re-entry

We've been back about a week, and it is great. We arrived in the height of last week's snowstorm (which nobody remembers, after this week's). You know how houses have smells, and you don't notice the smell of your own house unless you've been away? I was relieved to notice that ours smells mostly like... wood. In a nice way, I think. I guess. Anyway the girls went beserk, running around remembering stuff and hollering their discoveries at each other: "LOOK! The play house! The piano! The PINK TOILETS!" (Yes, we have pink toilets... the house was built in the 80s, and we've had more important improvements to make since we bought it in '00, but the pink toilets are SO on our list.) They were especially happy to get in their own little beds. They liked sharing a room out west, but neither of them says they will miss sharing a bed. Evidently the Bean steals the covers.

In the morning we went right to the service station to address the tire pressure warning light that, along with the icy roads, had me stressed out all the way home the day before. I'd put air in the tires, but it kept coming back on. I've been assured that the tires weren't dangerously low and that those warning lights are more trouble than help. It hasn't come on since, so I'm happy to forget all about it.

We next hit the post office to pick up our mail and notify them to resume delivery (incidentally, if you've got an ongoing home improvement project - and who doesn't? - ask the post office for a change of address packet. Inside is a coupon for 10% off at Lowe's, which can be a fair bit if the project is enormous, as ours tend to be. There, don't say Noted & Blogged never gave you anything), and -- what was this sentence about? Oh yes -- then stopped for lunch at The Bee-Hive Tavern. I can't make up my mind about that place. The food is always good, but sometimes I don't get a particularly friendly vibe there, especially if I have the girls along, which I both understand (lots of kids behave badly in restaurants) and resent (mine don't, and I'd appreciate the benefit of the doubt, at least at the front door).

On to the grocery store, which, of course, has been significantly reconfigured in our absence, and will take longer to get through till I've got the new pattern down. We were almost done when the Bean just completely crashed. Out of the blue she said "Mommy I feel terrible," and had a distinct fever. We left right away to get her to bed.

Rest and ibuprofen had her on the mend, but not well enough to go to school on the 23rd. The Peanut was raring to go, though. The last thing she'd done at her west coast school, on the day before winter break there, was wear pajamas to school and watch The Polar Express. She was ecstatic to learn that on the last day before winter break here, her class would be doing the same. Must be a nationwide 1st grade tradition. So she put on her PJs with cupcakes on them, and off we went.

After school she said she was glad to be with her old friends again, but that "it felt like I was famous, and I didn't really like that." I guess they made a huge fuss of her, because the Peanut seems like someone who would dig fame. Anyway that's much better than having her feel lost in the shuffle. She also reported, in detail, what everyone else had on their pajamas. Kids are really interested in other kids' pajamas. I'm sure her classmates went home and told their parents the Peanut has cupcake pajamas.

All in all, getting settled in has not gone as smoothly as I'd hoped. The snow, the girls being sick (the Peanut has since come down with what ailed the Bean), a couple days in a row of constant sibling bickering that had me fit to lose my ever-lovin' mind, unpacking, laundry, a newly broken dishwasher door, and trouble getting to sleep before 2:00 AM... I'm tired. Really tired. And there is still our postponed Christmas -- not my favorite holiday even under normal circumstances -- to prepare for.

The big picture, though, is all good. We are safe, sound, and content -- and tomorrow, we are leaving the house No Matter What. (Please melt, please melt, please melt.)


Oh! Before you go, because you were doubtless wondering, here is the cheesiness that was in my head yesterday:



Today's earworm is a distinct, a-u-t-omatic improvement I think. I love me some artist-formerly-known-as, and boy, did I play this album a lot in its day. This "video" is just the song playing to a still of the album cover, but you get the song anyhow.

And as long as I'm posting syrupy updates about the children:

The Sandyshoes family are big fans of The Muppet Show.  We have never seen Hannah Montana or American Idol, but we have all the old Muppet Shows on DVD and the girls know all the guest stars, many of whom their peers have never even heard of.  Dom Deluise, Peter Sellers, Gilda Radner, Valerie Harper, Carol Burnett, George Burns, John Cleese, Dudley Moore, Ethel Merman, and many, many more.  Luminaries!  Statler and Waldorf heckling Milton Berle... it doesn't get better than that.  See for yourself:



The Peanut will often pop a Muppet Show episode in to chill out with when she gets home from school.  She has special favorites that she likes to watch again and again and again.  She gets to know all the musical numbers, and goes beserk for the Muppet News sketches ("This is a Muppet News Flash:  a charter flight carrying the London Symphony Orchestra has been forced to jettison some of the musical instruments [piano falls on newsman].)   Good stuff.


In news you'd think unrelated, the other day there was a Kindergarten Author presentation in her classroom.  Parents were invited to come by and see their kiddos' writing.  The children each had an All About Me booklet in which they'd written and drawn pictures.  It listed their names, birthdays, siblings' and pets' names, favorite foods, etc.  You get it.  One question asked for their favorite song.  And on that line, in her kindergarten print, complete with backwards "y" and little curlicues on the tails of some of her letters, my gentle, cheerful, loving Peanut had written:

Welcome To My Nightmare 

The teacher's eyes got sort of wide when she read it.  I tried to explain about Alice Cooper's guest appearance on The Muppet Show in 1978, but I'm not sure it helped. 


Here's the number the Peanut loves so much (not sure why it has the not-Muppet intro, but whatever):

The child is obsessed. She's talking about dying her hair black when she grows up, and she won't have it in a ponytail anymore because "Mommy, then I can't pretend to be Alice Cooper!"

She's a hoot.  Welcome to my nightmare... I think you're gonna like it.

I hear/The secrets that you keep...

I've written a little bit before about sharing a bed with my daughters. This isn't a routine thing. They've never been inclined (or encouraged) to join us in the middle of the night -- I'll go to them for a bit, if there's a scary storm or something -- or to come romp on our bed in the morning and fall back asleep there. We have been very successful with a Play Quietly In Your Room Until We Are Awake rule. But when we're traveling, it sometimes makes most sense to put one grownup and one child in each of a hotel room's two queen size beds, and at home, if Mr. Sandyshoes is away, I let the girls take turns sleeping in my bed with me.

Last night was the Peanut's turn. At bedtime she hauled in her gear and unpacked: feather and fleece pillows, fleece blanket with duckie, "taggie" blanket, stuffed lambie, stuffed doggies, and her music box. It is a good thing I have a King sized bed.

She arranged everything and fell asleep in no more time than it usually takes her. When I came to bed myself, I saw the taggie blanket had been draped carefully over lambie, and doggie was under the pillow. Peanut often sleeps on her back, limbs out like a capital X, but to my happy surprise, she was on her side and there was plenty of room for me.

We had a peaceful slumber until zero-dark thirty, when she hollered: "NO! You're looking at my cards!" Pause. "I said DON'T!!" We have been playing a lot of Uno at our house lately, so I assume this outburst was directed at her sister. I don't look at her cards, I swear. Yeeesh. Back to sleep.

When we woke at a decent hour, I asked if she remembered any of her dreams. Big smile, then "I dreamed of a bunny eating an apple pie." She had no memory of having loudly relived any injustices suffered during card games. It cracked her up to hear what she'd said.

My college roommate once sat straight up in bed and pronounced "I am a fine connoisseur of hams," then lay right back down and continued sleeping. That's probably the oddest thing I've heard of anyone saying in their sleep. Especially funny because she's Jewish, though not practicing. (Evidently.)

I don't think I talk much in my sleep anymore. I occasionally have crazy animal attack dreams, and thrash and holler until I wake myself. Mr. Sandyshoes has gotten as used to these as a person could be expected to, I guess. It's just what happens sometimes. I keep thinking I'll run out of animals because it's never the same species twice. Weirdest one (though not by far the most violent) was a deer chewing on my elbow.

What are you saying in your sleep?

I am now obligated to leave you with this primo bit of mid-80s pop culture. The hair, the hair!

Curse you, NPR! Well, sort of.

So I've recently made a change to my morning routine -- one that improves my mood, broadens my horizons, accentuates the positive, eliminates the negative, etc. etc.: When I turn on my bathroom radio, I don't listen to the whining, sneering blowhards on local commercial talk radio any more. I put their station on for the top-of-the-hour news and weather, then switch to NPR's Cape and Islands affiliate for the end of their local newscast (the self-proclaimed Cape Cod news station devotes so little time to actual news that you can listen to their entire newscast, switch stations, and still catch some of WCAI's) and then NPR's "Morning Edition."

I don't miss the local blowhards one bit. They are always annoying, and frequently stupid, and there is just no sense starting the day listening to them. Changing the station has been a good thing all 'round.

Today, Morning Edition had coverage of the White House state dinner for the Prime Minister of India. What a night that must've been! So I'm listening to the President's and Prime Minister's toasts, and to the reporting about the event (it was held in a giant tent with a transparent ceiling! which made me think of Hogwarts. Excellent.) The segment wrapped up, and my attention turned to getting the girls up-dressed-brushed.

The next thing my ear caught was some music between stories, or part of a story, I don't know. This is dreadful, awful, evil music. One wee measure of this song will plant the whole awful mess in my head for days. DAYS! If I even hear words that remind me of this song, I must immediately and with whatever mental strength I have left focus hard on something else -- anything else, to prevent this invasive, fast-growing, carnivorous vine of a tune from taking hold of my poor brain.

NPR played this song at my most vulnerable moment. I hadn't had my tea. I hadn't even dried my hair. My defenses were down and I was struck head-on. And now, friends, I am consumed with the fire of vengeance. I shall use this mighty blog (humor me) to perpetuate and amplify this horror, with video!



GAH!! The cheesiness, it burns! And yet, I can't look away. (Did that clarinet player wink?) And neither can you! And I bet you'll be singing that godforsaken song hours, maybe days from now, because NOTHING CAN ERASE IT.

MWAHAHAHAHA!

And yet, even with this poison in my veins, I still have no regrets about the station change. That this is still progress shows just how bad the local blowhards are. Were. So long, blowhards.

On the day that you were born...

Flag Day at The Bean's School

The Bean's school (which I should note, before I get ranting, that I really love) had a Flag Day ceremony this morning for grades K-4. Everyone was decked out in red, white and blue. There was an impressive performance by a local equestrian team (with horses in red, white and blue socks!), short addresses by our State Representative and one of our town Selectmen, children reading their essays and poems ("What The Flag Means To Me,") and singing songs.

So, a relatively big deal, as in-school events go. At least one newspaper photographer was there.

Oh, but parents? Weren't invited. The Bean had mentioned that there would be some Flag Day-related activity this week, but I only became aware of the date, time and scale (horses! elected officials! press!) of this specific event because I happened to be there yesterday helping with something else. I almost didn't go to see it this morning, but was driving by the school entrance at just the right moment, so figured what the hey. It makes the Bean really happy when I go to school stuff.

And: I love my country -- truly, I do. But if this proud American never hears Toby Keith singing that Lee Greenwood "Proud to be an American" tune again, it'll be too soon. Playing on the loudspeaker as the kids came out and got seated? Toby Keith singing "Proud to be an American!" Music to which the equestrian team performed their routine? Toby Keith singing "Proud to be an American!" Tune the music teacher chose to blare while the children supposedly sang along? "Proud to be an American!"

(Reading a close second on my vapid-country-music-annoy-o-meter (calibrated for patriotism) is "American Child" by Phil Vassar. Does nobody appreciate the irony of a heterosexual white male baby boomer crooning about how in America, "anyone's equal"? Really? No, really?)

Can't we do better than that? Think of the age-appropriate, relevant, reverent, beautiful, classic patriotic songs they didn't sing: America The Beautiful. My Country, 'Tis of Thee. This Land is Your Land. Maybe there aren't prefab CDs of other kids singing these songs already. Based on my (admittedly limited, possibly unfair) observation of our early music program, that seems to be a prerequisite. Canned music gets played, the kids sing along, or don't. Meh.

The highlight of the Selectman's speech was when he asked the kids how they thought the flag might have been different when he was in school. A child raised her hand: "Were the stars still all in a circle back then?" Heh.

Something in our State Representative's little address made me uneasy. He was talking about what the flag makes him think of, which is all well and good, if to my ear a bit heavy on the sacrifice-of-military-families theme for an elementary school audience. Evidently however, one of the things it makes him think of is how the children of today are going to (among other things) wear the military uniforms of tomorrow. Frankly, this gave me the creeps. My daughter is SIX. Leave her the hell alone.

But who am I to say. After all, I wasn't even invited to the thing in the first place.

Hmpf.

This Is Not Here.

Happy Birthday, John.

Come back baby, you'll find a change in me.

Arguably, one of the changes I should make is to get to know more music that was produced after, say, 1983. Whatever. I love this tune, and I'm declaring it Song of the Day even though it wasn't the morning earworm (a song stuck in my head from before my eyes even opened). Au contraire - the morning earworm was the theme song to Star Trek: TNG. Yeah, I don't understand it either.

Anyway:

Everybody oughta make a change
(by sleepy john estes)

Change in the weather, change in the sea,
Come back baby, you'll find a change in me.
Everybody, they ought to change sometime,
Because sooner or later we have to go down in that lonesome ground.

I changed suits, I changed shirts,
I changed, baby, just to get shed of the dirt.
Everybody, we ought to change sometime,
Because sooner or later we're going down in that lonesome ground.

I changed honey, I changed money,
I changed, people, just to keep from being funny.
Everybody, they ought to change sometime,
Because sooner or later we're going down in that lonesome ground.

Change in the ocean, change in the sea,
Come back baby, you'll find a change in me.
Everybody, we ought to change sometime,
Because sooner or later we're going down in that lonesome ground.

Another Way to Cringe

Listen to Another Way to Die, the new Bond song (for the movie Quantum of Solace, which is coming out either October 31 or November 17, depending which trailer you believe, and to which I am looking forward with a greater than reasonable intensity),

here. I'll wait.




So, what did you think?

Me, I'm prepared to be pleasantly surprised if it rocks as a theme song/movie credit music, but on its own, I am tentatively leaning toward the "things that suck" category. Starts out OK, but on balance, too much wailing.

Probably too soon to judge.

I read that the original preference was for Amy Winehouse to write and perform a song for the movie, but she's such a train wreck she can't even sing Happy Birthday these days. Still, maybe they should've let her try.

And another thing.

I have decided that I hate Alanis Morissette's voice. That little squeak thing she does at the end of a word? It was fine -- it fit -- on Jagged Little Pill. But she seems to have made it permanent. Enough, Alanis. It's affected and grating. Cut it out.

Alphabet Meme: I

I is for instruments played:

None, lately. I can still play the recorder of the type we all got in elementary school before we reached Decision Time: band or chorus, and if band, what instrument. I chose band, and the clarinet, for reasons I don't remember. I do remember going into my parents' room to ask them to buy me a used one, and they asked if I'd be serious about it, and I said yes I would. I stuck with it happily for a couple of years, then stopped liking it. Our band director, Mr. Schneider, was an asshole, and the other clarinetists pointedly ignored me. Practice was stomach-churning. To this day, hearing the Chicago song "25 or 6 to 4" on the radio delivers a now-amusing microdose of middle school angst. I can still pick out the second clarinet part in our tortured arrangement, and picture my place on stage at the obligatory concert.

I remember looking longingly over at the drum section during practice sessions. I hope things have changed in 30 years, and that girls now play the drums too. I would've rocked the drums. In retrospect, it probably wouldn't have made me more of an oddball than I already was, either.

Eventually, between limited ability and limited desire, I decided that other musical endeavors would be less uncomfortable. I think it was about that time I joined the church youth choir, though it wasn't cause-and-effect. Anyway, my mother wrote to Mr. Schneider telling him I was not going to take band any more. I have no idea how she worded it, but he took me aside and said, "I didn't like your mother's note. It was too... smooth." I'm glad he did that; in proving his meanness, he erased any guilt or second thoughts I might've had about quitting.

Years later, without regret, I gave the clarinet to a boyfriend, a man with a deep and true gift for music, who should have as many instruments as his home can hold.

Lately -- probably part of the tedious midlife crisis -- I am thinking I'd like to learn to play the piano. I wonder if that's even possible?

Search no more!

A lot -- really, an astonishing lot -- of people seem to come across my blog searching for the lyrics to this song:


They find my blog in that search because of this post. But those searchers don't care about that post, or probably anything else they'd find in the semi-anonymous blog of a 40-something stay-at-home Mommy, and I'm starting to feel badly for them. They click, they see that post, they make that Marge Simpson noise, they click back to their search results. Frustrated souls, never finding the lyrics to that damn song, but it's stuck in their heads anyway and all they can do is sort of hum.

Well search no more, folks, here are the words to:

The Riddle Song

I gave my love a cherry
that had no stone
I gave my love a chicken
that had no bone
I gave my love a story
that had no end
I gave my love a baby
with no cryin'

How can there be a cherry
that has no stone?
How can there be a chicken
that has no bone?
How can there be a story
that has no end?
How can there be a baby
with no cryin'?

A cherry when it's blooming
it has no stone
A chicken when it's pippin'
it has no bone
The story that I love you
it has no end
A baby when it's sleeping
has no cryin'


That's all I know of it. I assume "pippin'" means, basically, stewing till the meat's off the bone. (EDIT: D'oh! Anonymous commenter tells me that "pipping" is breaking the eggshell when hatching.)

I also assume that the baby was drugged.

Leader of the Band

Hey, Dan Fogelberg died Sunday (advanced prostate cancer). He was only 56.

While I wasn't a huge fan of his music, I do remember his album Phoenix was one that my parents deemed acceptable for me to own as a young teen. (They confiscated Bruce Springsteen's Born To Run, and left me with Dan Fogelberg's Phoenix. Which lyrics do you think I know by heart, to this day? Parents can be so stupid.)

I just listened to snippets of it on Amazon.com. Brought back memories of youthful angst.

RIP, Dan. RIP, youthful angst.

I gave my love a story... that haaaad noooo ennnnnd...

You know the scene in Animal House where Bluto Blutarsky (or whatever) comes down the stairs at a party and there's some dude strumming an acoustic guitar, soulfully crooning

"I gave my love a cherry
That had no stone,
I gave my love a chicken
That haaaad nooooo booooooone..."

and Bluto grabs the guitar, smashes it on the stairs, and hands it back with a muttered "sorry"?
At least that's how I remember that scene.

Well, I always thought that song was a joke, part of the genius of the script (another gem is the headline: "Sophomore Dies in Kiln Explosion.")

Turns out, as I was blissfully unaware until recently, it isn't. It's an actual for-real song, that real people sing. Incredibly, this can be done with a straight face. Just not by me.

I learned this because Peanut and I take a music class Wednesday mornings while Bean is in school. Each 10-week session comes with a CD of a reasonably pleasant mix of songs in different styles for the kiddos to learn. So I unwrap the new CD, pop it in, and what to my horrified ears should appear but this damn tune, in all its sincere, saccharine splendor. And I can't help but also hear the satisfying crunch of an acoustic guitar being smashed mid-verse.

Sadly, the Bean heard the song in the car today and has decided it is "soooooo beautiful." She sings it constantly, and... well... the kid can't carry a tune in a bucket.

I have the mental guitar smash going on infinite loop.

That's Right... I'm not from Texas

...but I love Lyle Lovett and his Large Band. They played the Cape Cod Melody Tent last night. They come round every summer, and I've been meaning to go for years. This year the girls are old enough to be babysat, and Mr. SandyShoes and I finally got to go. (As a "holy cow" aside, concert tickets have sure gotten expensive in the, um, 10? years since I've seen live music... sigh).

I like the Melody Tent. It's a round(ish) venue with a rotating stage so there really aren't any bad seats. It's low-key and smallish by concert standards, a great place to see a show if (like me) enormous crowds make you cranky and vaguely anxious.

The band was great, with eighteen musicians on stage at its largest (percussion, drums, electric, acoustic and steel guitars, four horns, piano, mandolin, fiddle, cello, bass, and four backup singers, including the fabulous Francine Reed, who does that great duet with Lyle on "The Glory of Love." The sound was rich, and the mood was lovely. It's clearly a group of super-talented people who admire and respect each other, love playing together, and have been doing it for a comfortable long time.

It's hard to describe Lyle Lovett's music to someone who's not heard it. Parts gospel, big (er, large) band, bluegrass (he says he's exploring this recently), country, folk. Pop, if he goes there, is a coincidence. Sometimes you need music to make you ache, or to wake you up to an ache you're already feeling or revisiting. Nobody does melancholy like Lyle Lovett (Promises given/and promises broken/words stain my lips/just like blood on my hands; and words are like poison/that sinks down inside you/and some things you do/you just don't understand). But the big tunes that it's hard not to dance to are the best, most energizing and most fun, live. Last night brought some of each, and a number of tunes I hadn't heard before. Came home and realized the most recent CD of Lyle's in my collection is The Road to Ensenada... from 1996. Been a busy decade I guess.

Anyway, it was a terrific night. Good things can come from the Lone Star State after all ;).