differently too. This is bad for a number of reasons! The 'action' of a stringed instrument is simply how high the strings rest off of the frets when a player's fingers aren't pushing them down. An action that's too high or too low can result in an unplayable instrument, and also affects the sound quality, among other things.
Many mandolins -- including mine, thank goodness -- have adjustable bridges. Unlike guitars, a mandolin's bridge (that piece of vertical wood where the strings pass over, usually over or near the hole in the body where the sound goes out) is often not attached to the body of the instrument by anything other than the tension inherent in the strings. Mandolin bridges can be adjusted up or down through two independent little gears, one on either side.
Whoever put Rosalie together in China obviously didn't give a damn about making the instrument actually SOUND good. When she got to me, she had cheap strings that had no life, no bounce, and didn't resonate at ALL, they were just lying there. Her bridge was lopsided and it was clear she'd never ever been touched.
The first time I played her, like I said in my earlier post, Rosalie was bright, tinny, and not very complex. When I adjusted her bridge so that it was straight *and* when I lowered the action of the strings (I like my strings a bit lower than normal), her intonation issues went away completely (which surprised the hell out of me) and suddenly she began to get some depth and richness to her sound. Huh. Whoda thunk?
Then I spent 2 days taking off the old crap strings and putting some new ones on. Now, with a mandolin, strings really are super ultra important. It's not like a guitar where you could probably get a decent sound out of any set of strings, old or new. With a mandolin, different sorts of strings can and will totally change the sound of the instrument. Knowing this, and knowing that Rosalie would need help to offset her tinny, sharp sound, I chose the gold standard for a rich, mellow tone when it comes to mandolin strings -- D'Addario J74's. These strings are phosphor bronze and have provided great sound for decades. I was already familiar with phosphor bronze strings and what they can do to an instrument because of the Ernie Ball Slinkies I use on my guitar, and I had high hopes for putting bronze strings on the mandolin too.
I was not disappointed. Though it took me just over two days (and I went through THREE sets of strings because I kept breaking the E string) I got the old, crappy strings off and the new D'Addario J74's on and within seconds of having them correctly tunes, I heard a HUGE difference.
With the new strings, Rosalie's voice has mellowed out considerably (she's still a little tinny and quite bright, but at least now dogs won't howl if I hit a high note!), her strings have considerable response, sustain and ring to them, the sound is clear (as opposed to very muddy before) and loud, she actually has a bit of bass to her now, and the characteristic, classic mandolin 'sweetness' -- as much as she'll ever have-- is starting to show.
Now that I have been playing her for a month and she's beginning to settle in (it's the same sort of thing as a brand new car, you know how you're not supposed to do any hard work or sudden maneuvering with a new car for the first 500 miles or so, in order to let the parts start moving together without stress), things are really improving. I wouldn't be ashamed to take her to play in public now, for one thing, and I will be able to perform with her at least during my historic re-enactment events, something I wasn't sure I could do when I got her because of her sound. I wouldn't take her to a really, truly professional session or concert or anything, but for my level of playing, she'll perform quite nicely -- much better than I'd ever hoped.
As I keep playing her, I hope that she'll mellow even further and get sweeter as time goes on. The wood will age, get affected by environmental factors, etc etc, and I hope this is all to the good.
The only thing is that Rosalie does NOT like the cold. Really, really. She detuned herself all the way down to a guitar's octave the last time I brought her out in December, LOL! Truly a southern gal :) She's going to have to learn to cope with it though, we do after all live in Minnesota, the Frozen North.
And now, Gentle Readers, back to practice!
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Family Christmas
Dateline: Dec 25 2010
I am not sure how to report the evening's happenings to you, Gentle Readers. Things were simultaneously MUCH better than I expected and a bit worse than I'd imagined. Which was odd, the two things happening at the same time.
Incidentally, some of the Company are now getting drunk and showing their feelings by visiting the bars and so on, and at least I'm not sinking that low, although I did seriously consider a good shot of Drambuie on the way home.
There were tears, but not from me. My mother has finally figured out that saying "I know how you feel" is quite possibly the worst thing you can tell somebody who's had a trauma (or a death). Unfortunately, she had this epiphany in the middle of opening presents when she mentioned that she's finally beginning to get arthritis in her fingers and she was having some pain. Bro mentioned, as a joke, "Well, now you know how I feel!" and she started to agree with him, and then she started to cry. "No, I don't know how you feel . . . " etc etc. Got quite maudlin, really, I found myself thanking God that she hadn't had anything to drink, alcoholically, anyway, because if she had, 'tis certain we would have had a bigger scene. As it was everybody was looking a little uncomfortable while she sobbed gently about how she could never know what it felt like. I dunno. Do epiphanies really always have to be so dramatic?
The night started out with my dear father holding forth on "those damn Somalis" and things sort of went downhill from there. Usually we manage to get him to quit talking about politics but tonight he was determined and no matter who started talking about other stuff, he always dragged it round back to his political views, which, needless to say, were extremely unpalatable. Now, he's not nearly as right-wing as my mother, he's basically an old-style Republican conservative, and at least (if there must be a silver lining) he tends to be intolerant due to financial and statistical reasons. He's scientifically bigoted, as opposed to my mother, who quite simply is a religious right-wing nut job and tends to follow the leader without thinking.
You may notice that I don't talk about politics in this blog. That's because I don't like them. And since it's my blog, we will stay far away from them. I think talking about politics is like deliberately whacking a hornet's nest and then being surprised when you get stung.
So much for that. Food was great, Bro had brought some brined and dried salmon for starters (along with the cheese and nuts and crackers that my parents always provide -- 7 year old Vermont cheddar and smoked provolone, to be sure), and it was FANTASTIC. Not sure where the fish was caught, but the guy who treated it lives in White Bear Lake and he was a friend of Bro, so that's how we got it. Mom cooked a turkey and I did the gravy and my parents are always surprised when I do the gravy, how great it tastes. That's because I actually use the drippings and so on that are in the bottom of the pan, and Mom, if it's left to her, tends to throw all that out with a shudder -- "it's fattening". Well, so it is if you have cups of the gravy, but if you only have an ounce or two, it's not that bad! Because I don't use a lot of the true *fat*, just the drippings. Because she never sees a layer of fat in the gravy itself, she never objects. *sigh* Mom also made her version of mashed potatoes (bearable with gravy) and mashed yams, but alas, for the first time in years, she ALSO made that green beans thing with the onions-in-a-can on top and cream of mushroom soup all in the beans. Ugh. I took the required two bites and let it alone! Too mushy. Now, I've nothing against beans with mushrooms and onions, but this . . . Dessert was almost exactly like an apple crisp but with pumpkin pie filling instead of apples. I liked it, but I think it would have been better served with a nice cream cheese layer underneath it.
Mom made us our traditional Eastern European coffee cake and some ham to go with it, but by the time I was more than ready to go, I forgot to take it with us, so Fish will go over there tomorrow on his way to work to pick it up. Luckily, both things freeze well!
Presents . . . .I got a $100 Lane Bryant gift card (I desperately need new underwear that fits, now I've lost 40 pounds!), a $15 gift card to Itunes, some new slippers which I love (they've got sheepie fleece on the inside!), a $25 best Buy gift cert (also a cute card, from my Bro), a couple pairs of warm new gloves, including a nice pair for dressy occasions, and . . . actually, I think that's it. Oh, and Mom decided for reasons best known to herself to give us a copy of the Christmas card as part of a present . . . Mom and Dad really enjoyed my baking present and Bro liked the food too, wish I'd known, I would have made him a bigger basket. Ah well.
And speaking of Bro, he'd done a 180' turn about from the sullen, depressed guy he was at Thanksgiving. I knew the second he came bolting up the steps with a grin on his face to hug me that I would have to seriously revise my expectations! I was so happy to see that from him that I almost horribly embarrassed himself and myself by bursting into relieved and joyous tears right then and there in the front doorway. I didn't, though. And he continued happy the entire night, making jokes, smiling, and not being anywhere near as contrary and spiteful as he's been. I couldn't quite keep from staring at him. What a difference! This is the charming, handsome, funny, gracious brother I remember from when we were both young. I haven't seen him in a very long time, years, possibly decades. He told us all that he was working on his attitude -- I guess even he got sick of himself. Really, it's not very PC to say this but I have a permanent injury so I know whereof I speak, and seriously, there's only so much self-pity you can stomach. Eventually you have to look at yourself in the mirror and say "This is shit, and I'm tired of it -- things need to change." It's sort of a natural progression.
He said his fingers were getting better too, though still painful (I haven't even tried to tell him that with that kind of injury he might have twinges for the rest of his life . . . he doesn't need to hear that right now), and he didn't notice -- but I did -- that unlike at Thanksgiving when he couldn't move them at all, his fingers were actually bending. He was using his fingers. That's the best Christmas present ever! I told him at Thanksgiving that things would get better if he could just live long enough, and I am relieved and humbled to be proven correct. Granted, they weren't bending *much* and he still can't hold a beer or soda can in his right hand, but he was able to grip Mom's hand, a definite improvement. He carved the Christmas Turkey, which he couldn't do at Thanksgiving. I am so pleased. I confidently expect even more use out of them, for him, as time goes on, particularly when Spring comes and the weather warms up, which will be easier on everybody's joints -- including mine too! And of course, now that he's got his head right (even if that doesn't last, it's been enough improvement that I think his brain will continue to move forward), we can all expect good things. I don't know how much function he'll get back, but anything will be better than what he's got now.
My brother is healing -- really healing, and The Chief Fool is home. It's been a great Christmas. Those are the two best gifts I could have gotten, and neither of them were expected or something that anybody could have planned for until it happened. Funny how that happens, really. It's not about the physical stuff. Christmas is about everything else. The unexpected gifts . . . oohhh . . . I feel some lyrics coming on! Excuse me for a moment, won't you?
I am not sure how to report the evening's happenings to you, Gentle Readers. Things were simultaneously MUCH better than I expected and a bit worse than I'd imagined. Which was odd, the two things happening at the same time.
Incidentally, some of the Company are now getting drunk and showing their feelings by visiting the bars and so on, and at least I'm not sinking that low, although I did seriously consider a good shot of Drambuie on the way home.
There were tears, but not from me. My mother has finally figured out that saying "I know how you feel" is quite possibly the worst thing you can tell somebody who's had a trauma (or a death). Unfortunately, she had this epiphany in the middle of opening presents when she mentioned that she's finally beginning to get arthritis in her fingers and she was having some pain. Bro mentioned, as a joke, "Well, now you know how I feel!" and she started to agree with him, and then she started to cry. "No, I don't know how you feel . . . " etc etc. Got quite maudlin, really, I found myself thanking God that she hadn't had anything to drink, alcoholically, anyway, because if she had, 'tis certain we would have had a bigger scene. As it was everybody was looking a little uncomfortable while she sobbed gently about how she could never know what it felt like. I dunno. Do epiphanies really always have to be so dramatic?
The night started out with my dear father holding forth on "those damn Somalis" and things sort of went downhill from there. Usually we manage to get him to quit talking about politics but tonight he was determined and no matter who started talking about other stuff, he always dragged it round back to his political views, which, needless to say, were extremely unpalatable. Now, he's not nearly as right-wing as my mother, he's basically an old-style Republican conservative, and at least (if there must be a silver lining) he tends to be intolerant due to financial and statistical reasons. He's scientifically bigoted, as opposed to my mother, who quite simply is a religious right-wing nut job and tends to follow the leader without thinking.
You may notice that I don't talk about politics in this blog. That's because I don't like them. And since it's my blog, we will stay far away from them. I think talking about politics is like deliberately whacking a hornet's nest and then being surprised when you get stung.
So much for that. Food was great, Bro had brought some brined and dried salmon for starters (along with the cheese and nuts and crackers that my parents always provide -- 7 year old Vermont cheddar and smoked provolone, to be sure), and it was FANTASTIC. Not sure where the fish was caught, but the guy who treated it lives in White Bear Lake and he was a friend of Bro, so that's how we got it. Mom cooked a turkey and I did the gravy and my parents are always surprised when I do the gravy, how great it tastes. That's because I actually use the drippings and so on that are in the bottom of the pan, and Mom, if it's left to her, tends to throw all that out with a shudder -- "it's fattening". Well, so it is if you have cups of the gravy, but if you only have an ounce or two, it's not that bad! Because I don't use a lot of the true *fat*, just the drippings. Because she never sees a layer of fat in the gravy itself, she never objects. *sigh* Mom also made her version of mashed potatoes (bearable with gravy) and mashed yams, but alas, for the first time in years, she ALSO made that green beans thing with the onions-in-a-can on top and cream of mushroom soup all in the beans. Ugh. I took the required two bites and let it alone! Too mushy. Now, I've nothing against beans with mushrooms and onions, but this . . . Dessert was almost exactly like an apple crisp but with pumpkin pie filling instead of apples. I liked it, but I think it would have been better served with a nice cream cheese layer underneath it.
Mom made us our traditional Eastern European coffee cake and some ham to go with it, but by the time I was more than ready to go, I forgot to take it with us, so Fish will go over there tomorrow on his way to work to pick it up. Luckily, both things freeze well!
Presents . . . .I got a $100 Lane Bryant gift card (I desperately need new underwear that fits, now I've lost 40 pounds!), a $15 gift card to Itunes, some new slippers which I love (they've got sheepie fleece on the inside!), a $25 best Buy gift cert (also a cute card, from my Bro), a couple pairs of warm new gloves, including a nice pair for dressy occasions, and . . . actually, I think that's it. Oh, and Mom decided for reasons best known to herself to give us a copy of the Christmas card as part of a present . . . Mom and Dad really enjoyed my baking present and Bro liked the food too, wish I'd known, I would have made him a bigger basket. Ah well.
And speaking of Bro, he'd done a 180' turn about from the sullen, depressed guy he was at Thanksgiving. I knew the second he came bolting up the steps with a grin on his face to hug me that I would have to seriously revise my expectations! I was so happy to see that from him that I almost horribly embarrassed himself and myself by bursting into relieved and joyous tears right then and there in the front doorway. I didn't, though. And he continued happy the entire night, making jokes, smiling, and not being anywhere near as contrary and spiteful as he's been. I couldn't quite keep from staring at him. What a difference! This is the charming, handsome, funny, gracious brother I remember from when we were both young. I haven't seen him in a very long time, years, possibly decades. He told us all that he was working on his attitude -- I guess even he got sick of himself. Really, it's not very PC to say this but I have a permanent injury so I know whereof I speak, and seriously, there's only so much self-pity you can stomach. Eventually you have to look at yourself in the mirror and say "This is shit, and I'm tired of it -- things need to change." It's sort of a natural progression.
He said his fingers were getting better too, though still painful (I haven't even tried to tell him that with that kind of injury he might have twinges for the rest of his life . . . he doesn't need to hear that right now), and he didn't notice -- but I did -- that unlike at Thanksgiving when he couldn't move them at all, his fingers were actually bending. He was using his fingers. That's the best Christmas present ever! I told him at Thanksgiving that things would get better if he could just live long enough, and I am relieved and humbled to be proven correct. Granted, they weren't bending *much* and he still can't hold a beer or soda can in his right hand, but he was able to grip Mom's hand, a definite improvement. He carved the Christmas Turkey, which he couldn't do at Thanksgiving. I am so pleased. I confidently expect even more use out of them, for him, as time goes on, particularly when Spring comes and the weather warms up, which will be easier on everybody's joints -- including mine too! And of course, now that he's got his head right (even if that doesn't last, it's been enough improvement that I think his brain will continue to move forward), we can all expect good things. I don't know how much function he'll get back, but anything will be better than what he's got now.
My brother is healing -- really healing, and The Chief Fool is home. It's been a great Christmas. Those are the two best gifts I could have gotten, and neither of them were expected or something that anybody could have planned for until it happened. Funny how that happens, really. It's not about the physical stuff. Christmas is about everything else. The unexpected gifts . . . oohhh . . . I feel some lyrics coming on! Excuse me for a moment, won't you?
Friday, December 24, 2010
One Christmas Down, One To Go
Dateline: 24 December, 2010
Just got back from Christmas at my in-law's and a pleasant time was had by all. My young nephews (Thing 1 and Thing 2) were engaging all evening, polite and friendly, and at the end of the night they looked adorable in their Christmas pj's -- we took pictures, and I will post them when I get them emailed to me, as their mother promised she would. The Things are 2 and 5 this holiday season, a blond and a redhead, and were so busy with Grandma's presents of Thomas the Tank Engine that they never even noticed our boring ol' books and a DVD about airplanes. But I suspect that long after Thomas and his friends get sent to a rummage sale, Dr. Seuss, Mother Goose, and the Wizard of Oz will hang around. I baked up a storm for the adults (strawberry jam, pumpkin and zucchini bread and blueberry muffins, and 4 kinds of cookies) and Fish contributed some clothes for his brother (which bro changed right into, always a good sign!) and some of the little figurines that MIL and now sis collect. All the presents were well received and bro-in-law took the chance when everybody else was in the kitchen to thank me for baking all their stuff from scratch and ensuring that it was nut free -- Thing 1 has a big nut allergy --. Kind of made me wonder about the other people they know, hell, I suffer from allergies, I know what it's like. And it's no skin off my nose, some of the Company have environmental allergies, still others are allergic to citrus and most antibiotics, it's a way of life for me to accommodate. Not to mention me and all my allergies. Do unto others, remember?
Speaking of presents, we had all agreed to only give one present each per adult this year, but Mom-in-law cheated! In addition to giving Fish and I a $500 check (which we will use partly on new glasses for both of us but mostly on a 10'x12' canvas wall tent from these guys, Fall Creek Sutlery: http://fcsutler.com/fccanvas.asp -- the wall tents are about halfway down the page --), MIL also gave Fish his baby book, which I found fascinating (right up until I saw the piece of umbilical cord taped in there, yikes! What a thing to come upon!), and a pair of memorial poly ornaments with his father's birth and death dates and my father-in-law elect's birth and death dates inscribed. They're nicer than that, I just don't know how to describe them, having never seen anything like them before. Fish is more sentimental than most guys so we will hang these right on our tree. MIL is also growing an evergreen in a pot for us as a memorial to Ron, my FIL-elect (he died about 6 months before Fish and I actually had our wedding), and wants us to put this in our yard somewhere this spring. I do not know how I feel about this. For one, there's really no room. Pine trees get HUGE. For secondly, I don't know if I want *that* kind of a memorial in my yard. Ron's memory, at least, as far as I am concerned, does not need to be refreshed, if anything, it's still too painful to really fully embrace right now and the last thing I want is to have to look at it every day. Besides, he would have told her himself to choose something else. Well, maybe by this spring things will have changed, who knows.
I got a lovely bracelet with Connemara marble beads from my sis and bro in law, also a lovely, very classic pearl necklace from Fish. The pearls are fake, but they're damn good fakes, they have the heft and gleam etc of the real deal. The rope is also knotted between each pearl, a nice touch, I thought. It's very Jackie O, and I wholeheartedly agree with his choice. And MIL, in addition to everything else, gave us a KINDLE. She said it was for both of us, but I suspect that Fish will be the one who uses it most. I just have never been interested, having been a Luddite when it comes to new book technology. The old ways are perfectly fine with me, thank you very much! I admit to being suspicious about this new way to read books. But then again, I was suspicious of books on tape and still don't own a single audiobook. That's also because I am really not auditory and don't process auditory information at all, hardly, but still. Books are meant to be printed. On paper.
MIL also cooked dinner entirely on her own, deaf to any offers of help. She always does lobster tails and steak, but her inexperience with steak is obvious -- she's always let her husband do the meat -- and since I grew up with a father who believed (and still believes!) that it's a sin to cook dead cow any harder than 'medium' -- and who passed on his techniques to his daughter as well as his son -- well, I don't mean to be but I am a bit of a steak snob. Had there been steak sauce I would have eaten more of it. Next year I may offer, politely but firmly, to bring a Cesar salad. There wasn't a single blessed green thing on that table. The closest we got to a veggie was baked beans. And coleslaw. Not that I am complaining, necessarily, but after 72 straight hours of cookie baking, I was kind of sick of starchy carbs and some green beans or lettuce or peapods or carrots (or all of the above!) would not have gone amiss. Speaking of which, once I'm through writing this blog, I think I may rummage for some steamed green stuff in the freezer. Because it's 11:30pm, we ate at 6pm, and I frankly, am hungry.
I managed to be social most of the night although once dinner was over I was content to sit in the kitchen by myself and listen to Christmas music, but my MIL insisted that I join them in the living room, so, I did. After tomorrow, I am going to *bury* myself at home and not do a single thing that requires human interaction. I desperately need some alone time. Real alone time. Not alone-but-having-computer-conversations time. Not alone but with hubby in the same room time. Real, honest, *alone* time. It was very hard on my head having to make conversations with strangers for all those excruciating hours on the train. Then having to deal with the Chief Fool's friends, who may in time become my friends too, but for right now, are virtual strangers. Then going back across 3 states for 12 hours with the Fool in her car, with a cat. And then, having less than 36 hours at home before I had to go back and deal with the Fool's sister and mom . . . and the movers . . . oh, my, god . . . . and then 3 days of frantic Christmas prep, and then MORE socialization.
If I don't get some good, thorough alone time soon, I'm not sure what's going to happen. Tonight was good, better than I expected it to go.
Tomorrow, though . . . tomorrow will suck. And I think I will be glad of the chance to curl up in bed with my reassuring blankie (it helps when I feel stressed and vulnerable) by my side and just be me. Without anybody to perform for.
Oh, don't misunderstand. If the Fool needed me again, I'd do it all again without even thinking about which way to jump. That's the kind of relationship we have. But the aftermath -- let's just say it was bad timing. Which we knew, really, but there wasn't any other way.
Anyway, I am glad I had such a good Christmas with my in-laws, because I sure as hell won't have one tomorrow with my parents and brother. Even if I do assign my base criteria -- "If I don't leave crying, it was a good night", I dunno. There are so many mines just waiting to be stepped on, I can't see how to get through an entire night without making at least one mis-step, somewhere along the line.
There's a reason, I think, that the Christmas song "The St. Stephen's Day Murders' resonates with me so much.
Just got back from Christmas at my in-law's and a pleasant time was had by all. My young nephews (Thing 1 and Thing 2) were engaging all evening, polite and friendly, and at the end of the night they looked adorable in their Christmas pj's -- we took pictures, and I will post them when I get them emailed to me, as their mother promised she would. The Things are 2 and 5 this holiday season, a blond and a redhead, and were so busy with Grandma's presents of Thomas the Tank Engine that they never even noticed our boring ol' books and a DVD about airplanes. But I suspect that long after Thomas and his friends get sent to a rummage sale, Dr. Seuss, Mother Goose, and the Wizard of Oz will hang around. I baked up a storm for the adults (strawberry jam, pumpkin and zucchini bread and blueberry muffins, and 4 kinds of cookies) and Fish contributed some clothes for his brother (which bro changed right into, always a good sign!) and some of the little figurines that MIL and now sis collect. All the presents were well received and bro-in-law took the chance when everybody else was in the kitchen to thank me for baking all their stuff from scratch and ensuring that it was nut free -- Thing 1 has a big nut allergy --. Kind of made me wonder about the other people they know, hell, I suffer from allergies, I know what it's like. And it's no skin off my nose, some of the Company have environmental allergies, still others are allergic to citrus and most antibiotics, it's a way of life for me to accommodate. Not to mention me and all my allergies. Do unto others, remember?
Speaking of presents, we had all agreed to only give one present each per adult this year, but Mom-in-law cheated! In addition to giving Fish and I a $500 check (which we will use partly on new glasses for both of us but mostly on a 10'x12' canvas wall tent from these guys, Fall Creek Sutlery: http://fcsutler.com/fccanvas.asp -- the wall tents are about halfway down the page --), MIL also gave Fish his baby book, which I found fascinating (right up until I saw the piece of umbilical cord taped in there, yikes! What a thing to come upon!), and a pair of memorial poly ornaments with his father's birth and death dates and my father-in-law elect's birth and death dates inscribed. They're nicer than that, I just don't know how to describe them, having never seen anything like them before. Fish is more sentimental than most guys so we will hang these right on our tree. MIL is also growing an evergreen in a pot for us as a memorial to Ron, my FIL-elect (he died about 6 months before Fish and I actually had our wedding), and wants us to put this in our yard somewhere this spring. I do not know how I feel about this. For one, there's really no room. Pine trees get HUGE. For secondly, I don't know if I want *that* kind of a memorial in my yard. Ron's memory, at least, as far as I am concerned, does not need to be refreshed, if anything, it's still too painful to really fully embrace right now and the last thing I want is to have to look at it every day. Besides, he would have told her himself to choose something else. Well, maybe by this spring things will have changed, who knows.
I got a lovely bracelet with Connemara marble beads from my sis and bro in law, also a lovely, very classic pearl necklace from Fish. The pearls are fake, but they're damn good fakes, they have the heft and gleam etc of the real deal. The rope is also knotted between each pearl, a nice touch, I thought. It's very Jackie O, and I wholeheartedly agree with his choice. And MIL, in addition to everything else, gave us a KINDLE. She said it was for both of us, but I suspect that Fish will be the one who uses it most. I just have never been interested, having been a Luddite when it comes to new book technology. The old ways are perfectly fine with me, thank you very much! I admit to being suspicious about this new way to read books. But then again, I was suspicious of books on tape and still don't own a single audiobook. That's also because I am really not auditory and don't process auditory information at all, hardly, but still. Books are meant to be printed. On paper.
MIL also cooked dinner entirely on her own, deaf to any offers of help. She always does lobster tails and steak, but her inexperience with steak is obvious -- she's always let her husband do the meat -- and since I grew up with a father who believed (and still believes!) that it's a sin to cook dead cow any harder than 'medium' -- and who passed on his techniques to his daughter as well as his son -- well, I don't mean to be but I am a bit of a steak snob. Had there been steak sauce I would have eaten more of it. Next year I may offer, politely but firmly, to bring a Cesar salad. There wasn't a single blessed green thing on that table. The closest we got to a veggie was baked beans. And coleslaw. Not that I am complaining, necessarily, but after 72 straight hours of cookie baking, I was kind of sick of starchy carbs and some green beans or lettuce or peapods or carrots (or all of the above!) would not have gone amiss. Speaking of which, once I'm through writing this blog, I think I may rummage for some steamed green stuff in the freezer. Because it's 11:30pm, we ate at 6pm, and I frankly, am hungry.
I managed to be social most of the night although once dinner was over I was content to sit in the kitchen by myself and listen to Christmas music, but my MIL insisted that I join them in the living room, so, I did. After tomorrow, I am going to *bury* myself at home and not do a single thing that requires human interaction. I desperately need some alone time. Real alone time. Not alone-but-having-computer-conversations time. Not alone but with hubby in the same room time. Real, honest, *alone* time. It was very hard on my head having to make conversations with strangers for all those excruciating hours on the train. Then having to deal with the Chief Fool's friends, who may in time become my friends too, but for right now, are virtual strangers. Then going back across 3 states for 12 hours with the Fool in her car, with a cat. And then, having less than 36 hours at home before I had to go back and deal with the Fool's sister and mom . . . and the movers . . . oh, my, god . . . . and then 3 days of frantic Christmas prep, and then MORE socialization.
If I don't get some good, thorough alone time soon, I'm not sure what's going to happen. Tonight was good, better than I expected it to go.
Tomorrow, though . . . tomorrow will suck. And I think I will be glad of the chance to curl up in bed with my reassuring blankie (it helps when I feel stressed and vulnerable) by my side and just be me. Without anybody to perform for.
Oh, don't misunderstand. If the Fool needed me again, I'd do it all again without even thinking about which way to jump. That's the kind of relationship we have. But the aftermath -- let's just say it was bad timing. Which we knew, really, but there wasn't any other way.
Anyway, I am glad I had such a good Christmas with my in-laws, because I sure as hell won't have one tomorrow with my parents and brother. Even if I do assign my base criteria -- "If I don't leave crying, it was a good night", I dunno. There are so many mines just waiting to be stepped on, I can't see how to get through an entire night without making at least one mis-step, somewhere along the line.
There's a reason, I think, that the Christmas song "The St. Stephen's Day Murders' resonates with me so much.
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