Songs

These days I can go days without listening to the radio. I think I listened to music the other night on my way home from Liz’s, but only because she had turned the radio on when she took my car to get milk, but I haven’t since. I love music of different genres, as evidenced by CD collection and my MP3 selection, and I lost count years ago of the concerts to which I have been (which is quite different from not remembering all of the details of concerts I have attended). I don’t dislike music at all. I just don’t need it the way I used to.

There was a time that songs were more than music, and music was my call to rebellion--and maybe an excuse to swear. Oh, the 70s! “Whooo are you? Who, who, who, who? […] Oh, who the f*ck are you?!” “Teenage Wasteland, oh yeah, it’s only teenage wasteland.” Songs were the sound track of coming of age and knowing more than our parents (so we thought); Mama had a squeeze box, and Steve Tyler had a big ten inch…record. “That Smell” by Lynyrd Skynyrd (“you fool, you!”) still brings out my inner burnout and definitely requires a volume crank. And Led Zeppelin? Well, let’s just say that there are a few people in my life who love to say, at least once in the ninth month of the year, Happy Zep-tember. But my favorite was always Peter Frampton, whose double live album was my favorite gift in sixth grade and whom I finally met—yes, met—in the early 90s when I was just about 25. Decades later I am still not embarrassed to love a song whose lyrics included "I don't CARE if they cut my HAIR." Rock. On. It’s always Rock-tober.

My road to feminism was paved with songs by Aretha Franklin—“Respect” and “Natural Woman”. And Helen Reddy gets a shout out, too. I think I can probably still sing every word of  "I am Woman Hear me Roar." There were the songs that moved me, some I became aware of only as I became socially conscious and…well…liberal. If my life were a movie the soundtrack would have played What's Going On by Marvin Gaye, or Wake Up Everybody by Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes in the background as I took the T to Dorchester to the adolescent clinic at which I worked.

Lest you think I remain permanently ensconced in the 70s, I love to dance to Modern English, “Melt withYou”. When I want to hear passion and emotion in a voice who better to listen to than Eddy Vedder? Even with short hair. Pearl Jam makes me feel. Period. U2 does too. And Live. And others. From decades other than the 70s.

In all the places in between, in all the mixed tapes I made and shared or was given by friends, the songs I sang aloud made me feel like I had a good voice. I hung on to every word to tell me that I’d be okay, that my life would turn out okay. I would find love and be fine, and someday someone would sing a heartfelt song to me, soppy and sappy. Maybe [I] would bring [him] up  or he would hold a boom box over his head to let me know how much he loved me. I could even break a heart if so inclined.

I did turn out okay; things are fine with me. I have found love. I’ve even been sung to in my life. And while music still moves me, transports me to times past and places I’ve been, I am okay with silence. I can sit in the moment, with my own thoughts and words in my head, writing my own song. But I still can't settle on the ten albums (well, CDs) I'd take to that deserted island, or download on my MP3 palyer, so  I Gotta Feeling music will always be a part of my life.

Happy Birthday to Donna!

On this special day, when Donna both celebrates her birthday and begins chemotherapy anew, I unabashedly ask all of you who read to send positive thoughts and prayers her way.

As Donna says, "only good can come from positive energy."

Amen. And Happy Birthday.

Infomercials

I am not an infomercial person. I don't “set it and forget it!” nor have I contributed in any way to Ron Popeil’s fortune. I frankly still can’t understand why anyone would buy an appliance to whip an egg in its shell. I have no desire to make my own jerky or boil pasta in the microwave, but I do admit that I once owned a George Forman grill.

I loved it, and I used it fairly often. I think. At some point I draw a blank about my GFG. I don’t know why I stopped using it, or why—when I did—I threw it away. Or did I put it out on the street in one of several boxes I labeled FREE Please Take when I moved? I really have no idea. I hadn’t thought about it in years…until I saw my mother using hers the other day.

My GFG was good for fast and easy food, portioned for one. Since my GFG days I’ve been cooking more and experimenting in the kitchen, and taking more time to prepare meals. As you know, I don’t mind spending hours in the kitchen. Cooking is creating; creating is therapy. But when I saw my mother use hers it occurred to me that having the option to cook quick and easy for just myself once in a while is not a bad idea. Not everything I make has to be restaurant worthy, right? And I know I can just as easily throw a burger in a sauté pan as I can a GFG, but I do remember it being faster. And I remember liking the grill marks. I am all about the grill marks. Too bad I don’t have a grill.

This afternoon, I will have a new George Forman grill. I ordered one a couple of weeks ago (for a whopping $17!) and it’s in. Will it get a [heart] note, or another sharpie-scrawled FREE Please Take? Stay tuned. I'll be sure to let you know.

Fiesta for One!

There are days meant for doing projects, rainy days for reading, snow storms for cooking soup. This has been a week full of days that say come out and play!, meant more for having fun than for discipline. It has been bright and sunny and warm, and if I were a runner I'd probably find them perfect for a jog, but I'm not. If I had kids I'd have taken them to the playground, but I don't. It's not quite barbeque season yet, so lawn furniture is still in storage and invites were not in the offing. Outdoor prospects were limited, but the gym was not beckoning. Nor were any indoor projects at home. At all. 

A stretch of sunny days with daily highs near 70 is rare in Connecticut, especially in March. In fact, it feels so good that I could almost think I had died and gone to San Diego....That's it! Today was meant for a margarita!...or two...and half-priced chicken and cheese quesadillas.

How's that for resourceful?

Incommunicado

I had a very quiet night last night—but not exactly by choice. I did plan on staying in—making dinner to use some of my bounty of produce from Haymarket, and then reading—but I didn’t plan on being incommunicado.

At about 5 o’clock, as I prepared to prepare to make dinner (yeah, it’s a process), I took my phone out of my purse, thinking it was a bit strange that I hadn’t received any phone calls, or perhaps I hadn’t heard them. I tried to send a quick text, and the mission failed. I got an error message that my text could be saved and sent when digital became available. ??? I tried to make a call, and then I saw Searching SVC on my screen.

I shut off my phone and turned it back on. Searching SVC.

I took my battery out of my phone, and put it back in and turned it back on. Searching SVC.

I went on line for Verizon technical support. They told me to do the things I did that didn’t work. I tried them again anyway. Searching SVC.

Eventually I found an 800 number and thought, well that would suck if I were one of those people who had given up a landline. I wasn't much better off, however, as I am one of those people who rarely uses a landline and therefore leaves the handset off the cradle for days.

I charged my handset for a half hour, and called. About a half hour and two people (one woman, one man)later, my phone was still Searching SVC. After having me go to menus I’ve never seen (and could probably never find again) and selecting acronyms that made no sense to me, they said it sounded like it might be a tower issue, and those take high priority. I’d get an email in fifteen minutes with a ticket number (I did) and then eventually a call on my landline (I didn’t). Again, imagine not having one.

I went to bed around 10. My phone was still Searching SVC.

Although I am grateful that I didn’t get woken in the middle of the night, I am disappointed that I never got a phone call. But at least this morning I had service. While I plan on asking for a $2 credit for the phone service I paid for but didn’t have yesterday, and fixing a wagon about not getting a call, I must say it was nice in a way to have no interruptions last night.

 I may have to make it a point to lose my signal more often. Without Searching SVC.

Appliance Love

Once you get your minds out of the gutter, I'll be here, talking about my immersion blender.

It is not new. By any means. Pu-lease. As I like to say to those with whom I can be completely snobby: I have had a Zyliss cheese grater since circa 1989; I did not ooh and ah over one, and then pay more than I should have for it at a suburban housewives party in 1999. No offense. (I eschew house ware parties with the same conviction I do overpriced silver jewelry parties.) Any gadget that’s out there, I have. If I don’t it is probably because I don’t want it. I want, I buy, or I ask. I do not have an aversion to getting appliances for gifts, and have more than once put an appliance on a Christmas list. I suppose it’s a different ball game asking for a waffle maker from your mom or for an immersion blender from your sister for Christmas than getting a Crockpot from your husband for your birthday, or—worse—your anniversary, but now I’m two topics away from my Braun immersion blender.

For some time it has been packed up in a closet, in a Sterilite box. When I moved I didn't have quite enough cabinet space in my kitchen to keep everything handy, given my dish fetish and tendency to go a little crazy during canned goods sales. Furthermore, before I moved I found I hadn't been using my immersion blender often, afraid to scratch the inside surface of my favorite Calphalon chili pot, which is also my soup pot, pasta pot, and whatever else one might call a 5 quart pot. Hence, I relinquished it to my closet, where it has been out of sight, and also--as they say-- out of mind. When I make my squash and corn chowder I use my regular blender, which did get a kitchen space. As did my hand mixer and my food processor.

But when I made tortilla soup a couple of weeks ago I thought I wanted to give it a partial puree: to impart a creaminess to the clear broth and lighten the color, and to thicken it just enough without making it mush, leaving some chunks of tomato intact before adding some more black beans and corn. But it was my first time making this soup, so I wasn't quite sure. Taking out my regular blender would have meant making a commitment to pureeing. And since it wouldn't all have fit in the carafe, I would have needed to do it in batches, which meant taking out another pot or large bowl and WHOA. Stop. Way too much to do there, I thought. Which is when it occurred to me that it could not have been easier to take out my immersion blender and let it rip….

Well, as Erika might say, Hollah! The soup was delicious; the immersion blender worked well, did not scratch my pot in the process, and was beyond easy to clean.

I’m in love again.

[Heart] Note...to Crate and Barrel...

and vases, and Deanna for making me feel okay about it...

When I was in Boston during February vacation I went to Crate and Barrel. Okay, do I even need to tell you that anymore? (Note to Readers: time in Boston means a trip to C&B. Just as I can’t go an entire weekend without going to CVS, I can’t go to Boston without going to C&B.) I saw a lot that I liked, but I resisted. I walked away without buying a thing. Not the little soy pot, the bamboo chop sticks, the lime green tortilla warmer, the mini melamine bowl set. And I survived. Only I had been thinking about a particular vase since the day I left it on Boylston Street. So I went to find it in Greenback Blueback Square.

As I made the descent on the escalator from the furniture store to the house wares retail floor and looked at the bright and beautiful displays, I gasped, put my hand on my chest, and as my eyes filled with tears said aloud, “I could weep.” I remind you I was not seeing a palm tree for the first time in my life (for the record, my reaction was similar) or being reunited with my family after a long, drawn out hostage incident (a scenario with which I cannot claim to have any firsthand experience). I was alone, so God is my witness. I can't help it. I [heart] Crate and Barrel. More than might be normal.

I bought the vase.

And I know I don’t need another vase, but I love vases. I collect them I suppose. And they don’t sit around and collect dust; I use them all. Not all at once, but...The Kona vase is particularly nice because the neck is fairly small (from the side it is narrow), and can hold just a couple of stems nicely. Some vases are for large bunches, some for flowers with long stems, some for flowers with short stems. As Deanna said tonight, sincerely, not patronizing me in the least, “Right, like black shoes. You can never have enough. There’s a perfect black shoe for every occasion.” Exactly. She gets me. We share some of the same afflictions.

I [heart] that, too.