A sure fire way to keep me quiet when I was a kid was to plop me down in front of my Dad's record collection. Not that I was a loud or really rambunctious kid, my parents just had little patience for my blabbering. And now I have a blog. Go figure.
Anyway, I would pour over every cover for hours. If there was something interesting on the other side or, bonus!, if the album had a gatefold, I could be there all day.Sometimes my parents would put on whatever album interested me and then they put a pair of those stupidly large headphones on my head - you know, the ones as big as the cinnamon buns on Princess Leia's head? - and left me there, entranced, listening to Big Brother and the Holding Company or Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
In hindsight, this was probably not a prudent move seeing as I was only about 6 years old. But it sure does explain a lot about the person I am today. Which is to say really fecked up.
Anyone else really craving a Marshmallow Pie? Just me? Huh.
My favorite then and will always be is Cheap Thrills by Big Brother and the Holding Company. Janis Joplin is my idol, man, and how freaking cool was that cover? I own the album now, along with a bunch of others, and to me it's like owning a piece of fine art. I really hope Chicky will get as big of a kick out of them as I did. At the very least I hope she doesn't use them as frisbees.
Album covers, sadly, are a thing of the past. No one gives a damn about a piece of paper in a CD box that will probably be chucked after the songs are downloaded to an iPod anyway. So what's the point in taking any time to design some decent artwork?
Well...
You love it, don't you? You love it so much you want to marry it. And have little album cover babies with it. (Picture by socialendproduct)
There's this album cover meme going around and that pain in the ass buddy of mine, MotherBumper, tagged me for it. You have to put together your own album cover for a fictitious band.
Duuude.
I may have spent way too much time on this cover.
I may even have a back story for Frigarui and the complete list of album tracks from "If We're Always Doing". In 1967 they might have hit #5 on Billboard with their song "The Murder of Gonzago". Then their bassist might have died in a tragic wheat threshing machine accident while on break from their tour at home in Bulgaria. Then the bassist's 17 year old girlfriend might have tried to sue the band for royalties accumulated after his death and the subsequent trial might have driven them to bankruptcy and forced the band to break up.
But that's for me to know and my therapist to fix.
You want to play, don't ya? Yeah, you do. Here's the rules (copied from MB who copied them from SBB. I know, BFD.):
** This is rock and roll. Rules are made to be broken!
I suck at tagging people - I suck at tag in general because I run like a wounded chicken - so play along if you'd like. But leave me a comment if you do because this meme rocks.
So the other day I was thinking that I really should post a few things about myself that someone meeting me in person for the first time - say, at Blogher for instance (9 days! 9 freaking days!! oh my christ, I don't have cute shoes yet.) - might need to know, lest they get the wrong idea from my blog that I'm actually fun in person and then be horribly disappointed when they find out the truth.
(That's me, the eternal optimist. Hasn't occurred to me that you all might actually like me. No. That would be silly.)
Then Deb, that damn women who for months taunted me with her "I'm going to Blogher", "Oops, no I'm not going", "Okay, maybe I will go", "No, I can't go", "Hooray! I'm going to Blogher!", kindly asked me and some other ladies to provide some insight into who the hell we thought we were. So I figured it was time to write it all down. You know, so everyone doesn't have to wait until I've had a few drinks in me to find out.
(And, no, this is not a meme. I refuse to call it that because there is a moratorium on memes on this here site until further notice. Unless I get tagged with a really good one - like "What five Hanna Barbera characters would you be" or "Name your four favorite pubic hair styles" - then I'll temporarily lift it.)
You're just breathless with anticipation, aren't you?
First of all, I'm shy. Really shy and incredibly self conscious. If I'm out of my element -which is any situation that happens outside the four walls of my home or in my dog training classes - then I tend to be pretty quiet. I'm an observer, y'all. I like to people watch. And yes, I'll be watching you.
However...
(I must preface this next tidbit with this disclaimer: I'm very interested in the Blogher conference itself and all it has to offer. I'm very much looking forward to hearing from the speakers and learning how to be the very best blogger I can be.)
Ahem.
Have you seen the movie "Blind Date" with Kim Basinger and Bruce Willis? You know, what ever you do don't get her drunk? Well, it's been years since I've spent more than a day or two away from my husband and my kid. Since I went on a short trip to Cancun with a girlfriend to celebrate our divorces, as a matter of fact. Let's just say I don't remember parts of that vacation and we'll leave it at that.
Did I mention I was shy? Yeah. You might not notice it, though. You might just think I'm "reserved", "aloof" or "a snooty bitch" but I'm not. Well, I am reserved but I'm not a bitch. All of the time.
Remember, I'll be watching you. (two fingers pointing to my eyes, then to your eyes, then to my eyes)
It's one thing to refer to myself as "Mrs. Chicky" online but it is completely another to refer to myself as my blog moniker in person. I've done it once or twice and it makes me feel extremely dorky. I may just introduce myself by my real name and let you all figure it out.
On that note, I suck at remembering people's names. If you're wondering why I'm staring at your chest it's because I'm rereading your name tag for the millionth time. And because I'm jealous of your rack.
I can put a lipstick in my bra and paint my lips upside down with no hands.
Turn-ons: The movies of John Hughes. John Cusack. Anthony Bourdain. Jeremy Piven (in his pre-Entourage days. Cupid, anyone?). Cookbooks and tell-all novels about the restaurant industry, wine snobs, or foodies in general. Men with nice legs. People who love dogs. And long walks on the beach at sunset.
Turn-offs: Rude people. Ralph Feinnes (outside of his work as Voldemort I've never cared for any of his movies). Colin Farrel (besides the accent I just don't see the attraction). Cruelty to animals. Skinny jeans (mainly because I can't wear them). Any cocktail that doesn't have vodka or gin and dry vermouth but are called "martinis" just because they're served in a martini glass. (Not that I won't drink them - they are mighty tasty - it's the overuse of the term that bothers me.)
So that's me in a nutshell (Oh no! I'm stuck in this nutshell!). Now I'm calling upon the Canadian contingent to play along (that would be you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and maybe you if you've decided to go after all. And any other Canadian lady I've missed). It's not a tag since this is not a meme. I just want to know more about all my Canadian sisters who will be attending the conference. And because, secretly, I want to be an honorary Canadian. I'm hoping someone will bring me a maple leaf pin or a toque or something. Maybe some poutine. Although, when I think of poutine, I think of poutine rapee. Mmmmm, poutine rapee. Now that is good food to eat after a night of drinking.
(And a huge shout-out to the person who can identify the quote in the title of this post. I felt it was quite relevant to the situation. Clues are sprinkled throughout this post.
Way to go Avalon and Painted Maypole. They knew the title of this post was a quote from The Breakfast Club. Not very hard, I know, especially with all my hints. But I'm standing by my lack of interest in Ralph Feinnes. Quiz Show was good, I'll give you that, but he just doesn't do it for me.)
(And I should mention that Redneck Mommy was nice enough to correct my poor Canadian cuisine lingo. Poutine is never spelled with an "S" no matter how many you order. My bad. But I don't know, I distinctly remember some pretty drunk Canucks ordering those in the diners after hours and it always sounded like "Poutines". But that could have been them slurring their words. Yeah, that's probably what it was.)
From the bottom of my cold, dead heart and all the way down to the ends of my freakishly long toes I want to thank you all for your thoughts and prayers for my Gram. I wish that I could say that they all kick started a miracle, I really do, but they didn't.
Instead of being sent to that hospital 45 minutes away from her home Gram was, instead, sent to Mass General in Boston. Not an easy drive for my aunt, the woman who is honorary caretaker and chauffeur for my grandmother.
(If my mom was still around it would have been her doing all the driving and speaking with the doctors. My aunt calls me often to curse my mother for leaving her. She says it with a smile, but curses nonetheless.)
Gram was admitted this evening and tomorrow they'll do a battery of tests to determine what's going on with the 8 inch "growth" on her pelvis. They believe it's ovarian cancer but the doctors won't commit to that diagnosis just yet.
Oh yeah, and the cat still hasn't shown up. Also, I've learned just how weird some of my neighbors are. Bonus.
So no miracle yet, but those thoughts and prayers could still help. Thank you for them all.
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On a happier note, Sarah thinks I rock. More specifically, she thinks I'm a rockin' girl blogger. I don't feel so rockin' right now but who am I to argue with my new real life friend?
Apparently, this is one of those pay-it-forward deal-ios. These things always make me feel like I'm playing favorites but in this case I really don't give a hairy rat's ass. Call it a popularity contest, blahdee blahdee blahdee, but I'm of the opinion that there are some rockin' chicks out there in blogland and they deserve to be recognized. Dammit.
1. Blog Antagonist - She doesn't know it but she's talked me off of more proverbial ledges than any other blogger. She's my idol, I want to be just like her if I ever decide to grow up. For now, I'll just consider her my big sister on the web. And the woman can write. If you don't visit her blog regularly you really should because when she's a big time published author us lucky readers will be able to say we knew her when.
2. Mama Tulip - Because we've experienced the same loss we're bound for all eternity. A bit much? I don't think so.
3. Redneck Mommy - T is the shit. She's a tough betch who will undoubtedly kick my ass if I don't keep her in alcohol at Blogher. And did I mention that I'm rooming with that tatooed and pierced freak (says the woman who calls her sister "dirtbag" as a sign of true and deep affection)? Pray for me. I may never return. I may not want to, we may just run away together.
4. Binky of 24/7 - My scrod, another woman who can write circles around me. And I love her for it. She can render me speechless with the smallest of paragraph and.... See? I don't know what else to say. She's just that good.
5. Jenny of Mama Drama and now the Bloggess - She's so fantastic that I may have to move to Texas just to stalk her. You think I'm joking. I'm not that funny. She's that funny.
(I will warn you now - this post is long. Sorry but it's about my feeeelings and I tend to ramble when it comes to my feeeelings.
If you've already read this post then you know that that last sentence is totally laughable.
If you haven't you'll just have to read to find out why.)
I've been composing this post in my mind for days, mentally writing and then discarding each draft. Not one word actually made it on to the computer screen in front of me until now - such as they are.
Julie tagged me for the "Evolution of Blogging" meme, or more specifically the "Evolution of your blogging" meme. At first I was thrilled by the idea - finally, a meme that had nothing to do with how I fell asleep every night (rubbing my ankles together like a cricket, just so you know) or what was in my bag (diapers and cracker crumbs mostly) - but the more I thought about it, the more I realized what this particular meme meant to me (and, yes, I was over thinking - again), the more terrified I became of the question how has my blogging changed and evolved.
I don't know if it's evolved. To the contrary, I think it may be going the other way. Because, you see, if you think about it I don't really talk about me on this blog.
(Go ahead, mull that one over for a minute. I'll wait. But first read the next paragraph.)
One of the things that fascinates me about blogging is the perception we have of those we read on a regular basis gathered from the nuggets of information that can be gleaned from one's blog. I've never met many of you but I have a mental picture in my head of who you are: what you sound like, how tall you are, how you walk, hell even how you laugh. It's all crap, I'm sure, and when I finally meet some of you this summer in some cases my mental image will be shattered. Yes, I have drawn assumptions. Will I be disappointed? I don't know, but that could certainly happen, and you, in turn, could be disappointed when you meet me.
(It's okay. Just keep it to yourself and I won't be hurt.)
(I wound very easily. Have I ever told you that? Probably not.)
The reason why you, as a reader, don't know more about me from this blog is because by nature I am an incredibly guarded person. I really do not share that much of myself with others. I keep my cards close to my vest, I rarely wear my heart on my sleeve... Blahdee blahdee blahdee.
Which leads me to the evolution - or the de-evolution of this blog.
(And for the record I know the opposite of "evolution" is "regression" or "deterioration" but that seems a bit extreme, don't you think?)
(And and... Don't you think it's about time I got to the reason for this post? I mean c'mon... get to the point already.)
When I began Chicky Chicky Baby I had hoped that the (perceived) anonymity of the internet would help me open up about certain pieces of my life - and it has, a bit, but it has also made me more aware of what I talk about and, in turn, even more guarded. For one reason - I let my husband read this blog. And then I shared it with my sister. The two people, besides Chicky, who mean the most to me in this world now have access to my inner-most feelings. And speaking of Chicky, she could read these posts one day. Do I really want them to learn certain things about myself - things I might not feel comfortable bringing up to them in person - through a blog? Where complete strangers can read it first? Uh uh, don't think so. That's not fair.
And I will not even think about other parts of my family or friends who may stumble upon this one day. I've said a more than a few embarrassing things but so far nothing too damning that I couldn't recover from.
But I have to admit, I sometimes long for total anonymity. I do wish that no one I knew had learned about this blog. Not that I would share stories of elicit affairs or second lives (if you knew what my life was really like right now you'd laugh at preposterousness of that last statement. Affairs? Who has time or energy for affairs??) but because I really have no trouble with people knowing that my life is messy. To what level of messy is what I have trouble with, but I would like to learn how to open up more. Therapy without the co-pay.
And lest I forget, for some reason there are people out there who seem to like this blog. People (you?) who read what I write on a regular basis. How bizarre is that? I'd be lying if I said that my stat counter has not affected my way of writing one bit.
I'd like to open up more. I'd like my voice, my true voice, to be heard through the din. But not now. At least not today.
The bottom line is I have to remain true to myself, on this blog and in real life. If I'm not going to sit on a playground picnic table and share my innermost thoughts and feeeelings with you then why would I on an internet page?
However...
(I said bottom line, but I didn't really mean it. Do I ever?)
I know that being guarded is not necessarily healthy. I've made things very difficult and unpleasant for myself these past few years in the name of privacy and I need to fix that. So you may just find yourself on my site one day learning about any manner of juicy details about me.
Especially if I'm drinking and blogging. I've been known to do some silly things when I've got the drink in me.
Just don't tell my husband or my sister that.
Shit, I guess I just did. Hey! Maybe I'm evolving!
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Now I have to tag people for this meme. This is the part that I hate the most, even more than talking about my feeeelings (whoa whoa whoa Feeeelings). Let's see, who can I piss off with a tag... How about Redneck Mommy, Motherbumper, and Jen. Have at it, betches.
Last night after class a co-worker asked if I wanted to go with her to a drop-in Rally-O class at another training center. I was all for it - since I've been slacking in actually working with my own dogs - until she mentioned that it was on Sunday evening. I declined as it is Mother's Day on Sunday. That was when it hit me.
It's Mother's Day on Sunday.
It's almost Mother's Day already?
Wow, that snuck up on me. Yeah, I've seen all the commercials and read a lot of blog posts about Mother's Day - I even wrote a Mother's Day post of my own for the Blog Exchange - but the actual day always seemed to be coming up. A way's away. Soon, but not now. Well now is almost here.
(There's a hint for you, Mr. C., you've still got a couple of days left until the big day. Don't blow it. You remember last year, don't you?)
I've decided that in honor of Mother's Day, the day we celebrate those women who bravely pushed a living being out of their girly parts and those who spent much time and effort adopting a child, here at Chicky Chicky Baby the rest of this week is all about Moms.
(Which is much better than me talking about my phlegm, don't you think? I will refrain from writing about the loogies I can hock up at whim, their consistency and color. You're welcome.)
I was recently tagged for a "10 things about me" meme by the suspiciously happy Smiling Mom (Seriously, lady, why are you always smiling? What's the secret?) and rather than talk about myself again I'm going to tell you 10 things that I think you should know about my mom.
Why should you care about my mom? First off, if you have to ask that than you can just go now. Seriously. How rude. But second, she was a woman that people just wanted to know and since she's not here with us this is my way of introducing you to the woman who I called Mom.
10 things about Grammy Chicky
1. I'm ashamed to say (ooh, there's a good place to start) that I didn't always call her "Mom". During my teen years, when my Mom and I hated each other, my best friend and I came up with a nickname for my mother. The rather cumbersome moniker "Creature with the Fangs".
We were so witty.
The name was eventually shortened to just "Fang". My friend and I thought ourselves not only terribly witty but also horribly clever for keeping this from her. Of course, my Mom (Fang) knew but she never said anything. Until years later when I was in my 20s, and we were on speaking terms again, and she let it slip that she knew. And she smirked when she said that she knew. It must of hurt a bit, hearing her first born call her names, yet she still found the stupid humor in a couple of 15 year olds trying to pull a fast one over on her and failing miserably. I can respect a woman who can laugh at her child being a dumbass.
2. She loved to dance. The woman was a dancing fiend. She wasn't particularly good at it but she was infectious. If she was dancing then you wanted to dance with her. Unless you were a sullen 15 year old, calling her stupid nicknames, and embarrassed by her exuberance.
At one of my uncles' weddings my mother was on the dance floor surrounded by people all of them doing the Twist. She was so busy giving that dance her all that she didn't notice that she had Twisted herself right out of her slip. When she did notice she just stepped out of it, kicked it to the side and kept on dancing with all of her family cheering her on. She didn't have time to be embarrassed, there was dancing to be done. It's been almost 20 years and that story still gets brought up at family get-togethers.
3. Mom had just turned 20 when she had me. She was just about to turn 24 when she had my sister. When I asked her why she had us so young Mom told me that the only thing she had ever wanted to be growing up was a mother so as soon as she could she started a family, and that simple fact used to bug the hell out of me. A mother? Just a mother? No other, greater, aspirations? A year or two before she died, after spending almost two decades working as a secretary for a Catholic elementary school, she told us that now that her children were grown she really wished she could have been a teacher. I think she would have been a great teacher, but at the risk of sounding cheesy and selfish, there's a part of me that's glad we didn't have to share her.
4. She was obsessive, almost anal, about keeping a clean house and she was not an animal lover. In this way I am my father's daughter.
5. Mom wasn't the type of person who was quick with a dirty joke, though I suspect she secretly liked them as much as the next guy, but she had a streak of gallows humor in her. She always said when she died she wanted to be buried upside down. So every who came to visit her grave could kiss her ass.
6. "Sun worshiper" isn't a strong enough term to attribute to my Mom. As soon as the weather got warm enough you would find Mom floating on a raft in the pool or lying in a deck chair soaking up the sun. By the end of the summer, thanks to her Portuguese heritage, she'd be as brown as a nut. Also in this way I am my father's daughter. Damn English genes.
7. Mom had a gap between her front teeth that was never fixed. Since she was one of eleven children there wasn't the money for dental work and she was sometimes ashamed of it. Not that it took away from her beauty. But, consequently, she didn't smile that much in pictures. But when she smiled, either in real life or in front of the camera, you felt like she had just given you a gift.
And if you feel like I'm falling into a pit of cheese let me just tell you that when she wasn't smiling she sometimes looked like she was about to bite your head off. In this way I am my mother's daughter.
8. After a long, unsatisfying marriage that ended badly (and that's all I'm going to say about my parent's relationship) my mother - a huge Red Sox fan - finally met her soul mate, a wonderful man who just happened to be a Yankees fan. Ain't that a kick in the head? At her funeral he gave the most beautiful speech and in this speech he mentioned how that year - 2004 - should be the year that the Red Sox would finally win the World Series. And I think he was genuinely pleased when they did. Now that's love.
9. Whenever he wrote her a note or gave her a card, my Mom's boyfriend would end it with the words "Here, There and Everywhere". I can't listen to that song without crying.
10. She wasn't the best mother, she wasn't the worst mother. She messed up a lot and I didn't make things easy on her. But she would have been the best grandmother ever.
It's sort of hard to wrap up a meme like this one gracefully so I'm just going to move on to the tags. I'm tagging Redneck Mommy, Sarah, and Lawyer Mama.
Combine the time change with the fact that it has been beeee-yooo-teee-fullll this week and the result is now I have no brain activity. None. Hook me up to a machine and you'll see a stick figure dozing where the squigly lines should be. Or the Peanut Butter Jelly guy.
But I must frolic and be merry, for tomorrow it will snow. F*cking New England weather.
Thankfully I was tagged for a couple of memes so I don't have to hurt myself by thinking too hard. Not that some thought was not required of these particular ones. No, quite contrary. I was tagged by PDX Mama to participate in Kristen's brilliant "Real Mothers" meme and I really had to work the ol' brain to come up with something. Then it came to me.
Real Mothers rock the baseball cap. Bad hair day be damned. Plus? Opening day in less than a month, baby!
Real mothers also tag others to participate in memes. So I tag fellow Sox lover Cape Buffalo, and my New England sisters Binky and Waya, and my friend from the south Blog Antagonist (though I don't know if she does memes, but I'm hopeful).
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Next up in the mememeMEmememe department, Ali tagged me for a musical meme. The guidelines are: List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what they are. They must be songs you are presently enjoying. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.
Okey Dokey, Smokey. I must warn you, I'm all over the place here.
1. Little Sparrow - Dolly Parton. I've been into the folk thing lately and Dolly has her roots firmly in folk/bluegrass. You're going to have to look for this one yourself since I can't find it anywhere on the internet.
3. What Goes Around - Justin Timberlake. That's right, baby. You bring your sexy back here to mama.
4. I'm Shipping Up to Boston - Dropkick Murphys. Maybe it's the time of year. Maybe I need some gritty, kick-you-in-the-face music. Nothing wrong with bagpipes and the occasional size 11 to the chin.
5. Smile - Nat King Cole. I used to sing this to Chicky when she was really small and really colicky. It worked occasionally. I've worked it back into my repertoire for those moments when she needs some soothing.
6. Sweet Pea - Amos Lee (sorry, no link to the song. Just his website). Quickly becoming one of my favorite scoop-Chicky-up-and-dance songs. I may dance like a wounded chicken but she doesn't seem to mind.
7. Rick James - Jude. It's almost 10 years old but it's still one of my favorite songs. (Warning: the clip doesn't really do it justice. It's sucks actually. Makes me wonder why I like the song so much. Then I hear it on my iPod and it makes me want to dance like a wounded chicken. Now, that's a good song.)
And finally, Mrs. Chicken thoughtfully bestowed upon me the great honor of the Thinking Bloggers award. Normally my brain is spinning constantly, but this past week? Not so much. So it seems funny to be getting this award now. But I'll take it. No, really. Give it back. Take your dirty mitts off of my award. I'll start thinking again. Sometime soon. Really.
Ooh, that's purdy.
But this award is like playing hot potato. Once you get it you need to pass it on to others that make you think. Which means I had to think about who I wanted to give this to. And now my head hurts.
I hereby pass this award on to those who refuse to let me drone out to their pretty words but instead make me flex my cranial muscle:
