Wishing you 'peace', from our house to yours.
Happy Holidays!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
LSAT (Laughter, Sleeplessness, and a Test)
Because I took the LSAT last weekend, and because misery loves company, this post will be in exam format. For some questions, more than one of the choices could conceivably answer the question. However, you are to choose the best answer; that is, the response that most accurately and completely answers the question. You should not make assumptions using your commonsense because, let's face it, the author of these questions doesn't have any.
Corbie was scheduled to take the LSAT in October yet ultimately took it in December. Which of the following reasons, if true, best explains the rescheduling of her exam?
A) She slept in
B) She forgot
C) She had the swine flu
D) At the October test, the folks at the check-in desk wouldn't grant her entry because her ID says Corbie Coy-Kennedy and her registration was under Corbie Coy and these folks are patently incapable of using the very logic needed for their own exam to reason that there can't possibly be another human on the planet who a) is named Corbie Coy (or any variation thereof), nor b) would even be willing to pretend to have such a bizarre name for the span of 7 full hours.
There are a very limited number of items allowed in the exam room and all items must be placed in a one gallon Ziploc bag. Assuming each of the following items were in Corbie's bag, which do you think made her feel the most incredibly stupid?
A) Ungodly amounts of Peanut M&Ms
B) 70 trillion pencils, 'just in case'
C) Coins for the campus 'pay phone' (which, incidentally, does not exist)
D) Super sized tampons in what can only be described as fluorescent green wrappers
Assuming Corbie's score is lower than it could have been, the most logical explanation for this is:
A) She took the exam on two hours of sleep.
B) By LSAT standards, she took the exam 'cold turkey', the sum of her preparation being three practice exams, self-administered, in the passenger seat on a road trip, with aforementioned practice exams being continually interrupted so she could change the song on her iPod.
C) The proctor made her remove her sweater because said sweater had a hood and she spent the entire exam in a freezing room giving far too much thought to the word 'headlights'.
D) She has an uncanny knack for being assigned the seat next to a man who is either a) recovering from swine flu or b) dying of lung cancer.
In the unlikely event that Corbie's score is higher than her lack of sleep, preparation, and headlight coverage would dictate, which of the following would best explain the discrepancy?
A) She took the test in God's country (i.e. Orem, UT)
B) Penny picked her up at the crack of dawn and drove her to the test so that she could 'study' (read: drink lethal amounts of coffee) on the way
C) Laughter is good medicine and she and Penny spent the ride to Orem laughing about the highlighted, color-coded, CIA-quality map that Penny had printed so they would be certain to arrive on time
D) As a bearded, hoodie-wearing man walked into the exam just ahead of Corbie, Penny pointed out that if the Unabomber happens to be in the exam room, Corbie should resist her natural inclination to finish the test and instead should run for her life (thereby summoning Corbie's inner Crouching-Tiger)
And now you've made it to my favorite section - Analytical Reasoning. Please do your best not to cry, threaten the proctor, or gouge your own eyes out with the (now) dull 70 trillion pencils you brought.
7 students - A, B, C, D, E, F, and U - eat lunch in the school cafeteria. Student A likes lasagna and B likes meatloaf but they each only eat pizza on the 4th day of the 3rd week of some random month. Student C likes Van Halen, D wears tapered leg jeans, and E likes to skydive. Given the above conditions, what kinds of cars do F and U drive?
Peace, good friends, and standardized tests,
Corbie Coy-Kennedy
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Amazing Grace...
I have eight different versions of the song Amazing Grace on my ipod, sung by artists ranging from Johnny Cash to Anne Murray. I do not view myself as a religious person and, even when I did, the religion of my youth emphasized the concept of good works rather than God's grace. My point is not to start a religious discourse here but simply to explain that, since it wasn't even in the hymn books of my youth, I have no idea where or when I fell in love with this song. That said, it is the song I sang while rocking my babies to sleep, it is the song that rings in my ears in my lowest moments, it is the song I want played at my funeral (bagpipes, please...if I were you, I'd get dibs on this task now so you don't get stuck doing my hair).
While I don't know the when or the where of how I came to love this song, I am clear on the why. When it comes to music, I'm all about the lyrics - if the words speak to me, I'm sold.
As I see it, this one short verse sums up the desires of us all. Whether it be a friend, a family member, or your God - don't we all simply want to be found and saved and loved, in spite of our shortcomings?
Recently, I had the joy of seeing U2, a contender for my all-time favorite band, perform Amazing Grace in concert. As Penny and I held hands and our eyes welled up with tears (listen, folks...Bono & Company have gotten us through some hard times), I made the very sincere statement that nothing would ever top that night. The funny thing about making those types of proclamations is that the Universe loves showing me who's boss...just two short weeks later, here is Cale, on cello, playing his favorite lullaby and, at least in his Mom's eyes, easily edging out The Edge.
And, if Amazing Grace isn't your thing, here's Coldplay's Viva La Vida:
Some pics from the big night (for the record, Morgan was wearing a dress shirt at some point in the evening):
Peace and the amazing power of grace,
Corbie
While I don't know the when or the where of how I came to love this song, I am clear on the why. When it comes to music, I'm all about the lyrics - if the words speak to me, I'm sold.
Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see
As I see it, this one short verse sums up the desires of us all. Whether it be a friend, a family member, or your God - don't we all simply want to be found and saved and loved, in spite of our shortcomings?
Recently, I had the joy of seeing U2, a contender for my all-time favorite band, perform Amazing Grace in concert. As Penny and I held hands and our eyes welled up with tears (listen, folks...Bono & Company have gotten us through some hard times), I made the very sincere statement that nothing would ever top that night. The funny thing about making those types of proclamations is that the Universe loves showing me who's boss...just two short weeks later, here is Cale, on cello, playing his favorite lullaby and, at least in his Mom's eyes, easily edging out The Edge.
And, if Amazing Grace isn't your thing, here's Coldplay's Viva La Vida:
Some pics from the big night (for the record, Morgan was wearing a dress shirt at some point in the evening):
Peace and the amazing power of grace,
Corbie
Monday, October 19, 2009
You put your whole heart in and you shake it all about...
I started having what I refer to as 'friend-crushes' at a relatively young age. They were basically like real crushes only I fantasized about sharing Cabbage Patch Dolls and shoes instead of first kisses and prom nights. I blame these crushes on two things - my intense need to connect with people and my struggles with Sibling Deprivation Disorder. The crushes didn't happen often - sisterless or not, my standards were high. And, let's face it, girlfriends worthy of that kind of yearning are rare. But, when they did happen, the feeling was powerful. I'd daydream about the fun we'd have together, the secrets we'd tell each other, the endless games of 'light as a feather, stiff as a board'. And then I'd plead with the Friendship Gods that this person - this amazing, intelligent, deep, thoughtful person - would see past my faults and want me in return.
I met Robyn at Classic Skating Rink when we were both still single-digits-old. If memory serves me correctly, she was planning to beat up a girl I didn't particularly like and, as the saying goes, enemies of my enemies are my friends. I liked her infectious laugh during the backwards skate to Mony Mony, I could sense a friend-crush coming on during The Hokey Pokey and, by the time the couples were skating to You're the Inspiration, I was totally smitten. She had it all...the strength, the femininity, the humor, the hair. Plus, there was an added bonus - her height. Let's just say that when you skip a grade and still find yourself on the back row for picture day, finding a friend who is taller than you is better than a fire drill during math class.
Now, it's probably not all that uncommon for people to make friends in grade school and keep them into adulthood but I recognized quickly that this one was going to be tough - we didn't attend the same school, we didn't live near each other, and we had known each other for the duration of fourteen monster ballads and some one-hit-wonders. And this was the 1980's, after all...I couldn't exactly save her 'digits' in my cell phone and text her when I had questions about lipstick and boys and bras. As the night wore on and the licorice ropes wore off, I decided I better simply make like Kool & The Gang and do my best to Cherish The Night.
That was over 20 years ago. Here we are, seven kids, two bridesmaids dresses, and a whole lot of life experiences later, taking our girls to the Miley Cyrus concert.
It's true that happiness has many faces.
It can look like finally getting two heads of hair (semi) done for a Mommy-daughter date...
It can look like flashing gang - er, I mean peace - signs with the big girls...
It can look like posing in your new concert t-shirt because you don't yet know that Mommy will never let you wear it any place else but to bed...
It can look like doing groovy 80's moves (see :24) at your favorite (and totally age-inappropriate) concert or dancing such that Ronald Miller would be proud (see :32)...
Or it can look like this...old friends, deep friends, tall friends...the kind who fight your enemies and love your kids and don't need cell phones to stay connected. And, if your substitute-sister shares her real sister with you, well, that's even better than when the last skate of the night is a Journey song.
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Peace, Gobstoppers, and grade school crushes (of any sort),
Corbie
I met Robyn at Classic Skating Rink when we were both still single-digits-old. If memory serves me correctly, she was planning to beat up a girl I didn't particularly like and, as the saying goes, enemies of my enemies are my friends. I liked her infectious laugh during the backwards skate to Mony Mony, I could sense a friend-crush coming on during The Hokey Pokey and, by the time the couples were skating to You're the Inspiration, I was totally smitten. She had it all...the strength, the femininity, the humor, the hair. Plus, there was an added bonus - her height. Let's just say that when you skip a grade and still find yourself on the back row for picture day, finding a friend who is taller than you is better than a fire drill during math class.
Now, it's probably not all that uncommon for people to make friends in grade school and keep them into adulthood but I recognized quickly that this one was going to be tough - we didn't attend the same school, we didn't live near each other, and we had known each other for the duration of fourteen monster ballads and some one-hit-wonders. And this was the 1980's, after all...I couldn't exactly save her 'digits' in my cell phone and text her when I had questions about lipstick and boys and bras. As the night wore on and the licorice ropes wore off, I decided I better simply make like Kool & The Gang and do my best to Cherish The Night.
That was over 20 years ago. Here we are, seven kids, two bridesmaids dresses, and a whole lot of life experiences later, taking our girls to the Miley Cyrus concert.
It's true that happiness has many faces.
It can look like finally getting two heads of hair (semi) done for a Mommy-daughter date...
It can look like flashing gang - er, I mean peace - signs with the big girls...
It can look like posing in your new concert t-shirt because you don't yet know that Mommy will never let you wear it any place else but to bed...
It can look like doing groovy 80's moves (see :24) at your favorite (and totally age-inappropriate) concert or dancing such that Ronald Miller would be proud (see :32)...
Or it can look like this...old friends, deep friends, tall friends...the kind who fight your enemies and love your kids and don't need cell phones to stay connected. And, if your substitute-sister shares her real sister with you, well, that's even better than when the last skate of the night is a Journey song.
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Peace, Gobstoppers, and grade school crushes (of any sort),
Corbie
Sunday, October 11, 2009
You Don't Send Me Flowers...
I'm a hippie. When I mention this to people, I'm usually met with a mixture of doubt and amusement. It's true, I don't hug a lot of trees (nor people, for that matter). And I suppose that on the surface I seem a bit more 'yuppie' than 'hippie'. But in my heart, in my mind, I'm a total flower-child. So, imagine how offended I was when I saw this.
I mean, if you can't trust the organic-eating, joint-passing, free-loving folk among us, who can you trust? I don't know, but I'll tell you a few you can't:
- People who can't spell. Fine, that's a bit harsh. But people who can't be trusted to spellcheck the six inch letters they are placing on their back windshield certainly shouldn't be casting stones at the 'hippies'.
- People who use the (non) word 'irregardless'. Here's the deal - if you think this is a real word, I can't trust that you don't live in a hut and drink your own urine. On the contrary, if you know this is not a word and continue to use it regardless, I can't trust that the English language is the only thing you'll bludgeon.
- People who Facebook poke. What is a digital poke anyhow? And would it kill you to offer me some Facebook foreplay first? I don't ask for much but some digital candles and pizza would be a nice touch.
- Abusers of the 10 items or less line. I can't trust that you can count, I can't trust that you can read...much more importantly, I can't trust myself not to spray bug killer in your eyes (unfortunately for you, it's my only item) when you put your 23 items on the conveyor belt and continue to browse for gum and magazines.
- Mall walkers. Let's see...you're at the mall, without your wallet, wearing ugly shoes. You're suspect on so. many. levels.
- People who hate cheese. I understand not eating cheese - I know plenty ofloons people who avoid the calories. But not liking cheese? You probably hate babies and puppies and say 'irregardless'.
- Neil Diamond haters. As Bob Wiley said, there are two kinds of people in the world - those who like Neil Diamond and those who don't. If you don't love a Jew who sings Christmas songs tomake money hand over fist bring joy to his gentile fans, you simply can't be trusted.
- Fans of those teams. You know who you are...oh ye fans of the Yankees, Cowboys, Lakers. In another life (say, 1067 BC, give or take a few years), you were cheerleaders, on a sideline, chanting "Goliath, Goliath, he's our man...".
- Wal-Mart greeters. Anyone who is that happy, to be working near the constantly opening and closing doors at Wal-Mart, was very recently answering to Prisoner #642579.
- Users of port-a-potties. Color me crazy but the whole 'no sink nor plumbing' dynamic makes me not trust that you washed your hands.
- People who hide their PIN at ATMS. You don't trust me? Well, back at ya, asshole.
- Actors in erectile dysfunction ads. If your penis, indeed, does not work, I can't trust that you'll be that much fun. If it does work and you are just pretending that it doesn't to make a quick buck, well, I can't trust that you have enough pride not to humiliate us both. Plus, my money says you poke people on Facebook.
Peace, hippies, and cheese,
Corbie
I mean, if you can't trust the organic-eating, joint-passing, free-loving folk among us, who can you trust? I don't know, but I'll tell you a few you can't:
- People who can't spell. Fine, that's a bit harsh. But people who can't be trusted to spellcheck the six inch letters they are placing on their back windshield certainly shouldn't be casting stones at the 'hippies'.
- People who use the (non) word 'irregardless'. Here's the deal - if you think this is a real word, I can't trust that you don't live in a hut and drink your own urine. On the contrary, if you know this is not a word and continue to use it regardless, I can't trust that the English language is the only thing you'll bludgeon.
- People who Facebook poke. What is a digital poke anyhow? And would it kill you to offer me some Facebook foreplay first? I don't ask for much but some digital candles and pizza would be a nice touch.
- Abusers of the 10 items or less line. I can't trust that you can count, I can't trust that you can read...much more importantly, I can't trust myself not to spray bug killer in your eyes (unfortunately for you, it's my only item) when you put your 23 items on the conveyor belt and continue to browse for gum and magazines.
- Mall walkers. Let's see...you're at the mall, without your wallet, wearing ugly shoes. You're suspect on so. many. levels.
- People who hate cheese. I understand not eating cheese - I know plenty of
- Neil Diamond haters. As Bob Wiley said, there are two kinds of people in the world - those who like Neil Diamond and those who don't. If you don't love a Jew who sings Christmas songs to
- Fans of those teams. You know who you are...oh ye fans of the Yankees, Cowboys, Lakers. In another life (say, 1067 BC, give or take a few years), you were cheerleaders, on a sideline, chanting "Goliath, Goliath, he's our man...".
- Wal-Mart greeters. Anyone who is that happy, to be working near the constantly opening and closing doors at Wal-Mart, was very recently answering to Prisoner #642579.
- Users of port-a-potties. Color me crazy but the whole 'no sink nor plumbing' dynamic makes me not trust that you washed your hands.
- People who hide their PIN at ATMS. You don't trust me? Well, back at ya, asshole.
- Actors in erectile dysfunction ads. If your penis, indeed, does not work, I can't trust that you'll be that much fun. If it does work and you are just pretending that it doesn't to make a quick buck, well, I can't trust that you have enough pride not to humiliate us both. Plus, my money says you poke people on Facebook.
Peace, hippies, and cheese,
Corbie
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Fan or Fanatic
Many things in life are separated by a very thin line. Right and wrong, for instance. Genius and madness. Love and hate. Bambi and Pulp Fiction. Online dating and 'To Catch a Predator'.
And yesterday, I got to thinking...exactly how thin is the line between a fan and a fanatic? In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that this question occurred to me following an email exchange with a friend about a fantasy football league. An illegal trade had taken place, someone had stacked the odds unfairly in their own favor, and we were debating a variety of lethal options to right the unforgivable wrong.
After much deliberation, I'm fairly certain we settled on death by firing squad and it's possible that I ended the email exchange declaring we were the Robin Hoods of fantasy football (what does that even mean exactly?). The worst part about all of this is that we were serious. Well, no - the worst part is that I'm not even in the league in question. Nope - I'm in three (yes, three) others. Does this make me a fantasy football fanatic? Hardly. A fanatic would have settled for no less than a public stoning - a firing squad seems downright merciful, given the circumstances.
In the interest of public awareness, I've created the following key to help differentiate between fans and fanatics~
Fan: Appreciates a nice blanket or hoodie bearing their team logo.
Fanatic: Ordered their formal dining room chandelier from NBA.com.
Fan: Enjoys date night at the game, but prefers if it includes a nice dinner.
Fanatic: This bedroom set all but eliminates the need for foreplay (or food or sunlight, for that matter).
Fan: Proposes to spouse via jumbotron.
Fanatic: Proposes (daily) to Brett Favre via email, Twitter, and high-speed car pursuits.
Fan: Has occasionally browsed ebay in search of Karl Malone memorabilia.
Fanatic: Has missed important conference calls because they conflicted with auction end-times for an ugly t-shirt, probably signed by the ebay seller himself (MarkHoffmanMemorabilia) instead of Karl.
Fan: Wears jersey bearing favorite player's last name on game days.
Fanatic: Insists people call them Mr./Mrs. (insert favorite player's name here) throughout entire regular season.
Fan: Has a team decal on car window, well-placed so as to not cause blind spot.
Fanatic: Dream car looks like this...
Fan: Understands that with :20 left on the clock, down by 17, the game has been decided.
Fanatic: I'm sorry - where was I? I lost my train of thought because Brett Favre is in the pocket, down by two touchdowns and a field goal, and we're poised for a victory in T-minus fifteen seconds...
Peace (unless your team is playing mine),
Mrs. Favre
And yesterday, I got to thinking...exactly how thin is the line between a fan and a fanatic? In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that this question occurred to me following an email exchange with a friend about a fantasy football league. An illegal trade had taken place, someone had stacked the odds unfairly in their own favor, and we were debating a variety of lethal options to right the unforgivable wrong.
After much deliberation, I'm fairly certain we settled on death by firing squad and it's possible that I ended the email exchange declaring we were the Robin Hoods of fantasy football (what does that even mean exactly?). The worst part about all of this is that we were serious. Well, no - the worst part is that I'm not even in the league in question. Nope - I'm in three (yes, three) others. Does this make me a fantasy football fanatic? Hardly. A fanatic would have settled for no less than a public stoning - a firing squad seems downright merciful, given the circumstances.
In the interest of public awareness, I've created the following key to help differentiate between fans and fanatics~
Fan: Appreciates a nice blanket or hoodie bearing their team logo.
Fanatic: Ordered their formal dining room chandelier from NBA.com.
Fan: Enjoys date night at the game, but prefers if it includes a nice dinner.
Fanatic: This bedroom set all but eliminates the need for foreplay (or food or sunlight, for that matter).
Fan: Proposes to spouse via jumbotron.
Fanatic: Proposes (daily) to Brett Favre via email, Twitter, and high-speed car pursuits.
Fan: Has occasionally browsed ebay in search of Karl Malone memorabilia.
Fanatic: Has missed important conference calls because they conflicted with auction end-times for an ugly t-shirt, probably signed by the ebay seller himself (MarkHoffmanMemorabilia) instead of Karl.
Fan: Wears jersey bearing favorite player's last name on game days.
Fanatic: Insists people call them Mr./Mrs. (insert favorite player's name here) throughout entire regular season.
Fan: Has a team decal on car window, well-placed so as to not cause blind spot.
Fanatic: Dream car looks like this...
Fan: Understands that with :20 left on the clock, down by 17, the game has been decided.
Fanatic: I'm sorry - where was I? I lost my train of thought because Brett Favre is in the pocket, down by two touchdowns and a field goal, and we're poised for a victory in T-minus fifteen seconds...
Peace (unless your team is playing mine),
Mrs. Favre
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Training Wheels of the Human Variety...
I was uploading/downloading/whatever-it-is-called-when-images-move-from-one-location-to-another some pictures from my phone today and remembered one of my favorite summer stories. Excluding the hundreds of files around my desk that are stacked in such a way that they resemble a sophisticated fort, I figured I have nothing better to do but share it (i.e. I'm avoiding work right now).
I taught Morgan to ride his bike recently. Yes, he's my 7-year-old. No, it isn't lost on me that he should have learned to ride it years ago. But he was scared to learn and, having forced my oldest child onto Santa's lap enough times to give him recurrent nightmares about beards, I decided to use a 'when you're ready' approach with my next two children.
Well, that was my approach until I snapped. This summer, I suddenly decided that I could no longer watch Morgan ride a scooter while the kids his age popped wheelies and pumped each other on their handlebars and 'ghost-rode' each others' bikes home. One afternoon, as my mean-mom roots took over, I threw his bike into the back of my car and headed for a parking lot. Morgan cried while we drove, proclaiming loudly that he "didn't care about learning to ride a bike" and "I thought you said it was my choice, Mom". My response? "Oh, you have a choice, alright - your school parking lot or mine?" As you can see from this grainy phone pic, he chose mine.
The moral of this story isn't that my parenting skills are lacking (though in many ways, surely they are), nor is it that things are never as scary as we think they'll be (Morgan took off riding on his own before I could even get a firm grip on the back of his seat). No, this is a tale of friendship. As we loaded back into the car, with Morgan grinning ear-to-ear, the following conversation took place:
Morgan: "Thanks for teaching me how to ride my bike, Mom. Now I don't have to be embarrassed to tell people I don't know how".
Me: "You've been embarrassed to tell people you couldn't ride a bike, Morg?" (cue the sound of my heart breaking).
Morgan: "Yeah. Well, except for Reggie - he would never make fun of me for something like that, Mom."
Reggie is the son of my friend Kim. He's a year older and a head taller than Morgan, and his personality is the size of a small country - lucky for Morgan, his heart is the size of a large one. May we all be Reggies, know Reggies, and raise Reggies.
Peace and love and the best kind of friends,
Corbie
I taught Morgan to ride his bike recently. Yes, he's my 7-year-old. No, it isn't lost on me that he should have learned to ride it years ago. But he was scared to learn and, having forced my oldest child onto Santa's lap enough times to give him recurrent nightmares about beards, I decided to use a 'when you're ready' approach with my next two children.
Well, that was my approach until I snapped. This summer, I suddenly decided that I could no longer watch Morgan ride a scooter while the kids his age popped wheelies and pumped each other on their handlebars and 'ghost-rode' each others' bikes home. One afternoon, as my mean-mom roots took over, I threw his bike into the back of my car and headed for a parking lot. Morgan cried while we drove, proclaiming loudly that he "didn't care about learning to ride a bike" and "I thought you said it was my choice, Mom". My response? "Oh, you have a choice, alright - your school parking lot or mine?" As you can see from this grainy phone pic, he chose mine.
The moral of this story isn't that my parenting skills are lacking (though in many ways, surely they are), nor is it that things are never as scary as we think they'll be (Morgan took off riding on his own before I could even get a firm grip on the back of his seat). No, this is a tale of friendship. As we loaded back into the car, with Morgan grinning ear-to-ear, the following conversation took place:
Morgan: "Thanks for teaching me how to ride my bike, Mom. Now I don't have to be embarrassed to tell people I don't know how".
Me: "You've been embarrassed to tell people you couldn't ride a bike, Morg?" (cue the sound of my heart breaking).
Morgan: "Yeah. Well, except for Reggie - he would never make fun of me for something like that, Mom."
Reggie is the son of my friend Kim. He's a year older and a head taller than Morgan, and his personality is the size of a small country - lucky for Morgan, his heart is the size of a large one. May we all be Reggies, know Reggies, and raise Reggies.
Peace and love and the best kind of friends,
Corbie
(Reggie and Morgan on the 4th of July. Morgan is wearing the sweatshirt of Reggie's sister, Abby. Apparently, it is also Reggie's policy not to make fun of his friends for cross-dressing).
Monday, September 14, 2009
Time keeps on ticking...
Lately, I'm obsessed with time. The passage of time, the lack of sufficient time, the fact that I'm never on time. It may have to do with my newly emerging wrinkles but, at least in small part, I blame it on my kids starting school last week.
Cale is now in middle school which, unless I'm having a major lapse in my understanding of biology, means that I am the mother of a middle schooler. Yes, my first baby has a locker and a complicated schedule and he can buy Powerade for lunch (I mention this tidbit because he mentions it no less than fourteen times per day). Middle school brought with it some choices such as musical instrument (cello), language (Spanish), and the choice of either P.E. or dance (okay, this one was less 'choice', more 'duh').
As you can see, Cale has also graduated to new a new uniform. Poor Morgan is as happy as you can imagine he would be about all of this (read: not at all). It isn't enough that he is no longer able to see his brother in the halls, he must also continue wearing what are arguably the worst uniform colors known to man and, (as he tearfully explained to me after the tenth time Cale said 'Powerade' yesterday) he can't even reach the apple-juice shelf in the lunchroom. As his age would dictate, Morgan wants time to move more quickly.
And, as if it is not enough heartache for my oldest to head off to middle school, my youngest also headed off to 'real' preschool last week. I say 'real' because, although she has attended another preschool for the last several months, this marks what feels like the beginning of the end...she now attends the school from which she will likely graduate high school. Granted it is still fifteen years away but, from where I stand, fifteen years ago seems like yesterday.
To me, the most fascinating thing about time is that it is the great equalizer of mankind - no amount of physical strength can halt it, no amount of intelligence can outsmart it, no amount of money can buy more of it. And it is ironic that, like beauty, time is taken for granted by the young. They don't appreciate the slow movement of time - long bus rides, longer school days, utter eternities betwen birthdays - until it is too late. And when exactly does it become too late? When does our perspective on time shift? Does it happen overnight? Do we go to bed wishing we were more grown-up, more sophisticated, more seasoned...and wake up wishing our hair color was real and our ID fake? I remember specifically wanting to be old enough, wise enough, mature enough, to use the word 'apropos' without sounding like a fool...now, I find myself missing the age where being foolish was entirely apropos.
Peace and love and the wisdom to make every second count,
Corbie
Cale is now in middle school which, unless I'm having a major lapse in my understanding of biology, means that I am the mother of a middle schooler. Yes, my first baby has a locker and a complicated schedule and he can buy Powerade for lunch (I mention this tidbit because he mentions it no less than fourteen times per day). Middle school brought with it some choices such as musical instrument (cello), language (Spanish), and the choice of either P.E. or dance (okay, this one was less 'choice', more 'duh').
As you can see, Cale has also graduated to new a new uniform. Poor Morgan is as happy as you can imagine he would be about all of this (read: not at all). It isn't enough that he is no longer able to see his brother in the halls, he must also continue wearing what are arguably the worst uniform colors known to man and, (as he tearfully explained to me after the tenth time Cale said 'Powerade' yesterday) he can't even reach the apple-juice shelf in the lunchroom. As his age would dictate, Morgan wants time to move more quickly.
And, as if it is not enough heartache for my oldest to head off to middle school, my youngest also headed off to 'real' preschool last week. I say 'real' because, although she has attended another preschool for the last several months, this marks what feels like the beginning of the end...she now attends the school from which she will likely graduate high school. Granted it is still fifteen years away but, from where I stand, fifteen years ago seems like yesterday.
To me, the most fascinating thing about time is that it is the great equalizer of mankind - no amount of physical strength can halt it, no amount of intelligence can outsmart it, no amount of money can buy more of it. And it is ironic that, like beauty, time is taken for granted by the young. They don't appreciate the slow movement of time - long bus rides, longer school days, utter eternities betwen birthdays - until it is too late. And when exactly does it become too late? When does our perspective on time shift? Does it happen overnight? Do we go to bed wishing we were more grown-up, more sophisticated, more seasoned...and wake up wishing our hair color was real and our ID fake? I remember specifically wanting to be old enough, wise enough, mature enough, to use the word 'apropos' without sounding like a fool...now, I find myself missing the age where being foolish was entirely apropos.
Peace and love and the wisdom to make every second count,
Corbie
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Defending My Quarterback...
In case you live under a rock and haven't heard, Brett Favre has signed with the Minnesota Vikings. Of course, there is no way that I could have missed this tidbit because A) I'm an ESPN junkie (which is every man's dream until they realize the horror that is their wife rushing to the mailbox to beat them to the Sports Illustrated) and B) I received at least two dozen emails from friends near and far who thought I should know the ghastly news. Now, it isn't lost on me that the entire sports world has their knickers in a knot over Brett's tendency to retire, and then unretire (and then retire again)...usually more often than he shaves. The problem? I'm as happy as a clam at high tide.
For those of you new to Random Musings, I love Brett Favre. I love his talent, I love his arm, I love his scruffy 'I-haven't-shaved-since-I-bailed-hay-last-week' look. And I love football. I loved it as a cheerleader, I love it as a spectator, I even love throwing the 'perfect' spiral passes to my boys. But mostly, I love that Brett Favre loves football.
First off, I'm guessing that few of us are the 'Brett Favre' of our respective fields. Don't get me wrong - I can close a mean home loan. I can do it at breakneck speed, with sharpshooting accuracy, and barely break a sweat. I'm generally on any 'top-producing' lists and I know my job inside and out. Still, on a relative scale, I'm probably the mortgage equivalent of a second-string high school quarterback from a small town in Idaho.
So, what if you were that good at something? Something physically taxing and emotionally draining, yet something that most people can only dream of doing? And what if you were getting older and didn't know how much more you had in you, but every now and then you woke up feeling like you were 25 again and maybe, just maybe, could squeeze one more year out of a body that has accomplished things few people can imagine. You wouldn't waffle on your decision? You wouldn't wonder 'what if'?
And forget his ridiculous level of talent for a minute - what about him simply being human? Am I the only one who feels confused about what I want to do now that I'm all grown up? I mean, I have a job - a job that I'm good at, a job that has been very good to me. So someone please tell me why I have registered to take the LSAT in September? So I can 'retire' from mortgages - a career I've spent a dozen years building - and get yet another degree that I may or may not put to use? At which point I will probably find that I can make more money, more easily, doing what I am already doing now and perhaps I will then 'unretire' to do mortgages again. And yet, all of this seems perfectly logical to me right now. Why? Because I'm human, folks...100% fallible.
Am I to believe that none of you sit in your offices every day, staring out the window, wondering what exotic career awaits you? Fine, how about those of you in a cubicle...surely you can relate...no? None of you try to invent useful objects or write clever screenplays or dream of starting a company with your best friends where you can laugh and play wastebasketball all day? I'm the only one, huh? Well, color me crazy but I totally get it. I get being confused. And I get changing your mind. And I get waking up one day wanting to be a writer and waking up the next day wanting to be a teacher and waking up on payday thinking that the status quo might be just fine, too.
So, feel free to hate him, and to mock him, and to say that you've lost respect for a man who is, without question, one of the greatest quaterbacks to have ever played the game. Me? I'm standing by my man. Because he's great at what he does, even if sometimes he isn't sure if he should keep doing it. And when he is in the game, there is nothing wishy-washy about the way he plays...he leaves it all on the field and plays until the last second runs off the clock. And I don't envy having to make major decisions - the kind that you or I get to toy with in the shower or over a bowl of Cheerios - in front of millions of fair-weather fans ready to cut you off at the knees for simply being like them...confused...unsure...human.
And I'd like it known that I actually respect him more for coming back to the game...for facing his adversaries off the field just like he faces them on the field...for looking them squarely in the eyes - knowing full well that some bruises await him - and throwing his hat into the ring the way he throws the ball into the endzone. A less respectable man wouldn't have the guts to follow his heart.
Peace and the freedom to change our minds as often we see fit,
Corbie
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Words are powerful. Choose them wisely.
While recently in New York with Penny, the following were my three favorite things:
First, I spent valuable NYC time doing something even more priceless - hanging out in coffee shops and outdoor cafes (and occasionally just lying around our hotel room) reconnecting with the sister I found at twenty.
Second, we hit a Deepak Chopra seminar and meditation, which gave me a chance to reconnect with myself (and to cry while sitting next to complete strangers - a phenomenon I strangely enjoy).
And third, I bought (and read) the small book Six-Word Memoirs on Love & Heartbreak: By Writers Famous & Obscure.
As a lover of words and language (and books, and newspapers, and magazines, and the back of cereal boxes...), I tend to be wordy. I'm an expert at whatever the literary equivalent is of making a mountain out of a molehill, often making six paragraphs out of what calls for just six words. In all honesty, I remain convinced that cell phone texting was the Universe's way of playing a twisted joke on me - I can barely order a snow cone in 160 characters or less, how am I to express something significant?
So, I was fascinated by the passages in this book - fascinated by the ability to tell an entire life's story using only six words. Some are funny, some are sad, all tell a stranger's tale. It was the perfect reminder of the power of words - the power to hurt, the power to heal, the power to convey heartache and happiness, love and loss.
Some that I loved:
Hearts never look both ways first. ~Tanya Jarrett
Soulmate found in grade nine gym. ~Amy Leask
We belly laugh every single day. ~Michelle Ottey
Thought "great legs!" Said "great smile!" ~Lionel Ancelet
I thought we had more time. ~Joe Hill
My life's accomplishments? Sanity and you. ~Elizabeth Gilbert
Where he is, I am home. ~Julia Evans
Waiting to forget your name again. ~Cybele Paschke
Preferred brunettes but kept the blond. ~Rebecca Stadolnik
You holding my hair, me puking. ~Diana Greiner
Don't want your ring. Just love. ~Naomi Piercey
My marital advice? Marry an orphan. ~Kristina Wright
He was The One. I wasn't. ~Cathy Collinson
He had nothing. Gave me everything. ~Rebecca Woolf
Our song: Pat Benatar's "We Belong." ~Daniel Handler
Tomorrow, maybe, I'll sell the ring. ~Matt Tanner
And my personal favorite:
Coffee, my vice. So was he. ~Alessandra Rizzotti
Peace and powerfully worded passages,
Corbie
First, I spent valuable NYC time doing something even more priceless - hanging out in coffee shops and outdoor cafes (and occasionally just lying around our hotel room) reconnecting with the sister I found at twenty.
Second, we hit a Deepak Chopra seminar and meditation, which gave me a chance to reconnect with myself (and to cry while sitting next to complete strangers - a phenomenon I strangely enjoy).
And third, I bought (and read) the small book Six-Word Memoirs on Love & Heartbreak: By Writers Famous & Obscure.
As a lover of words and language (and books, and newspapers, and magazines, and the back of cereal boxes...), I tend to be wordy. I'm an expert at whatever the literary equivalent is of making a mountain out of a molehill, often making six paragraphs out of what calls for just six words. In all honesty, I remain convinced that cell phone texting was the Universe's way of playing a twisted joke on me - I can barely order a snow cone in 160 characters or less, how am I to express something significant?
So, I was fascinated by the passages in this book - fascinated by the ability to tell an entire life's story using only six words. Some are funny, some are sad, all tell a stranger's tale. It was the perfect reminder of the power of words - the power to hurt, the power to heal, the power to convey heartache and happiness, love and loss.
Some that I loved:
Hearts never look both ways first. ~Tanya Jarrett
Soulmate found in grade nine gym. ~Amy Leask
We belly laugh every single day. ~Michelle Ottey
Thought "great legs!" Said "great smile!" ~Lionel Ancelet
I thought we had more time. ~Joe Hill
My life's accomplishments? Sanity and you. ~Elizabeth Gilbert
Where he is, I am home. ~Julia Evans
Waiting to forget your name again. ~Cybele Paschke
Preferred brunettes but kept the blond. ~Rebecca Stadolnik
You holding my hair, me puking. ~Diana Greiner
Don't want your ring. Just love. ~Naomi Piercey
My marital advice? Marry an orphan. ~Kristina Wright
He was The One. I wasn't. ~Cathy Collinson
He had nothing. Gave me everything. ~Rebecca Woolf
Our song: Pat Benatar's "We Belong." ~Daniel Handler
Tomorrow, maybe, I'll sell the ring. ~Matt Tanner
And my personal favorite:
Coffee, my vice. So was he. ~Alessandra Rizzotti
Peace and powerfully worded passages,
Corbie
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Twist of fate...
I went to New York with Penny again this past weekend. I don't know what came over my usually camera-happy self, but I took only the following four photos:
This is us (if I remember correctly, unshowered) in front of a Hello Kitty statue...the explanation for this photo is long and would reveal far too much about our twisted humor.
This is a man asleep in a phone booth. It goes without saying that if this photo constitutes 25% of the pictures I took, I am far too easily entertained.
This is Penny trying not to pee her pants from laughter after successfully convincing the phone-booth-narcoleptic that my camera's flash (which woke him) was simply a bolt of lightning and that he should simply go back to sleep...which he did.
This is Penny at a fortune teller at roughly 1 AM, which brings me to the point of this post. During my card reading, the fortune teller told me, unequivocally, that I'm destined to have two children. And, since clearly I'm one over what fate had in store, I'm trying to decide which one to give away. I've decided that, in order to avoid any bias or shows of favoritism, the kids can compete for my affections in the following events~
- CLEANEST THRONE: Not to be confused with a scrubbing competition, this is more of a usage competition. Each child will be assigned their own toilet in our house for one week. At the end of said week, whichever toilet has the least urine, vomit, and other stuff on the seat (and surrounding walls), wins. I do realize that Ryan has the slight advantage here but the boys are welcome to sit down to take care of their business as well (as I've been encouraging them to do for years).
- SILENCE IS GOLDEN: The first of two silence-based games, my children will compete for who can remain the most silent while I run countless errands. Cries of 'are we there yet?' will be met with immediate disqualification, though bonus points will be awarded for using hand signals to point out locations where I can get banana flavored snow cones.
- UNCLE: In the second (and more heavily weighted) of the silence-based games, my children will be rated on how quiet they can remain while I discreetly squeeze their arm using increasing amounts of pressure. This skill is highly valued in stores, elevators, and other public places where discipline is desired but a visit from Child Services is not.
- AIM LOW: While general academic prowess is admired, the winner of this event will have mastered the ability to answer questions about my age and/or weight using preposterously low numbers...and while keeping a straight face.
- JUST TRY TO LOOK NATURAL: Children will be tormented with hair gel, uncomfortably formal clothing, and a skipped meal, and then forced to sit through a family photo session. The winner is the one who manages to pull off a happy, tear-less face in whatever photo I look the best in (because, let's face it, that's the photo that's being selected).
- KNOCK, KNOCK, NOBODY'S HOME: Various in-laws and door-to-door salespeople will drop in on us unexpectedly during this final event. The winning child will successfully remain silent, avoid being seen through any windows or doors, and will wait until the visitor is well out of visibility range before retrieving any packages left on our 'welcome' mat.
Godspeed, kids...I wish I could keep all three of you but it just wasn't in the cards...
Peace and the ability to put all your trust in 'fate',
Corbie
This is us (if I remember correctly, unshowered) in front of a Hello Kitty statue...the explanation for this photo is long and would reveal far too much about our twisted humor.
This is a man asleep in a phone booth. It goes without saying that if this photo constitutes 25% of the pictures I took, I am far too easily entertained.
This is Penny trying not to pee her pants from laughter after successfully convincing the phone-booth-narcoleptic that my camera's flash (which woke him) was simply a bolt of lightning and that he should simply go back to sleep...which he did.
This is Penny at a fortune teller at roughly 1 AM, which brings me to the point of this post. During my card reading, the fortune teller told me, unequivocally, that I'm destined to have two children. And, since clearly I'm one over what fate had in store, I'm trying to decide which one to give away. I've decided that, in order to avoid any bias or shows of favoritism, the kids can compete for my affections in the following events~- CLEANEST THRONE: Not to be confused with a scrubbing competition, this is more of a usage competition. Each child will be assigned their own toilet in our house for one week. At the end of said week, whichever toilet has the least urine, vomit, and other stuff on the seat (and surrounding walls), wins. I do realize that Ryan has the slight advantage here but the boys are welcome to sit down to take care of their business as well (as I've been encouraging them to do for years).
- SILENCE IS GOLDEN: The first of two silence-based games, my children will compete for who can remain the most silent while I run countless errands. Cries of 'are we there yet?' will be met with immediate disqualification, though bonus points will be awarded for using hand signals to point out locations where I can get banana flavored snow cones.
- UNCLE: In the second (and more heavily weighted) of the silence-based games, my children will be rated on how quiet they can remain while I discreetly squeeze their arm using increasing amounts of pressure. This skill is highly valued in stores, elevators, and other public places where discipline is desired but a visit from Child Services is not.
- AIM LOW: While general academic prowess is admired, the winner of this event will have mastered the ability to answer questions about my age and/or weight using preposterously low numbers...and while keeping a straight face.
- JUST TRY TO LOOK NATURAL: Children will be tormented with hair gel, uncomfortably formal clothing, and a skipped meal, and then forced to sit through a family photo session. The winner is the one who manages to pull off a happy, tear-less face in whatever photo I look the best in (because, let's face it, that's the photo that's being selected).
- KNOCK, KNOCK, NOBODY'S HOME: Various in-laws and door-to-door salespeople will drop in on us unexpectedly during this final event. The winning child will successfully remain silent, avoid being seen through any windows or doors, and will wait until the visitor is well out of visibility range before retrieving any packages left on our 'welcome' mat.
Godspeed, kids...I wish I could keep all three of you but it just wasn't in the cards...
Peace and the ability to put all your trust in 'fate',
Corbie
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Hippie Parades and Perfect Holidays...
If Thanksgiving doesn't watch its back, 4th of July is going to win out as my favorite holiday. I mean, I'm ambivalent about turkey, yams are some kind of twisted joke, and someone always sticks their fingers in the mashed potatoes rendering them inedible. But the 4th of July has fireworks and Lee Greenwood songs and portabella mushroom sandwiches (or whatever other people cook up on the barbie). And, most importantly, it has the Park City parade. Park Cityians take two things particularly seriously - rugby and the 4th of July - and every year we make what my friend Marie described as a 'pilgrimage' for both. My kids have never seen any parade other than the Park City one and, quite frankly, I prefer it that way - I don't want them spoiled by floats and beauty queens and all things shiny when they can grow up on this...
The 4th of July not only owns the grooviest parade, but it lays claim to some of my favorite traditions - Alpine Sliding, the parade, rugby at the park, and watching Penny and Cale inhale countless bags of Cheetos. This year, along with the usual suspects (Kim, Lill, and Penny), Lindsey's family joined in the fun, proving that the 4th of July just keeps getting better. Here are the pics...
And a few pics that require explanation (or deserve motionless observation):
This is Ryan and Mug working on the only circus act they have that doesn't involve Mug's boobs...
It simply isn't enough that I make poor parenting decision on behalf of my own children...look what I feed Porter at the crack of dawn when Lindsey isn't looking...
Yes, I'm pretty sure they touched...
Check out the eye. I'd say it was revenge but Morgan was no where in sight...must be some sort of karma (see previous post).
Hope you all had a wonderful 4th of July!
Corbie
The 4th of July not only owns the grooviest parade, but it lays claim to some of my favorite traditions - Alpine Sliding, the parade, rugby at the park, and watching Penny and Cale inhale countless bags of Cheetos. This year, along with the usual suspects (Kim, Lill, and Penny), Lindsey's family joined in the fun, proving that the 4th of July just keeps getting better. Here are the pics...
And a few pics that require explanation (or deserve motionless observation):
This is Ryan and Mug working on the only circus act they have that doesn't involve Mug's boobs...
It simply isn't enough that I make poor parenting decision on behalf of my own children...look what I feed Porter at the crack of dawn when Lindsey isn't looking...
Yes, I'm pretty sure they touched...
Check out the eye. I'd say it was revenge but Morgan was no where in sight...must be some sort of karma (see previous post).
Hope you all had a wonderful 4th of July!
Corbie
Monday, June 29, 2009
Who throws like a girl?...
Do you remember those old-fashioned, hand-sketched cartoons? The ones where the story unfolded, frame by frame, right before your eyes? You had to read between the lines a bit, draw some logical conclusions for yourself, but in the end, it all became clear. Here is a modern day version, 'snapped' instead of 'sketched', from our house to yours. And, just like in the old days, someone always ends up seeing stars...
Peace and love and good old-fashioned shiners (that you can tell your friends you received doing wheelies on your bike instead of admitting that your little sister has perfect aim),
Corbie
Peace and love and good old-fashioned shiners (that you can tell your friends you received doing wheelies on your bike instead of admitting that your little sister has perfect aim),
Corbie
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Contact-worthy...
See the glasses I'm wearing in this picture? They are glasses I've been sporting a lot lately because I'm down to exactly two pair of contact lenses. I can say 'exactly' because I have searched through every purse (where I found one pair!) and glove box (another!) and bathroom drawer (nada!) to try to find any remaining links to clear vision.
I hate going to the eye doctor. I mean, most people probably don't relish it but to give you a frame of reference, I prefer hearing 'scoot your bottom to the end of the table and relax your knees' at a doctor visit rather than 'tilt your head back and try not to blink'. I don't like having my eyes dilated, I don't like making small talk with the optometrist while our lips are close enough to touch, and I can't ever decide whether 'A' looks better than 'B' or whether I think that the whole A vs. B routine is a conspiracy and people are laughing their asses off at me from behind a two-way mirror (I picture them shouting, "Show her the identical hot air balloons again - see if you can make her cry this time!"). Plus, I'm so tense and miserable that when the doctor has me cover one eye during the first half of the exam, I apply enough pressure to render myself blind for the second half - I'm always afraid my prescription will read 'Right eye: -1.75, Left eye: Glass'.
So, in an effort to spare me any additional post-traumatic-stress, Penny let me in on a secret...a website where you can order contacts without a prescription. Well, technically you are supposed to have a prescription but I've been clicking the little 'I certify that I I have seen an eye doctor and that I am not a liar and a fraud' box for years and, like a trusty old friend, the contacts have been showing up on my doorstep like clockwork. That is, until now.
Apparently the jig is up because I received an email denying my latest shipment of contraband. I don't know whether they got suspicious because my prescription hadn't changed since the new millennium, or if it was that I always ordered enough boxes to give Stevie Wonder sight, or if they actually called the doctor I routinely list as doing my last exam (it's true...he did do my last exam...in 2003) only to find out he retired years ago.
At some point in my contact lens ordering racket, I settled on daily disposable contact lenses - this means I can (and do) take them out anywhere, anytime, and toss them into the garbage or out the car window. This also means that, until recently, I've gone through contacts fairly quickly, which brings me to my point. Like Elaine from Seinfeld, who had to determine if potential partners were 'Sponge-worthy', I am now judging people, events, and locations as to whether they are 'contact-worthy'.
Last month, I was the proud owner of three pair but I 'splurged' and used a pair for Ryan's first dance recital (see previous post). I find that every move I make nowadays is based on contact-worthiness. What used to be a simple concert attendance has now turned into a mental flow chart...a complicated mathematical equation based on the proximity of the seats, the hotness of the artist, the likelihood that the music will make me want to dance (this one gets moved to the 'contacts-mandatory' category immediately, as no one wants to see me doing the electric slide in spectacles).
Sooner or later, I will break down and do the unthinkable....I will either rob the local Standard Optical at gunpoint (contact-worthy) or I will get an eye exam (don't judge me that the former sounds more likely). Until then, if you see me stumbling around at your wedding or sporting glasses at your child's championship game, try not to feel hurt that your event wasn't contact-worthy...after all, I am down to just two pair...
Peace and love (and the good fortune not to be driving near me at night),
Corbie
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Recital Recap 2009...
It's that time of year again...recital season! I know that you are all dying for a play by play of the kids' performances and what kind of person would I be if I didn't oblige?
First up, Cale, in a little number titled 'I have a 103 degree fever but I'm going to still play Wake Me Up When September Ends while some dude in a green shirt sings the lyrics, mostly because I have the hots for the girl behind the drums'. Cale is on the left with the black acoustic guitar, in case you can't make him out amidst all the pyrotechnics.
Next up, Morgan, playing a little number titled 'too bad I'm so young that my feet can't touch the rungs on this stool because by minute 1:25 of this rendition of My Girl, I'm going to start swinging my legs in a show of utter boredom'. He's the little one in the center playing the half-sized acoustic.
And last but not least, Ryan, in her first dance recital. She's the youngest in her class but she makes up for it in pure adorableness (she's the smallest one, on the far left). I decided to sign her up for ballet and tap classes at the studio where I grew up dancing so, despite my status as a grown woman, I often find myself in fear of being yelled at by my former dance teacher. Because of this, I go where I am told without asking questions and thus was backstage during the recital, helping dancers get dressed and cued up. I had to then rely on my Mom to record the performance using her subpar camera skills and, as an added bonus, she laughs the entire time.
As if the stars hadn't sufficiently aligned with the above displays of talent, Ryan's tap dance was choreographed to a song already made famous by Morgan - My Girl. Again, Ryan is the small one on the left and, again, my Mom managed to botch the recording (this time by missing the entire first verse...you just can't get good help these days). Still, she did manage to capture the most important part - around minute 1:09 - where Ryan flashes us the world's fastest thumbs up during the middle of her dance.
Thanks for tuning in to Recital Recap 2009...please direct all bah mitzvah booking requests to our agent.
First up, Cale, in a little number titled 'I have a 103 degree fever but I'm going to still play Wake Me Up When September Ends while some dude in a green shirt sings the lyrics, mostly because I have the hots for the girl behind the drums'. Cale is on the left with the black acoustic guitar, in case you can't make him out amidst all the pyrotechnics.
Next up, Morgan, playing a little number titled 'too bad I'm so young that my feet can't touch the rungs on this stool because by minute 1:25 of this rendition of My Girl, I'm going to start swinging my legs in a show of utter boredom'. He's the little one in the center playing the half-sized acoustic.
And last but not least, Ryan, in her first dance recital. She's the youngest in her class but she makes up for it in pure adorableness (she's the smallest one, on the far left). I decided to sign her up for ballet and tap classes at the studio where I grew up dancing so, despite my status as a grown woman, I often find myself in fear of being yelled at by my former dance teacher. Because of this, I go where I am told without asking questions and thus was backstage during the recital, helping dancers get dressed and cued up. I had to then rely on my Mom to record the performance using her subpar camera skills and, as an added bonus, she laughs the entire time.
As if the stars hadn't sufficiently aligned with the above displays of talent, Ryan's tap dance was choreographed to a song already made famous by Morgan - My Girl. Again, Ryan is the small one on the left and, again, my Mom managed to botch the recording (this time by missing the entire first verse...you just can't get good help these days). Still, she did manage to capture the most important part - around minute 1:09 - where Ryan flashes us the world's fastest thumbs up during the middle of her dance.
Thanks for tuning in to Recital Recap 2009...please direct all bah mitzvah booking requests to our agent.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Would You Rather...?
I spend at least half of my life entertaining hypothetical questions. I love to talk (to the extent anyone will listen), I love to think (to the extent I am able), and thus, I love to play any game that starts with ‘What if…’ or ‘Would you rather…’ or ‘If you were stranded on a desert island…’.
This last one has kept me mentally occupied for over a week now. It all started at the Fleetwood Mac concert last weekend. Here we are - Ammon, Lindsey, me, Robert, Penny, and Brandon - in a picture I like to call 'What if Ammon had go-go-gadget arms and could have actually captured a decent photo?'.
While standing at the concert with several of my 'If I were headed to a desert island, I'd find a way to pack you into my Samsonite' friends, I felt it was the perfect time to ask what music this photogenic bunch would select if they could only listen to one artist or band from that day forward. Ammon went out on a limb (nope) and said Bob Marley, Lindsey went for Coldplay, and Robert, Penny, and Brandon never got to answer thanks to me saying the word 'boobs' too loudly and the woman in front of us telling us to "keep it down". I thought about asking her 'Would you rather I put gum in your hair or spill my drink down your back?' but she didn't really strike me as the hypothetical-game-playing type.
At any rate, the conversation got me thinking about my own 'stranded on a desert island' preferences and, until a major television network gives me the floor to talk about nothing but myself, I'm going to have to publish them here. After you think long and hard about the question 'What if Corbie kills you in your sleep?', feel free to disagree with me in the comment section. I gave myself three choices in every category...any desert island that limits me to less than that would more closely resemble the question 'What if you were stranded up shit creek without a paddle?'.
The fact that I get to see all three of my stranded-on-a-desert-island bands this year is second only to the fact that I get to see my above stranded-on-a-desert-island friends as often as I like (or at least when they aren't tired of playing 'Would you rather...?' with me and actually take my calls).
Peace and love and the always-amazing Stevie Nicks,
Corbie
This last one has kept me mentally occupied for over a week now. It all started at the Fleetwood Mac concert last weekend. Here we are - Ammon, Lindsey, me, Robert, Penny, and Brandon - in a picture I like to call 'What if Ammon had go-go-gadget arms and could have actually captured a decent photo?'.
While standing at the concert with several of my 'If I were headed to a desert island, I'd find a way to pack you into my Samsonite' friends, I felt it was the perfect time to ask what music this photogenic bunch would select if they could only listen to one artist or band from that day forward. Ammon went out on a limb (nope) and said Bob Marley, Lindsey went for Coldplay, and Robert, Penny, and Brandon never got to answer thanks to me saying the word 'boobs' too loudly and the woman in front of us telling us to "keep it down". I thought about asking her 'Would you rather I put gum in your hair or spill my drink down your back?' but she didn't really strike me as the hypothetical-game-playing type.
At any rate, the conversation got me thinking about my own 'stranded on a desert island' preferences and, until a major television network gives me the floor to talk about nothing but myself, I'm going to have to publish them here. After you think long and hard about the question 'What if Corbie kills you in your sleep?', feel free to disagree with me in the comment section. I gave myself three choices in every category...any desert island that limits me to less than that would more closely resemble the question 'What if you were stranded up shit creek without a paddle?'.
Bands
Fleetwood Mac
George Strait
Elton John
Songs
Leather and Lace by Stevie Nicks & Don Henley
Landslide by Fleetwood Mac
Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac
Books
The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
Collected Essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Movies
Beautiful Girls
Breakfast Club
Good Will Hunting
Articles of clothing
Bikini (doubles as both bra and swimsuit - I'm a thinker, folks)
Flip-Flops (black)
Flip-Flops (brown)
Toiletries
Toothbrush
Crest Toothpaste
Dental Floss
Carmex
(yes, I'm aware this is four items - let's play a game titled 'What if you deny me any one of these four items and I beat you with one of my four flip-flops?')
Food
Peanut M&M's
Pineapple
Purple Grapes
Drinks
Water
Coffee
O.J.
Three Random Items That Would Make My Island Complete
Deck of Cards
Hammock
Magic 8-Ball (I can entertain myself for days with one of those)
Fleetwood Mac
George Strait
Elton John
Songs
Leather and Lace by Stevie Nicks & Don Henley
Landslide by Fleetwood Mac
Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac
Books
The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
Collected Essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Movies
Beautiful Girls
Breakfast Club
Good Will Hunting
Articles of clothing
Bikini (doubles as both bra and swimsuit - I'm a thinker, folks)
Flip-Flops (black)
Flip-Flops (brown)
Toiletries
Toothbrush
Crest Toothpaste
Dental Floss
Carmex
(yes, I'm aware this is four items - let's play a game titled 'What if you deny me any one of these four items and I beat you with one of my four flip-flops?')
Food
Peanut M&M's
Pineapple
Purple Grapes
Drinks
Water
Coffee
O.J.
Three Random Items That Would Make My Island Complete
Deck of Cards
Hammock
Magic 8-Ball (I can entertain myself for days with one of those)
The fact that I get to see all three of my stranded-on-a-desert-island bands this year is second only to the fact that I get to see my above stranded-on-a-desert-island friends as often as I like (or at least when they aren't tired of playing 'Would you rather...?' with me and actually take my calls).
Peace and love and the always-amazing Stevie Nicks,
Corbie
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Losing like a winner...
Years ago, I swore I'd never let my sons play competitive soccer. It was filled with strange people, I reasoned - people who were nutty and bloodthirsty and too, well, competitive. I wanted my boys to learn to be fair and to learn sportsmanship and to learn that being a good teammate was more important than winning. This is ironic because A) I am nutty, and bloodthirsty and too competitive and B) we are now several years into playing competitive soccer (listen - I copped to being nutty, alright?).
These two boys met on a soccer field and fast became friends. They've won together (1st place one season) and lost together (last place one season) and learned the give and take that is required of teammates.
And then, just when things were getting good, it was time for tryouts again. In their current age bracket, the boys are moving to bigger fields, bigger teams, bigger competition, which meant a healthy dose of roster changes. Some boys moved 'up', some boys moved 'down', all of them lost teammates they've been playing with for years.
The boy on the right (he's mine and named Cale, in case you're new to pictures of my offspring) was selected for a good team, a solid team, a team he's had his eye on for awhile. The boy on the left made a great team, a beyond-solid team, a team everyone has had their eyes on since these kids could tie their own cleats.
This weekend, less than two weeks after tryouts, they all tried their hand at a 3v3 tournament with their new teammates. Cale's team did well enough - they took fifth and qualified for regionals. The boy on the left? First place - undefeated through five games in 24 hours (including against Cale).
I was proud of how Cale played (three hat tricks in five games!). I was proud of where his team finished. And I'm nutty and bloodthirsty and competitive enough to admit that I was proud when his team beat a team that should have beat them.
But most of all, I was proud as I watched him rush the field, eyes welled up with happy tears, to embrace (fine, chest bump) the boy on the left who scored the sudden-death-in-overtime winning goal to give his new teammates a first place win. Unhealthy competition can be found anywhere - but so can good sportsmanship and true friendship.
Peace and love (and the rare proud parenting moment),
Corbie
These two boys met on a soccer field and fast became friends. They've won together (1st place one season) and lost together (last place one season) and learned the give and take that is required of teammates.
And then, just when things were getting good, it was time for tryouts again. In their current age bracket, the boys are moving to bigger fields, bigger teams, bigger competition, which meant a healthy dose of roster changes. Some boys moved 'up', some boys moved 'down', all of them lost teammates they've been playing with for years.
The boy on the right (he's mine and named Cale, in case you're new to pictures of my offspring) was selected for a good team, a solid team, a team he's had his eye on for awhile. The boy on the left made a great team, a beyond-solid team, a team everyone has had their eyes on since these kids could tie their own cleats.
This weekend, less than two weeks after tryouts, they all tried their hand at a 3v3 tournament with their new teammates. Cale's team did well enough - they took fifth and qualified for regionals. The boy on the left? First place - undefeated through five games in 24 hours (including against Cale).
I was proud of how Cale played (three hat tricks in five games!). I was proud of where his team finished. And I'm nutty and bloodthirsty and competitive enough to admit that I was proud when his team beat a team that should have beat them.
But most of all, I was proud as I watched him rush the field, eyes welled up with happy tears, to embrace (fine, chest bump) the boy on the left who scored the sudden-death-in-overtime winning goal to give his new teammates a first place win. Unhealthy competition can be found anywhere - but so can good sportsmanship and true friendship.
Peace and love (and the rare proud parenting moment),
Corbie
Friday, June 5, 2009
An Irish Blessing...
Some people cry at weddings, some people cry at births...me, I'm a graduation sap. Something about the growth, the potential, the end that also signifies a beginning. Since it's graduation week around these parts, I am a ball of various emotions. I have cheerleaders headed out into the grown-up world, my oldest child headed off to middle school, and my youngest headed toward adorable plaid jumpers that unforgivingly symbolize a new chapter for me as well.
At my kids' school, the third, fourth, and fifth grade students are invited to sing at the seniors' graduation ceremony. Since it was Cale's last chance to participate, we dragged our already-summer-acclimated butts out of bed and headed downtown to Abravanel Hall. Each year, the kids sing the same piece - a song titled 'Blessing', which is a musical adaptation of a traditional Irish blessing (see below). At some point during the performance, it occurred to me that Ryan will be in fourth grade when Cale is a senior, meaning my youngest will be singing this song at my eldest's graduation ceremony. If any of you are looking for a solid investment, consider buying Kleenex stock around May 2016.
To all the graduates out there...from the ones headed off to middle school to the ones headed off to medical school...
Here are the boys outside of Abravanel Hall after Cale's performance. When I picked them up from their last day of school this week, Morgan's teacher teasingly said to him, "all I'm wishing for you this summer is a haircut". Personally, I'm okay that they want their hair to keep growing...I just wish that the rest of them would stop.
Peace and love and new (if slightly unwelcome) beginnings,
Corbie
At my kids' school, the third, fourth, and fifth grade students are invited to sing at the seniors' graduation ceremony. Since it was Cale's last chance to participate, we dragged our already-summer-acclimated butts out of bed and headed downtown to Abravanel Hall. Each year, the kids sing the same piece - a song titled 'Blessing', which is a musical adaptation of a traditional Irish blessing (see below). At some point during the performance, it occurred to me that Ryan will be in fourth grade when Cale is a senior, meaning my youngest will be singing this song at my eldest's graduation ceremony. If any of you are looking for a solid investment, consider buying Kleenex stock around May 2016.
To all the graduates out there...from the ones headed off to middle school to the ones headed off to medical school...
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Here are the boys outside of Abravanel Hall after Cale's performance. When I picked them up from their last day of school this week, Morgan's teacher teasingly said to him, "all I'm wishing for you this summer is a haircut". Personally, I'm okay that they want their hair to keep growing...I just wish that the rest of them would stop.
Peace and love and new (if slightly unwelcome) beginnings,
Corbie
Monday, June 1, 2009
Old School Rock n' Roll...
As part of 2009's 'The Music Gods Must Love Corbie' concert series, .38 Special, Styx, and REO Speedwagon came to town. Here's how you know when the music you listen to is outdated...the following are excerpts from an IM chat with Brent Noble, former high school classmate, age 32 (my age):
ME: What you guys doing tomorrow night? Any chance you are REO Speedwagon/38 Special/Styx fans?
(Of course, I'm thinking to myself, 'I've really got to start finding out where people stand on these three bands before I even agree to put their numbers into my cell phone...')
BRENT: You have some 8-tracks you're getting rid of?
(You have a death wish, funny man?)
ME: No. Concert tix. Rio Tinto Stadium. Be there or be square.
BRENT: How much? What time?
ME: We will pay you to go. That's how much.
(Perfect, Corbie...nothing screams 'cool' like cash-for-friendship offers...)
BRENT: No (expletive) way!
ME: You hate them that bad? Come on. Can't Fight This Feeling? Everyone likes that song?
BRENT: Is that the one from Top Gun?
(I choose sympathy over anger at this moment. After all, what kind of tormented childhood causes someone to confuse The Righteous Brothers with REO Speedwagon?)
ME: Nope. "Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore...I've forgotten what I started fighting for...". Ring a bell? You could always just get drunk and pretend to recognize the songs.
BRENT: Again? I'm doing that right now to karaoke.
(Great - the dude's drunk. There's no way I'm bringing this ship into the shore.)
ME: What song you singing?
(If he says anything by Britney Spears, I'm throwing away the oars, forever...)
BRENT: No clue.
ME: Probably an REO Speedwagon song then.
BRENT: I need to get a sitter but count us in. One thing though...Is 'REO Speedwagon' pronounced like Rio Tinto or like Oreo?
ME: Oh my hell. I can't believe I even have to answer this...like Oreo...Ding Dong.
We also had Josh Hill and Brad Warren with us but somehow they never made it into a photo...I blame this terrible oversight on the two of them being busy with their air-guitars. They did the bands proud, however, by holding hands and swaying during the classics. Still, in an effort not to leave Josh out (cry-baby), here is a pic of him with his wife, Kristy, from a recent Airborne Toxic Event concert we attended. Penny really wanted to see REO Speedwagon too but was out of town, so I've included her as well. If anyone else attended the concert, wishes they had attended the concert, or simply heard REO Speedwagon play once during the couples-skate at Classic Skating Rink, and wants to be in this post for their 15 seconds of fame, just email your photos to Lindsey (she's who gives photos the green light here at Random Musings).
Here's to old-ish music, new-ish friends, and outdoor concerts. I'll leave you with a scene from the movie 'Big Daddy' (a favorite at our house), which pretty much sums it all up:
Don't feel embarassed if you want to listen to my blog playlist all day...there's an old school rocker in all of us (even Brent).
xoxo,
Corbie
ME: What you guys doing tomorrow night? Any chance you are REO Speedwagon/38 Special/Styx fans?
(Of course, I'm thinking to myself, 'I've really got to start finding out where people stand on these three bands before I even agree to put their numbers into my cell phone...')
BRENT: You have some 8-tracks you're getting rid of?
(You have a death wish, funny man?)
ME: No. Concert tix. Rio Tinto Stadium. Be there or be square.
BRENT: How much? What time?
ME: We will pay you to go. That's how much.
(Perfect, Corbie...nothing screams 'cool' like cash-for-friendship offers...)
BRENT: No (expletive) way!
ME: You hate them that bad? Come on. Can't Fight This Feeling? Everyone likes that song?
BRENT: Is that the one from Top Gun?
(I choose sympathy over anger at this moment. After all, what kind of tormented childhood causes someone to confuse The Righteous Brothers with REO Speedwagon?)
ME: Nope. "Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore...I've forgotten what I started fighting for...". Ring a bell? You could always just get drunk and pretend to recognize the songs.
BRENT: Again? I'm doing that right now to karaoke.
(Great - the dude's drunk. There's no way I'm bringing this ship into the shore.)
ME: What song you singing?
(If he says anything by Britney Spears, I'm throwing away the oars, forever...)
BRENT: No clue.
ME: Probably an REO Speedwagon song then.
BRENT: I need to get a sitter but count us in. One thing though...Is 'REO Speedwagon' pronounced like Rio Tinto or like Oreo?
ME: Oh my hell. I can't believe I even have to answer this...like Oreo...Ding Dong.
*****
Here we are, old-school photo style. I thought about drawing big bangs on Nicole and me, and perhaps some mullets on Cheech and Chong, but making it black and white was as far as I got. I would make excuses for how my hair looks by telling you it had been raining earlier (because it had) but then you would all wonder why Nicole still looks fabulous (because she does) so I'm going to blame it on my having sprinted Carl-Lewis-style back to our seats to make sure I didn't miss Time For Me To Fly, while Brent (otherwise known as the sucker who somehow got assigned to walk me to the bathroom) pointed and laughed at me.
Here we are, old-school photo style. I thought about drawing big bangs on Nicole and me, and perhaps some mullets on Cheech and Chong, but making it black and white was as far as I got. I would make excuses for how my hair looks by telling you it had been raining earlier (because it had) but then you would all wonder why Nicole still looks fabulous (because she does) so I'm going to blame it on my having sprinted Carl-Lewis-style back to our seats to make sure I didn't miss Time For Me To Fly, while Brent (otherwise known as the sucker who somehow got assigned to walk me to the bathroom) pointed and laughed at me.
We also had Josh Hill and Brad Warren with us but somehow they never made it into a photo...I blame this terrible oversight on the two of them being busy with their air-guitars. They did the bands proud, however, by holding hands and swaying during the classics. Still, in an effort not to leave Josh out (cry-baby), here is a pic of him with his wife, Kristy, from a recent Airborne Toxic Event concert we attended. Penny really wanted to see REO Speedwagon too but was out of town, so I've included her as well. If anyone else attended the concert, wishes they had attended the concert, or simply heard REO Speedwagon play once during the couples-skate at Classic Skating Rink, and wants to be in this post for their 15 seconds of fame, just email your photos to Lindsey (she's who gives photos the green light here at Random Musings).
Here's to old-ish music, new-ish friends, and outdoor concerts. I'll leave you with a scene from the movie 'Big Daddy' (a favorite at our house), which pretty much sums it all up:
Don't feel embarassed if you want to listen to my blog playlist all day...there's an old school rocker in all of us (even Brent).
xoxo,
Corbie
Friday, May 29, 2009
My Two Sisters...
I used to worry about Ryan not having a sister. After all, the boys have each other and seem to bond over sports and hot chicks and the ability to aim their urine at moving targets. And Ryan is definitely all girl. She asks me constantly if it is 'dance class day' and if she can wear her pink dress again and if we can do 'girl stuff' (girl stuff equates to various degrees of 'beauty parlor', which, despite my valiant efforts, has yet to result in her giving me a massage). Here she is recently after asking me to take a picture of her in her new swimsuit...she actually instructed me to wait while she posed like this.
But my concerns over SD (that's Sister-Deprivation...a real disorder...I suffered from it myself) were recently put to rest when 'Princess' came on the scene. Ryan has instructed Cale that he is to answer to this new moniker at all times and that he is to serve as her horse (piggy back rides) and her motorcycle (shoulder rides) and her dance partner (this one gets entertaining). And I will be damned if that kid - the one made out of snakes, and snails, and puppy-dog tails - doesn't indulge her at every turn.
Like this one...
...and this one...
...and this one...(if you look closely you'll see he is also enduring a Barbie-head-beating)...
And lest you think that Princess is a one trick pony, here is a little routine he's choreographed. Forgive the quality of the video...I caught it with my cell phone camera. As for the quality of the dancing...I have no similar excuse. Many thanks to KG, Video Formatting Genius, for making a treasured family heirloom out of an emailed Blackberry video.
And here is a little video titled 'If You Can't Beat Em, Join Em', co-starring Morgan as the other sister. Always the lead singer, Ryan requested that they be her background dancers...I may or may not have stopped the camera just as it was getting good because I was laughing too hard to keep my hand steady.
Peace and laughter and kids who love each other more than any semblance of pride (clearly),
Corbie
But my concerns over SD (that's Sister-Deprivation...a real disorder...I suffered from it myself) were recently put to rest when 'Princess' came on the scene. Ryan has instructed Cale that he is to answer to this new moniker at all times and that he is to serve as her horse (piggy back rides) and her motorcycle (shoulder rides) and her dance partner (this one gets entertaining). And I will be damned if that kid - the one made out of snakes, and snails, and puppy-dog tails - doesn't indulge her at every turn.
Like this one...
...and this one...
...and this one...(if you look closely you'll see he is also enduring a Barbie-head-beating)...
And lest you think that Princess is a one trick pony, here is a little routine he's choreographed. Forgive the quality of the video...I caught it with my cell phone camera. As for the quality of the dancing...I have no similar excuse. Many thanks to KG, Video Formatting Genius, for making a treasured family heirloom out of an emailed Blackberry video.
And here is a little video titled 'If You Can't Beat Em, Join Em', co-starring Morgan as the other sister. Always the lead singer, Ryan requested that they be her background dancers...I may or may not have stopped the camera just as it was getting good because I was laughing too hard to keep my hand steady.
Peace and laughter and kids who love each other more than any semblance of pride (clearly),
Corbie
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Love and Country...
In 1607, Shah Jahan, a 15-year-old prince of the royal Mughal household (who would later become the Emperor), fell in love at first sight with the 14-year-old Mumtaz Mahal as she sold beads in a marketplace. He declared to his father his unwavering intention to marry the girl and, five years and two wives later (it was common for royalty to take several wives for political gain), Shah Jahan was finally given approval to marry for love. Said to be a rare combination of beauty, brains, and benevolence, Mumtaz Mahal was adored by both Shah Jahan and the people over whom she presided.
Rarely apart during their 19 years of marriage, Shah Jahan was by Mumtaz Mahal's side as she died giving birth to their 14th child. It is said that he was so heartbroken after her death that he locked himself in his private chambers for a month and ordered the court into mourning for two full years. Following this period of mourning, Shah Jahan commissioned the best architects and craftsmen of the time to construct a monument to the woman he loved - a work of art we now know as the Taj Mahal.
The project took over 20 years and 20,000 craftsmen to complete and is one of the modern wonders of the world. In pursuit of architectural perfection, Shah Jahan insisted that the Taj Majal be symmetrical in every detail, and thus had Mumtaz Mahal's body placed squarely in the center of the chamber. However, several decades later, at the time of Shah Jahan's death, never wanting to again be apart from his beloved wife, the Emperor's body was entombed next to hers, and remains the only asymmetrical detail in the world famous architectural masterpiece.
In most ways, I'm a pragmatist. I work with numbers, I see things in black and white, my style is matter-of-fact. But when it comes to love, I'm a hopeless romantic. The above tale is my second favorite love story of all time...the following is my first.
Reuben 'Mac' McEwen, was born in Arkansas in 1918. Looking for adventure, he joined the Navy after high school and was stationed at Pearl Harbor when it was attacked. He continued to serve until the end of WWII and his service in the Navy would be a source of pride for him until the day he died in 2005. His love of country would be surpassed by only two things - his love of God and his love of a woman named Marge. When the two of them met, Marge (whom he would lovingly call 'Em') already had a divorce under her belt and a daughter to show for it. He must have told the story hundreds of times - how he first fell in love with the little girl and then fell for her mom shortly thereafter.
Marge was witty and sassy and as sharp-tongued as any woman of her generation dared be. Never will there be a woman more capable of barking out orders and never will there be a man more happy to comply. He loved everything about her and she loved him simply for loving her...for loving the both of them. Their story lacks great architecture (they would live out more than fifty years of marriage in a tiny house built by Mac himself), it lacks great wealth (they didn't have much and, having both lived through The Great Depression, they were careful with what they did have), and it lacks great tragedy (if you don't count his broken heart the day she died). But what it doesn't lack is love. Enough love to hold together a makeshift family. Enough love to not even notice that it was a makeshift family. Enough love to see that, having served his country during the war, the greatest service he could provide in times of peace was to settle down with the love of his life and her little girl.
Why is such a simple story my favorite story? Because it is part of my story. Because I got to see it firsthand, see it play out in real time, see how unconditional love can alter the course of an entire family's history. That little girl was my maternal grandmother which means that technically 'Pa' and I weren't related...but try telling him that and you would have had a fight on your hands. I was his, my mom was his, her mom was his...as far as he saw it, the mapping of DNA took a backseat to the mapping of his heart.
While they were deeply religious people, Nana and Pa always made it known that love trumped all. When I told them I was expecting a baby and getting married (in that particular order), Pa simply shouted, "Hot-Dog, Em! Our great-grandbaby's having a baby!" And, true to my Nana's nature, she simply responded with some wisecrack about hoping the sex had been good and how love-babies are always the most beautiful. That kind of love deserves some kind of medal...and trumps even the Taj Mahal.
This Memorial Day, I feel grateful for fallen heroes and for surviving heroes...for heroes who follow orders into the battlefield and for heroes who follow their hearts into the minefield of life.
Rarely apart during their 19 years of marriage, Shah Jahan was by Mumtaz Mahal's side as she died giving birth to their 14th child. It is said that he was so heartbroken after her death that he locked himself in his private chambers for a month and ordered the court into mourning for two full years. Following this period of mourning, Shah Jahan commissioned the best architects and craftsmen of the time to construct a monument to the woman he loved - a work of art we now know as the Taj Mahal.
The project took over 20 years and 20,000 craftsmen to complete and is one of the modern wonders of the world. In pursuit of architectural perfection, Shah Jahan insisted that the Taj Majal be symmetrical in every detail, and thus had Mumtaz Mahal's body placed squarely in the center of the chamber. However, several decades later, at the time of Shah Jahan's death, never wanting to again be apart from his beloved wife, the Emperor's body was entombed next to hers, and remains the only asymmetrical detail in the world famous architectural masterpiece.
*****
In most ways, I'm a pragmatist. I work with numbers, I see things in black and white, my style is matter-of-fact. But when it comes to love, I'm a hopeless romantic. The above tale is my second favorite love story of all time...the following is my first.
*****
Reuben 'Mac' McEwen, was born in Arkansas in 1918. Looking for adventure, he joined the Navy after high school and was stationed at Pearl Harbor when it was attacked. He continued to serve until the end of WWII and his service in the Navy would be a source of pride for him until the day he died in 2005. His love of country would be surpassed by only two things - his love of God and his love of a woman named Marge. When the two of them met, Marge (whom he would lovingly call 'Em') already had a divorce under her belt and a daughter to show for it. He must have told the story hundreds of times - how he first fell in love with the little girl and then fell for her mom shortly thereafter.
Marge was witty and sassy and as sharp-tongued as any woman of her generation dared be. Never will there be a woman more capable of barking out orders and never will there be a man more happy to comply. He loved everything about her and she loved him simply for loving her...for loving the both of them. Their story lacks great architecture (they would live out more than fifty years of marriage in a tiny house built by Mac himself), it lacks great wealth (they didn't have much and, having both lived through The Great Depression, they were careful with what they did have), and it lacks great tragedy (if you don't count his broken heart the day she died). But what it doesn't lack is love. Enough love to hold together a makeshift family. Enough love to not even notice that it was a makeshift family. Enough love to see that, having served his country during the war, the greatest service he could provide in times of peace was to settle down with the love of his life and her little girl.
Why is such a simple story my favorite story? Because it is part of my story. Because I got to see it firsthand, see it play out in real time, see how unconditional love can alter the course of an entire family's history. That little girl was my maternal grandmother which means that technically 'Pa' and I weren't related...but try telling him that and you would have had a fight on your hands. I was his, my mom was his, her mom was his...as far as he saw it, the mapping of DNA took a backseat to the mapping of his heart.
While they were deeply religious people, Nana and Pa always made it known that love trumped all. When I told them I was expecting a baby and getting married (in that particular order), Pa simply shouted, "Hot-Dog, Em! Our great-grandbaby's having a baby!" And, true to my Nana's nature, she simply responded with some wisecrack about hoping the sex had been good and how love-babies are always the most beautiful. That kind of love deserves some kind of medal...and trumps even the Taj Mahal.
This Memorial Day, I feel grateful for fallen heroes and for surviving heroes...for heroes who follow orders into the battlefield and for heroes who follow their hearts into the minefield of life.
Friday, May 22, 2009
'So Cute'...So Overrated...
Judging by your kind comments, I've decided my last blog post was misleading and I am here to right a wrong. Somehow, using slideshows and smiling children as my weapon of choice, I created the appearance that we are 'amazing', that we exude 'boundless energy', that we wear 'nonstop smiles'...even worse, I made us out to be 'so cute'. And I'm here for full disclosure.
Nothing ruffles my (currently unwashed) feathers more than PDP's (public displays of perfection). Blogs that are 'so cute', kids that are 'so cute', families that are 'so cute'. The hottest places in hell - even hotter than the ones where I'm headed - are reserved for people who abuse their fellow life-strugglers with So Cuteness.
Random Musings was intended as a safe place...a haven for regular people...real people....my people. People whose kids finish their homework at the inappropriate hour of 11 PM, people who tell their kids they will buy them a special prize if they just 'shut their pie holes' for the next 10 minutes, people who fall asleep on the couch from utter exhaustion when they should be giving their husbands much-deserved birthday sex (I own all of these in just the preceding 24 hours).
Last night, I may have even been testy with my mom because she didn't want to try some exotic sushi I was convinced she would like...and I may have then gone from 'testy' to 'snippy' when she tried it and didn't. Today, I didn't have any cash in the Jeep so I stole three dollars out of Cale's wallet (first sin) to buy Ryan a McDonald's happy meal (second) and thought to myself 'he should be more responsible with his money if he doesn't want someone to spend it' (third). I haven't cooked in a week and when I last did, I'm pretty sure my kids hoped I never again would, as I selfishly assembled a meal that I love and they hate, and then I told them to make themselves peanut butter sandwiches if it wasn't to their liking.
But I wake up each day hoping to be better and do better. I wake up each day hoping that this is the day I won't raise my voice to my kids, that this is the day I will find out what I'm supposed to be doing now that I'm all grown-up, that this is the day I make some sort of difference in the world. The same things I'm sure all of you wake up thinking.
And I pray to whatever God hasn't tired of me yet that the people I love will know they are loved (despite my behaviors which often show otherwise), and that my kids will grow to be deep, kind, thoughtful human beings (despite the consistently poor example I set), and that I will always choose people over things and humility over pride and understanding over judgment (despite doing just the opposite at damn near every turn). All of the same things I'm sure you pray for - to whatever God has lent you his ear - each and every day.
Mostly, I wish for a book - the book - the one that tells me when too much is not enough and when very little is still too much. The one that explains why sometimes I feel like the world is my oyster and sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. The one that tells me how to raise my kids to be more than 'so cute', and how to raise myself to resist So Cuteness, and who to trust and who to avoid and what to do and where to do it. Of course, the downside is that if any such book existed, everything might wind up being 'so cute'...and I truly can't think of anything less attractive than that.
Here we are...being 'so real'...
This is Ryan and Morgan passed out from exhaustion in the Jeep a couple of days ago. That raincoat Ryan is wearing is a 2T (she's three) but I haven't purchased a new one and it was pouring rain outside (again). No smiles in this photo - nor did I get any when I woke them up and dragged them to yet another soccer game.
I may or may not have asked Cale to brush Ryan's teeth because I was too busy working on files to do it myself. Notice the particular amount of effort Cale is putting into watching the TV screen rather than Ryan's molars. Ryan may or may not have slept in that costume (yep) which is second only to the fact that Cale is wearing a swimsuit that he slept in as well. But at least they have clean teeth.
Morgan and Ryan home sick recently. Yes, Ryan is using a couch pillow to keep herself warm - this is what happens when two sick kids are left to fend for themselves while Mom gets some files done upstairs. After taking this picture, I told Morgan I'd let him have yet another brownie, and allow him to eat it lying sideways on the couch, if he promised not to move his legs one inch and wake the sleeping terror.
This is the face we see more often than the smile...she's sassy and so very real.
Look at the forger and the pants cutter all curled up (i.e. passed out tired) in Ryan's (now smashed) chair...I found them in the toy room this way just after midnight...aren't we 'amazing'? (Hint: nope)
Remember this picture? I used it to display Morgan's adorable smile. Now look closely at his feet - I'll let you guess how adorable his coach thought it was that we forgot his cleats and he had to play in his tenny runners. Oops. I love how, when we look closely, nothing is ever as perfect as it seems. It's usually even better.
Here's to a little less sugar and a whole lot of fiber in the diet of life,
Corbie
Nothing ruffles my (currently unwashed) feathers more than PDP's (public displays of perfection). Blogs that are 'so cute', kids that are 'so cute', families that are 'so cute'. The hottest places in hell - even hotter than the ones where I'm headed - are reserved for people who abuse their fellow life-strugglers with So Cuteness.
Random Musings was intended as a safe place...a haven for regular people...real people....my people. People whose kids finish their homework at the inappropriate hour of 11 PM, people who tell their kids they will buy them a special prize if they just 'shut their pie holes' for the next 10 minutes, people who fall asleep on the couch from utter exhaustion when they should be giving their husbands much-deserved birthday sex (I own all of these in just the preceding 24 hours).
Last night, I may have even been testy with my mom because she didn't want to try some exotic sushi I was convinced she would like...and I may have then gone from 'testy' to 'snippy' when she tried it and didn't. Today, I didn't have any cash in the Jeep so I stole three dollars out of Cale's wallet (first sin) to buy Ryan a McDonald's happy meal (second) and thought to myself 'he should be more responsible with his money if he doesn't want someone to spend it' (third). I haven't cooked in a week and when I last did, I'm pretty sure my kids hoped I never again would, as I selfishly assembled a meal that I love and they hate, and then I told them to make themselves peanut butter sandwiches if it wasn't to their liking.
But I wake up each day hoping to be better and do better. I wake up each day hoping that this is the day I won't raise my voice to my kids, that this is the day I will find out what I'm supposed to be doing now that I'm all grown-up, that this is the day I make some sort of difference in the world. The same things I'm sure all of you wake up thinking.
And I pray to whatever God hasn't tired of me yet that the people I love will know they are loved (despite my behaviors which often show otherwise), and that my kids will grow to be deep, kind, thoughtful human beings (despite the consistently poor example I set), and that I will always choose people over things and humility over pride and understanding over judgment (despite doing just the opposite at damn near every turn). All of the same things I'm sure you pray for - to whatever God has lent you his ear - each and every day.
Mostly, I wish for a book - the book - the one that tells me when too much is not enough and when very little is still too much. The one that explains why sometimes I feel like the world is my oyster and sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. The one that tells me how to raise my kids to be more than 'so cute', and how to raise myself to resist So Cuteness, and who to trust and who to avoid and what to do and where to do it. Of course, the downside is that if any such book existed, everything might wind up being 'so cute'...and I truly can't think of anything less attractive than that.
Here we are...being 'so real'...
This is Ryan and Morgan passed out from exhaustion in the Jeep a couple of days ago. That raincoat Ryan is wearing is a 2T (she's three) but I haven't purchased a new one and it was pouring rain outside (again). No smiles in this photo - nor did I get any when I woke them up and dragged them to yet another soccer game.
I may or may not have asked Cale to brush Ryan's teeth because I was too busy working on files to do it myself. Notice the particular amount of effort Cale is putting into watching the TV screen rather than Ryan's molars. Ryan may or may not have slept in that costume (yep) which is second only to the fact that Cale is wearing a swimsuit that he slept in as well. But at least they have clean teeth.
Morgan and Ryan home sick recently. Yes, Ryan is using a couch pillow to keep herself warm - this is what happens when two sick kids are left to fend for themselves while Mom gets some files done upstairs. After taking this picture, I told Morgan I'd let him have yet another brownie, and allow him to eat it lying sideways on the couch, if he promised not to move his legs one inch and wake the sleeping terror.
This is the face we see more often than the smile...she's sassy and so very real.
Look at the forger and the pants cutter all curled up (i.e. passed out tired) in Ryan's (now smashed) chair...I found them in the toy room this way just after midnight...aren't we 'amazing'? (Hint: nope)
Remember this picture? I used it to display Morgan's adorable smile. Now look closely at his feet - I'll let you guess how adorable his coach thought it was that we forgot his cleats and he had to play in his tenny runners. Oops. I love how, when we look closely, nothing is ever as perfect as it seems. It's usually even better.Here's to a little less sugar and a whole lot of fiber in the diet of life,
Corbie
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