Merry Auld Aquaintence

The lights of my life

Hello, lovely readers! It's been a long time.

You may think I've been sitting around licking my Blogger Idol wounds. I'm happy to say, you'd be wrong.

The last few weeks have seen my little family travel up to Minnesota, spend a week with Grandma and Grandpa, come back again, and watch "My Neighbor Totoro" five thousand times as we recover from a cold virus that might actually be a terrorist chemical agent. I'm not sure. So far no casualties, so I'll assume it was actually just a bout of run-of-the-mill Black Death.

Something magical happened over Christmas. (Never thought you'd hear this Jewish girl say that, didja?) I was too ill to take pictures.

I don't have pictures of my children playing with our friends' kids. That amazing thing that happens- despite never seeing these people you love, YOUR children and THEIR children... they play together. And it's incredible.

I don't have pictures of SI begging Aunt Engineer to take her down the water slide over and over and over again. (Yes, there were water slides this Christmas.) And I don't have video of my humiliatingly public screaming as *I* went down the big water slide.

Reading "Rosie Revere, Engineer"

I don't have pictures of RH at church, laying on the floor with her feet against mine, giggling happily, oblivious to the full congregation or the organist three feet from her head.

I don't have pictures of my children hugging their great-grandmother and telling her thank you for their presents. I don't have pictures of RH hamming it up in the middle of the room with an old toy train and a Care Bear.

I don't have pictures of her sitting like a perfect angel in a tiny chair at the coffee table on Christmas Eve, eating her broccoli off her plate without a care in the world, or a picture of my big girls sitting with their big kid cousins at the big table, participating in their games like children do.

I don't have pictures of them playing Uncle Engineer's drums, riding his tractor tricycle, or trimming Aunt Engineer's Christmas tree. I don't have pictures of them coloring at brunch. I don't have pictures of them making their first Gingerbread Houses.

I do have pictures of the finished products
Aunt Engineer, SI, DD, and me

I only took a few dozen pictures of my children all week. And partially, I'm embarrassed. And I'm sorry. I would have treasured those pictures.

And partly I'm glad, because part of me is tired of always being behind the lens. Of observing and not participating. I feel I do it too much. I'm doing it now.

I did manage to take a few pictures. Of DD and SI playing their new harmonicas (SI is a natural). Of M and Grandpa putting the angel on the tree. Of my children continuing the only Christmas tradition I've ever started- actually eating the apples in their stockings on Christmas morning.

This year is was DD and RH. I'm very proud.

2013 was a long, exciting year. It was a year when I didn't get pregnant or have a baby, it was a year when we assured that I never would again. My children grew, and grew, and grew, and now here we are. Still a family. Still growing.

I've had a lot of chaotic, terrifying, or simply bad years in my life. More than my share, that is for certain. But 2013 was not one of them. For all its frustrations and irritations, this year has done more for me than many. It has done more than most. It has offered me a promise- the next year will only be better.

I wish that promise to all of you. For every year.

Tonight I'm going to mash some potatoes, drink some champagne, and hug my children tightly when I say goodnight.

Tonight I'm going to welcome the new year with old friends, with favorite pastimes, with laughter and promise.

And of course with more Batman stuff than you can shake a stick at.

Thank you for everything, 2013. I will not miss you, I have no doubt 2014 will keep me too busy for that. But I am grateful. And I will always look back to 2013 as a good year, when everyone was happy, and everyone was loved, and the world was full of magic and joy.

Happy New Year.

Brand New Day

That's me- dressed to sing madrigals at Faire
In other words, I am a musical theater nerd.

This week on Mix Tape Tuesday, the theme is... whatever I want it to be! So you can bet I'm finally going for a theme that I hold back on EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Musicals.

Why do they have such a bad rep? Why is it that musical theater is relegated to the deepest, darkest corners of geekdom? I can come out and say for all to hear that I FUCKING LOVE VOYAGER and that the Delphic Expanse is the scariest shit in the entire Star Trek universe... but I can't get some love for some show tunes?

Honestly, geeks. Shut up and dance. And I mean, with choreography. Put on your freakin' tap shoes.

Here, for your enjoyment, are my favorite songs from my favorite musicals. Enjoy the hell out of them.




First up- some Sondheim. A little info on the song and the scene. "A Little Night Music" is all about missed opportunities, sexual tension, regrets, and longing. The only character who is happy with her life and lot, who doesn't pine for the past and weep in the present... is this one. She's a servant, and she doesn't give a crap about all the drama going on with her employers and their crazy relationships. She's a realist. And I love her life's philosophy.



This song makes me cry but HARD. Not only is it one of the sweetest love songs I know, but as with all musicals, the killer is context. This is the second appearance of the song in the play. The first time is when Angel and Collins fall in love. They sing this song to each other, in a happy, upbeat, gleeful way. When Angel dies, Collins sings the same song- he's saying that her death changes nothing. That not even death can change the way he feels. Oh- and the coat he's carrying... that coat was the first gift she ever gave him.

My first words when I walked out of the theater after seeing the film adaptation was, "Well, that was a pop culture abortion."* This scene still slays me.



Let's get happy for a minute. What? You've never heard of Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog? Where have you been?!? Maybe there's a funnier, quirkier, more delightful bit of actually tragic musical storytelling out there. If you find it, let me know.

While we're on the subject of pure entertainment...



Oh, Angela Lansbury. How I love you. I love a good burn, and this song is just the most morbid ways Sondheim could come up with to make fun of people of different professions. "The problem with Poet is how do you know it's deceased?" HA!



While we're being morbid, let's get a little more serious. If you haven't heard of this show CHECK IT OUT. It is spectacular. It's essentially a biography of Andrew Jackson, told as a rock opera. This number is an account of his systematic persecution of Native Americans. The staging is chilling. And of course, each "little Indian" is a metaphor for the different actions Jackson took against native people.

Keeping it serious...



About once a week, I need a good cry. And I almost always go for a musical. This song- this song will do it. Most adaptations of brilliant books don't hold up. This is a HUGE exception. The Color Purple is devastating. And the play... Through the whole thing, Celie is just crapped on all over by life. Her father rapes and impregnates her and then takes the baby away- probably to kill it- TWICE. He sells her to a horrible, abusive man. He threatens her sister, who then disappears into Africa. And then, finally, somebody rescues her. A woman saves her from her abuser, and they fall in love. Then one day that woman tells her she's leaving for a teenaged boy. Celie, who's spent nearly the entire play curled over herself, singing softly and meekly and fearfully cringing from everyone on the stage... she stands up and sings THIS.

And I weep inconsolably.



In addition to being SUPER upset whenever source material is crapped all over in a reproduction, I get ridiculously upset when something is taken out of context to give it a totally new meaning. Every time I hear this song in a car commercial, a little piece of my soul dies.

This is NOT a happy song. The premise of this scene (the finale) is that Berger sneaks into the barracks to replace his friend for an afternoon so he can spend a little time with his girlfriend before he's shipped off to Vietnam. Only orders come while he's there, and Berger is shipped off in his place, and he dies in Vietnam. "Let the Sun Shine" is a call for peace in the midst of a culture of death.

Whenever I hear this song, I cry. And that makes me all the angrier that I'm crying at ads for sandwiches or Labor Day sales.



Back to happy! One of the many reasons I hate Disney's Cinderella is that I grew up on Rogers and Hammerstein's version. Which is superior in every conceivable way. Music being the first and foremost.



While we're on the subjects of musical numbers I love because of my own life being filled with musicals... The Mystery of Edwin Drood. I used to audition with this song. It is NOT EASY. There are about a million key changes in there, and it's so simply orchestrated- really lets the soloist stand out. (Can you tell why I love it?) And that last phrase... so many key changes in one sentence. What a great finale. So Bond.



Oh, how I love this musical...

Whenever I need a pick-me-up. If I'm down in the dumps, or over exhausted, or hungry, or anything... the cast of the Book of Mormon can pull me out of my sorrows and make me laugh.

And thank you, Church of Latter Day Saints, for advertising all over the Playbill for this musical. You guys are real sports.



--------
*Those words exactly.

My Farewell to Blogger Idol

My first impulse upon being eliminated from Blogger Idol was instant acceptance. I had known it was coming. That's what happens when you dedicate the majority of your emotional and intellectual energy elsewhere so late in the game. And I have no regrets, I was doing something I believed was important, and I think I may have actually helped someone in doing that. So I'm proud of myself.

My second impulse was to use the link a friend sent me, about a million times. That actually made me laugh my butt off.

Third, I blamed my husband. After all, his advice guided the post that eliminated me, and he has minced no words over the last several months about how much he dislikes this competition. On top of that, my elimination means he gets beard grooming supplies, and he's always been very beard-proud.

That was when I found out I'd actually tied for the lowest score (or second highest, whichever), and I got angry. Or maybe hangry, who knows.

As soon as I realized I was going through my stages of grief backwards, I did what I always do to make myself feel better about life. I ate and pouted. Simultaneously.

First a bag of marshmallows. Yes, the whole bag.

Then I made a double batch of chocolate marzipan cookies.

Then I had a deep friend food fest at my favorite pizzeria. And a nice cup of hot tea.

And then I saw the Desolation of Smaug, ate a bunch of peanut m&ms, and drank a giant slurpee. But I was still bummed out.

So I curled up in my nice warm bed with my nice warm husband and ate more spinach and potato pizza and watched the Daily Show.

And then I realized what had been missing from my process... music.

And so I will bid adieu to Blogger Idol the same way I started... with a song.



So long, Blogger Idol. It's been awesome.

******

I want you to know, that I'm happy for you

I wish nothing but the best for you both

A better writer than me

Are you funnier than me

Would you climb up a tree with a hatchet

Do you write eloquently

And do you have three babies

Or do you write funny stories about your pets  

'cause the votes were for me but a tie wasn't able

To make it enough for me to be Blogger Idol, no

And every time I write a post

Nobody will judge it and tell me

How much it sucks, or it rocks

I'm not in the finals

And I'm here to remind you

Of eleven bloggers who went away

You'll battle for the grand prize

And the new Blogger Idol will be crowned

Go, go, go kick some ass

You judge very well, all the blog posts

I don't write as well, or I'd still be there

Did you forget about me Mr. Manderstanding

Daddy's in Charge wanted me to win the contest

A grin's been slapped on my face because I got to third place

and now we'll find out which blogger i  s the best

'cause you judges are nuts and you sit on your butts

telling us to write stories about being arrested, oh

And every week we'd laugh so hard

We freak out every Tuesday and beg for votes

'til we won, but I lost

I had a good time

And I'm here to remind you

Of the fun I had in Blogger Idol

Best of luck in the Finals

I'll  be judging there like Simon Cowell

You, you, you oughta know

There can be only one

Real Life Parenting

or Mid life at the oasis

'cause the jokes that we made made us laugh every day

And I'm not gonna lose

all of the memories with my new friends, and you know it

And every time I hear that song in some elimination

I'll still hate it...well we all hate it

and I'm here to say Thank You

To my lovely readers who vote for me

You're the best people ever

You got me so far and showed so much love

You, you, you oughta know

and I'm here to say Thank You

To my lovely readers who vote for me

You're the best people ever

You got me so far and showed so much love

You, you, you are the best

Everything I Need to Know About Life I Learned from Not Going to High School

My last post at Blogger Idol:

Everything I Need to Know About Life I Learned From Not Going to High School

Yours Truly, first week at
Community High School

Our town had an alternative high school- Community. It was notorious for a staunch refusal to conform to conventional ideas of standardization and structure. Many students graduated after three years, received credits for jobs, or took classes at local colleges. The school had no sports teams, but boasted a jazz band that played the Grammy's. The school mascot was a psychedelic zebra.

Admittance was based on lottery, and I won.

I'd been home schooled, studying chemistry and history out of textbooks, taking hula lessons and frequenting open mics. When I arrived for my first day at Community, I felt for the first time I belonged. My patchwork cloak and ribboned top hat were positively mundane. During free periods I lounged in the hallway, painting classmates' faces and playing chess. I took writing classes from University of Michigan students, an elective concocted by a friend where we watched "Animal House" and went camping, and studied dream interpretation with the infamous Tom Dodd.

The next year a new dean attempted to dismantle those programs, and after fifteen months of high school I dropped out. My mother told Washtenaw Community College I would home school again, and I registered as a part-time dual-enrollee. I loved my classes so much, learned so much, the next semester I registered full time. I had my student ID, I knew the process... nobody stopped me.

Over the next several years I was first in line for permission to exceed the 18 credit maximum, and councilors never asked if I was allowed to register. They nodded as I explained I had the time and energy to take yet another class, and signed my paperwork.

My best friend took me to his "Our
School Is Being Dismantled"
dance- that's me in all black.

In the fall of what would have been my senior year I took 27 college credits, including a play: La Casa de Bernarda Alba.

I was also occupied with my own projects. I took the GED to shore up my applications to transfer to an "elite" university. I snagged a solo art exhibition, and took on quadruple duty with my Rocky Horror Picture Show stage troupe- playing Magenta, Janet, making sets, and sewing costumes.

My classes started at 7:30am. I did homework during breaks, ate sandwiches from Schlotzky's and wrote essays during lunch, after my last night class I hung around the empty cafeteria to read up for the next day. Some evenings I rehearsed for Bernarda Alba or met up with the assistant director, who coached me for my vocal audition to Carnegie Mellon. Once in a while I made it home for dinner.

Most nights I headed to Rocky rehearsal.

We'd practice blocking, develop pre-show choreography, and make off color jokes. The cast smoked endlessly circling bongs and pipes, sipped 40s of Mickey's through straws, and occasionally rescued our host's sweet but mentally handicapped mother when she flooded the bathroom or set fire to her bed.

There was inevitably somebody recovering from a rave, glassy eyed, climbing out of a K-hole. Or somebody rolling around on the floor as they came up on ecstasy. We played Canasta during breaks, always cracking intersectional misfit jokes. ("We are the Goth Borg- you will be assimilated. Resistance is futile. Everything is futile.") I'd sit on the couch watching the crew play video games, and they listened to my theoretical plans for a subatomic perpetual motion machine.

Escaping the basement at dawn

After midnight I went to the basement to paint or sew until nearly 5am, when the sounds of Legend of Zelda stopped. I emerged to watch the sunrise and curl up on the floor in front of the TV. As the first beams of sunlight peered across the apartment complex, the M*A*S*H theme started, and I fell asleep.

I slept through two episodes, then started my day again.

I have never learned so much about life as during my "high school" years. Those lessons have informed everything about who I've become.

If I had not gamed the system to achieve my education, I wouldn't have been moved to work in the Chicago slums with at-risk kids. I know the odds are stacked against success if you don't fit the mold.

If I hadn't known so many miscreant teens and young adults- homeless, depressed, abused- I wouldn't have so much empathy for people who fall through the holes in our social safety net.

If I hadn't perfected juggling too many tasks, I wouldn't have adapted so quickly to life with three kids under three.

If I hadn't internalized the mantra of "The Show Must Go On," I wouldn't have had the strength to do so when M was diagnosed with cancer.

Me and my best friends, on my 18th birthday

I learned to stand in front of a crowd of strangers and bare my soul, and how much harder it is to open up to one person, face to face. I learned to do that too.

I learned to hold a friend's hand when tragedy struck, to let silence heal. I learned to offer love and support in hard times, and relish the best moments as they happened.

I learned that stereotypes are nearly uniformly wrong, that life is more complicated than standards and preconceived notions. I learned to take boastful stories of drunken revelry as warnings, and see past scars and costumes and masks to the beautiful people inside.

I never went to a football game, or study hall, or a pep rally. I never went to Prom or Homecoming, never learned to gossip with friends in the bathrooms or forge hall passes. I never learned to cram for AP English or dissect a frog.

Instead, I learned about life. Instead, I learned to live.

A student mural inside Community High School,
depicting its mascot- the psychedelic rainbow zebra

Grover's Guessing Game About the Apocalypse

I can't believe I forgot to post it here! Last week's Blogger Idol post- the Apocalypse strikes!

---

Grover's Guessing Game About the Apocalypse

Five days ago the dead began rising from the earth and consuming the living, and since then I've read Grover's Guessing Game About Animals more times than I can possibly count.

"Now I am thinking of an animal with soft fur! Do you know what it is?"

I don't even need to look at the pages by now. I always kept a book in the diaper bag, in case of emergencies. Well we've been in emergency mode since Friday, and even the four year olds are tired of Grover and the lion with the monkey on his head. But it keeps the toddler quiet, and quiet is essential.

"It is a kitty cat! You are so smart!"
"She's not smart!" One of my four year olds shouted. "She goes poop in her diaper!"
"Don't yell!"
"Sorry, mommy. I don't want to see any more dead people."
"Me either. Now I am thinking of an animal with a hard shell!"

We're only a few hours away from my parents' house. This was the plan- you've got to have a plan. When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, you don't want to be caught unprepared.

I used to make my husband run through the steps with me, despite his eye rolls and complaints. I've said "I told you so" about once an hour since we hit the road.

Step One: Confirm there are zombies walking among us.

Step Two: I grab the hatchet, he grabs a baseball bat, we strap on half a dozen knives and get into the car. I drop him at the pawn shop to steal guns, and I take the kids around the corner to rob the pharmacy. If the world is ending, we'll need all the anti-seizure drugs we can get. Also antibiotics, albuterol inhalers, and of COURSE antacids. The apocalypse is stressful.

Step Three: We call my in-laws in Minnesota to tell them how to reach us- if possible. Then we drive to Guppy Lake.

Guppy Lake is the perfect safe haven. Dad got paranoid about Y2K and prepped for the end of the world. Hand crank flashlights and radios. Water purification tablets. First aid supplies. There are probably still cans of beans and dehydrated orange juice from the last millennium.

The pond is fed by freshwater spring, and there's a greenhouse with date trees. The cabin is heated by wood stove and has a room full of board games. The windows are tiny, so it's easy to barricade. If things get ugly we can pile into the paddle boat and drift on the pond, shooting zombies on the shore.

Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan. By the time my husband hit the pawn shop there were no guns. At the pharmacy the only thing left was a box of Kleenex. I took it, of course, but had to leave my hatchet inside a zombie on the way back to the van.

It took an entire day to make the typically one hour journey to Michigan, but once we got off I-94 the traffic vanished. Who'd have thought nobody would head to Flint when the world ended? They have plenty of experience with end-of-days working conditions.

The "Post Apocalyptic Hellscape" theme is not new to Flint.
(From "Roger and Me"

As we got off the freeway, a zombie stumbled up to the car. The twins were playing with the digital camera in the back seat and took its picture. It wandered off, disoriented. Turns out the flash blinds the dead worse than the living. The next time we passed a Walgreen's I grabbed the camera and headed in for medicine.

I had been looking forward to smashing in some Walgreen's pharmacy technicians' heads for years, since the first time we filled my husband's chemo prescription. During the year he was in treatment they only got it right once, and I lost count of the number of pathetic excuses they had for withholding his lifesaving medication. Feasting on their customers' brains was just the latest, and I couldn't wait to finally give them a piece of my mind. I ran into the pharmacy, screaming.

"You forgot to call the prescription in to the manufacturer? He'll have to take five 200mg doses in 5mg pills? You dispensed his chemotherapy to the wrong person by mistake? DIE, YOU BRAINLESS, REANIMATED PIECES OF SHIT! DIE!"

102 snapshots of zombies in white coats and name tags with their skulls
crushed is more effective than four years of therapy.
(From the Flickr Creative Commons)

It's taken us the better part of a week, siphoning gas from abandoned cars and clearing the road of debris so we can crawl along in our minivan, but we're close. Soon we can kick back, relax, and enjoy the end of the world in peace.

At night he'll wrap his arms around me and whisper in my ear, "You were right, you're always right, you know everything..."

The zombie apocalypse might end up being better than our honeymoon.

In Honor of Chris Keith

Every day in the US, three women are killed by their husbands or boyfriends.

It seems like an improbable number. Like it could never happen to you, to somebody you know.

But it has.

Christine Keith, aka Adventures of a Thrifty Mama

Last week, the blogging community lost one of its own. Chris Keith blogged about healthy living, organic eating, homeschooling... the same thing that so many mommy bloggers do. And she was good at it. She had to be. Chris was supporting four kids on her own, on a subsistence income after separating from her abusive husband.

But one week ago, her estranged husband went to her house, and killed her. He killed her oldest son, Isaac. And then he killed himself. The three youngest children had gone to their grandparents' house for the night- fortunately out of harm's way.

Chris taught Zumba. She gardened. She went on her local news channel to talk about food stamps, and how to eat healthy meals with a minimal budget. She was a good person, and a good mother. And now she's gone.

Now she's one of three women who died at the hands of their husbands or boyfriends that day.

There are things you can do to help her and her children. Her church has taken up a memorial fund- you can donate there to help provide for her children- sons aged 4 and 8, and a six year old daughter.

Memorial Fund

They have not been allowed back in their home, a crime scene, and it may be a long time before they are. They have nothing but what they took to Grandma's house the night their mother and brother were taken from them.

And you can help even more than that. You can spread the word that domestic violence, as endemic as it is, should not and must not be tolerated. That there are places those who are suffering can go, that there are resources available to them. That there is help out there.

There's the National Domestic Violence Hotline, where trained expert advocates are available 24/7 to talk confidentially.

There's Safe Horizon, which helps connect victims to shelters.

There's the National Resource Center on Domestic Violence, which provides access to information, and opportunities for training and education for those who want to work to end domestic violence, or intervene on behalf of somebody in their life.

Don't remain silent. Don't close your eyes to the suffering all around you. Don't make excuses, or insist it takes two to quarrel. Just listen, offer a hand, and stand strong.

And maybe, if we all shine a light on this issue, into the darkness of abuse, maybe today nobody has to die.

The Final Countdown

Sick DD says, "Please vote for my mommy."

Friends...

Dear friends...

This is probably the week that I'm going to be eliminated from Blogger Idol. You see, this week's assignment was to write about "a lesson you learned in high school."

Well, I only went to high school for fifteen months, and it was as non-traditional as high schools get. It didn't have a cafeteria, or a gym, and half my classes were taught by brilliant lunatics who handed over total control of the class.

So unless I get the most votes this week, it's pretty clear I'm going to be eliminated.

I need all of you to get your clicking fingers ready. Get your wifi enabled. Go hop around coffee shops with your smart phones.

I need your votes, people.



I need your votes more than ever before. Because this is the second to last week. If I make it through to next week, I'm in the finals. Then it's not just about the judges, and it's not just about the popular vote... then it's also down to the other contestants. The writers who have come to know me as a writer. And then it's over.

And I want to be in it, people. I want to be in it so bad it hurts.

What's more, you won't be hearing about the competition much from me tomorrow. I'm organizing a much more important blogging event. Yes, more important than this silly competition that I care so much about. But there WILL be a link over to the right side of the screen for you to click and vote for me tomorrow, if you can't vote for me now. Maybe vote for me both days! The poll is open until midnight on Thursday.



Thursday, tomorrow, one week after Chris's murder, I'm pulling together a day of action for the mommy blogosphere. To raise awareness to the realities of domestic violence, and to help raise funds to care for Chris' children, now that they've lost their mother and older brother.

There will be more about it later, I promise. But right now, I need you click over and vote for me.

Vote for me like crazy. Tell your friends. Ask your parents. Assign it to your students as homework. I don't care how you do it- just push me over the edge. Keep me in it.

Thank you so, so much.

Kiss with a Fist

This week's Twisted Mix Tape theme is "I don't just love you, I'm addicted to you."

I know that this is a wonderful opportunity to share "The Perfect Drug" and "Dilaudid," but there's something more important I want to use this mix tape for.

Yes, I'm using Twisted Mix Tape Tuesday as an opportunity to get onto my soapbox.

But this is more than my soapbox. This is about real life, and real people, and real life tragedy.



A few days ago, Chris of Adventures of a Thrifty Mama was murdered by her estranged husband.

She'd filed for divorce, for a second time. He had a history of abuse. But after dropping her request for an order of protection, the police gave him back his guns, and he used them to shoot her, her oldest son, and himself.

I didn't know Chris well. Our paths crossed online more times than I can count, the internet is a remarkably small place sometimes. She was sweet, enthusiastic, motivated... she often made me uncomfortably aware of just how lazy I can be. She was creative and resourceful, and she loved her four children more than anything.

She was trying to sever all ties with her abuser. It was the most dangerous time for any victim of abuse- the time when they are most likely to be killed.

I had an abusive boyfriend once. He roughed me up, sexually assaulted me, and when I tried to cut him out of my life... that was when the death threats started. After a few years, I finally tried to file for an order of protection, but they wouldn't give me one without a police report.

So I tried to file a report, and the police shrugged me off.

Chris had police reports. She had eye witnesses to abusive behavior. Her abuser's actions were well documented, known.

And then he killed her and her son, leaving a four year old, a six year old, and an eight year old orphaned, without their big brother.

So why am I writing about this now? When there's a Mix Tape to play?

I'm writing about it because sometimes, songs can convey more about a situation, about a pattern, than somebody up on their internet soapbox, screaming for somebody to do something.

But the thing is, women often WON'T leave their abusers. A friend of mine- Trisha of IdeasForWomen.com, has been fighting for custody of her child since leaving her abuser- from her abuser.

There are so many reasons women stay.

And so many of them are like addiction.

So I'd like to dedicate this mix tape to Chris, and Trisha, and the one in four women who have suffered domestic abuse.

Like addiction, you think you're hooked on something good. But as time passes you see that it's rotten, through and through.

And that's where we'll begin.


First up on the list, "Jane Says." Listen past the cheerful drums, and this is an ominous story about a woman dealing with an abusive relationship. "He treats me like a ragdoll," she says. "She's going away to Spain, when she gets the money saved. I'm gonna start tomorrow. I'm gonna kick tomorrow." The language of addiction fits the story. "She says, I've never been in love. I don't know what it is... I want them if they want me. I only know they want me."



In the beginning, it can seem exciting. Or "fixable." Or just, the way things are. You make excuses. You ignore it. The early stage infatuation begins to shift into outright addiction.



Once the habit is formed, it can be hard to break. So yes, the abuser is hurting you. Yes, you know it's wrong. But you're still making excuses for them. Still in love. Still unwilling to admit how bad things might be.



There comes a point when your friends can see what's happening. Maybe they say something, maybe they're afraid of driving a wedge between you when things are so dark. This song is from the perspective of a friend, trying to get another friend out of an abusive relationship. "You're just a sucker for the ones who use you, and it doesn't matter what i say or do, the stupid bastard's gonna have his way with you." But it takes an even darker turn. It becomes an ultimatum. "He's gonna beat you like a pillow... And if you take him home, you'll get what you deserve." "So don't cry, Delilah. You're still alive, Delilah."



And accepting abuse becomes internalized, habitual. "I think it's because I'm clumsy. I try not to talk too loud. Maybe it's because I'm crazy. I try not to act too proud... They only hit until you cry."



Start at 4:50.
They come up with all sorts of explanations for themselves. "I need you." "I love you." But this is what they really mean. "I need you... to put through the shredder in front of my friends." "I need you to beat to a pulp on a Saturday night." The addiction swings both ways.



Then come the threats. Hints of what might happen to you if you put a toe out of line. If you leave. "His head was found in a driving wheel, but his body never was found."



And this is where it ends. If you don't get out this is where it ends. Just as with addiction, either you live long enough to break away, or it kills you.

And sometimes, it's breaking away that kills you.

Let's think about a culture that glorifies violence. About a world where I can cherry pick songs about spousal abuse, domestic violence, and murder out of thin air. Where there are so many of them that I could fill you up a flashdrive to give you nightmares each night.

Because I've been having a few of my own. Falling asleep thinking about Chris, and her fourteen year old son Isaac, and her three very little kids who survived their mom...

Think about it. Think about what it says about all of us.

Think about our addiction to victim bashing and guns and an endless litany of excuses.

And think about a woman who tried to do everything right, and still couldn't get away from this disease. This disease of violence.

Remember Chris.

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like...

My little ballerinas

Well, not in our house, yet. I've been reminding M to bring up the tree from storage for more than a week, but go figure- the Christian can't be bothered.

That said, Christmas is seeping in around here. SI is VERY disappointed it didn't start the day after Channukah ended, but she admits that waiting another two weeks isn't that big a deal. The kids are thrilled that I've mounted our wreath on our door, and they've started receiving warnings from their father that Santa Claus is watching.

And most excitingly of all- my great aunt and great uncle took us to see "The Nutcracker" at the Joffrey Ballet this past weekend.

DD and SI eating popcorn with their great-great-aunt and uncle

There are some things about Christmas that, yes, even as a Jew, I love. The Nutcracker is one of them. Ever since my childhood best friend had a Nutcracker themed birthday party what feels like eons ago, I've been hooked.

Source

And the Joffrey Ballet is world class dancing. Truly. It was nearly as magical for me as it was for the kids. DD sat on the edge of her seat- staring wide eyed and gape jawed at the dancers. SI grabbed my shoulder and pointed wildly every time a familiar character or plot twist appeared, grinning and throwing herself into her great-great-uncle's arms.

Source

DD's favorite part was when the toy nutcracker turned into a dancer (I also LOVED that). SI's favorite part was the doll with all the children underneath. (Yeah, that was pretty spectacular too.)

Source

M's favorite part was the Arabian dance, and I'm on the verge with agreeing with him myself. It was, to put it mildly, stunning.

Source

But I think my favorite part was how completely, un-self-consciously ELATED my children were. How they floated on air from the moment they put on fancy dresses and learned some basic positions from M (who used to dance competitively), to the awe on their faces as they listened to the child choir caroling in the lobby, to their shock as we passed the Santa Shuffle 5K downtown, and they saw HORDES of rovings Santas on the street, to DD's shock at being "bitten" by the Nutcracker outside the show. (SI lifted the lever while DD's fingers were exploring his teeth.

"Mommy! The Nutcracker BIT me!"

Despite missing out on the actual show, even RH caught ballet fever for the day.



It was a magical day.

I'm sure none of us will ever forget it.


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And hey! Guess what? I'm guest posting over at Raised on the Radio today! Come check out my mix tape- Amazons of Rock!

Intermission

From my window, where you can send your glow from my menorah, on newly fallen snow, I will set you eight little candles on this the last night of Channukah...

As of today, we have reached what I have come to think of as "the intermission." Channukah is over. Christmas is still a few weeks away.

It's time to shake off the candle wax, wash the latke smell out of my apron, and shift into Christmas mode.

And that means cookies.

So while I compile my list of recipes and ingredients, I can watch my children enjoy their Channukah loot, and remember my favorite conversation of the last week. It was on the fifth night of Channukah, and SI gleefully informed me of the fact.

Channukah with Aunt Something Funny, her BF,
and Grandmommy

"Mommy! It's the fifth night of Channukah!" (She makes sure to pronounce the "chai" sound- her Hebrew is quite impeccable.)

"Yes, it it!"

"Tonight we will put five candles in the hannukiah! And then we will get FIVE presents!"

"Actually, tonight I only have one present for you, and I think maybe Grandmommy has one. But that's it."

"But I want FIVE presents!"

"But do you know what? Channukah isn't about presents. It's about celebrating freedom, and being with the people we love."

"But we give presents!"

"Yes, we do. But only because we love each other. We give Grandmommy presents because we love her, and we give Daddy presents because we love him, and mommy and daddy give YOU presents because we love you- and Channukah is a nice time to do that. But it's not the only time. And that's not what makes Channukah special."

"When else do we give each other presents?"

"You give me presents almost every day. You draw me pictures at school, and you make me cards... but my favorite presents you give me are just showing me you love me."

My big sweethearts

"How?"

"Well, sometimes you give me hugs and kisses. Those are the best presents of all."

"Mommy? I want to give you a present now."

"Okay."

"Here you go!"

And she gave me a giant hug.

I've thought about that conversation every couple of hours since. I'm so grateful for my children, for their love and their affection. I'm so grateful for my family, for my parents and my husband and my in-laws and my friends.

Hopefully, keeping that in mind will just make my cookies sweeter.


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Please vote for me! Thank you!

Thanksgivukkah- A Pinterest Wet Dream

Gobble Tov!

In case you've forgotten all about Thanksgivukkah, allow me to give you a recap:

Because of the way Thanksgiving moves around on the calendar (based on the third Thursday rather than the date) and the way Channukah moves around on the calendar (because the Jewish calendar runs on a lunar cycle instead of a solar cycle and has leap MONTHS), Channukah and Thanksgiving generally DO NOT overlap.

However, it's possible. The last time it WOULD have happened would have been about 150 years ago. Just a few years before Thanksgiving was invented.

That means that this year was the FIRST Thanksgivukkah!

Oh, but there's more. Because those two calendars are so darn wacky, they're not going to overlap again for 79,000 years.

And let's face it, a lot can happen in 79,000 years. It's entirely likely that this was the only Thanksgivukkah that any humans will ever have the opportunity to experience.

So I did what any modern-day American woman would do when faced with what is literally a once in a lifetime dinner party opportunity.

I went to Pinterest.

My Thanksgivukkah board is a thing of wonder. It's only the food- because let's face it, with all the food on the table there wasn't going to be a single spot left open for decorations.

So here's the big question- what did we eat?

The most important element of any Channukah meal, let alone Thanksgivukkah... the latkes. Also pictured- a bit of the Manischewitz brined Quorn and Celebration Field Roast, my mother's famous maple and chestnut brussels sprouts, and the most amazing squash I've ever eaten- Za'atar roasted squash.

You can't have latkes without apple sauce, but when you're having THANKSGIVUKKAH latkes you need to up the ante! Cranberry apple sauce, green bean casserole (topped with extra crispy latkes instead of onions), challah stuffing, cornbread challah (more on that later), and those amazing brussels sprouts. Not pictured- sour cream and gravy. And let me tell you- gravy on hot latkes was a revelation.

And check out those gorgeous linens! Dreidle napkins, and ornate menorah and Mogen David table cloth! Plus, my mother's dishes. I could write poetry about my mother's kitchen, and the dishes would have their own stanza. She's collected them individually- each plate, bowl, and mug is a work of art.

Even with endless bottles of cider and mead, we found room on the table to squeeze in a Menurkey- on a platter with candy corn and marzipan potatoes. Because mazipan. (There's the girls with Aunt Something Funny!)

But you don't think we stopped there, did you? For dessert my mother concocted pumpkin pie rugalach and pecan pie rugalach- which is even more amazing than it sounds. And on top of them on that tray? Cranberry filled sufganyot! Plus a giant box of the best chocolates Washington, DC has to offer. 

And if you thought it couldn't get any better, you'd be wrong. The next morning my mother created something unfathomably delicious. If there is ONE legacy from Thanksgivukkah to carry in our hearts and minds through the ages, for seventy nine thousand years, let it be this: pumpkin pie blintzes.

How I wish I had a picture. But no picture could convey the perfection. Nothing but eating a steaming plate of those magical blintzes will ever do them justice.

Oh yes- and the sweet potato keugle we ate for dinner a few nights later. Because you just can't stop the Thanksgivvukah spirit.

So how can you recreate some of this incredible food in your own home?

Never fear! Here are some of those amazing recipes. Enjoy!


Cornbread Challah- gluten free and vegan!
Yes, it's gluten free! That's because it's basically a braided, baked tamale. So if you like tamales, you'll LOVE this cornbread.

You'll note the recipe calls for pre-made masa- no worries, here's how it's done:
4.5 c masa harina (mexican corn flour)
3.75 c COLD water
1.5 c vegetable shortening (I used olivio)
1 tb salt

Cornbread Challah and Za'atar Squash

1. First, put the masa harina into a HUGE bowl. Then add the cold water. Now knead them with your hands- not a spoon!- until it's the same texture throughout. No lumps, no dry spots!

2. In a standing mixer, beat the salt and shortening. Once it's all mixed and fluffy, start adding the dough- one fistful at a time, beating until it's totally mixed in. You'll end up with SO MUCH DOUGH. You don't need this much for Challah, but for tamales... well... there's no such thing as too many tamales.

3. Cover and chill at least two hours.

Then you can go forward with the recipe above. I suggest really committing to the tamale flavor, though. For regular dinner purposes, I plan to make this challah again- only I'm going to glaze it with mole before baking. Mmmm!

Also enjoy the Za'atar Squash, Orange Cranberry filled Sufganyot, and Sweet Potato Keugle!

A Happy Thanksgivukkah to all, and to all a good night!


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Let the Panic Begin... Early!

Care Bears are very important around here. Especially on the sixth night of Channukah.

It was lovely to take a little time off from Blogger Idol, to visit family and eat WAY too much food.

The girls made dinosaur cookies, we exchanged gifts, I saw my sisters, they saw their nieces, and RH learned a new and delightful phrase-



We handed her a present (it contained that book in her hands) and she immediately started screaming it at the top of her lungs- "I LOVE IT! I LOVE IT! I LOVE IT!"

She has expanded her linguistic skill so far that now she even says, "I love Care Bear!" of her new Care Bear. Still won't say "I love you" though. Darn kids.

But vacation is over and it's time to get back to the real world. And in the real world, I'm in the final four contestants of Blogger Idol.

And guess what? As a Channukah present (I'm sure it's not intended that way but I'll take what I can get) the Blogger Idol vote is open EARLY!!!!!

That's right, right now you can go and vote for me for Blogger Idol! And you know what's super terrifying and awesome and amazing?

This competition is almost over. After this week there will be only three. And then two. And then... the finale.

So help me make it all the way to the end! Help me take it all home! YOU CAN DO IT!

VOTE FOR ME!!!!

From Gaudete to Maccabeats

This week's Twisted Mix Tape is Christmas music.

Yes, I'm Jewish. But I was also a choir nerd, and then an opera student, and so on and so on...

It's impossible to avoid Christmas music. PERIOD. Fortunately, some of it is great.

Enjoy!



As I said, I used to sing opera. And there are no Christmas songs more beautiful or moving than those from the Latin mass. So. Beautiful.



This song is pretty controversial these days. Yes, if you put it into a modern context, this song is SUPER rapey. So creepy. But, if you take it at face value- that this is actually a two-way flirtation and not an insidious attempt to drug, trap, and violate somebody... it's a lot of fun.



One of the all-time great ladies of rock n' roll.  I love that she just went ahead and put a Christmas song on a regular album. Because why the hell not?



My second opera teacher was fairly obsessed with Leontyne Price, and he passed his love affair on to me. In fact, it was getting to know Leontyne Price that took me away from opera. She also sang jazz, and listening to those records in the vocal performance studio changed my mind about what I wanted to sing. From opera to jazz and blues I went. But my love of opera, and of course of Ms. Price, is as strong as ever.



Back to the modern classics... I love this song. It's so sweet, so pretty... and I adore Tori Amos. Definitely my favorite version of this lovely little song.



Still, I can't let a Chistmas mix tape go by without throwing in my Channukah two cents. This is not an age-old classic. But it's my favorite. I LOVE this song. I sing it on a loop, starting the first time each year I think about latkes. "I flip my latkes in the air sometimes..." NOTE: DO NOT FLIP YOUR LATKES IN THE AIR. You will send hot oil flying through the kitchen, wounding everyone present. It's not to be done.



And now a classic Channukah song, in the Moroccan style. This is pretty much *the* Channukah song, and I love how it explores the different aspects of Jewish heritage. It's beautiful.



Last but not least, back to Christmas music. I know, just about everybody's favorite version of Carol of the Bells is the trans-Siberian orchestra. But you will win me over every time with a musical arrangement for twelve cellos. Even if they're all played by the same guy.