Reality Friday: How My Mom Ended Up in the Hospital

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About two weeks ago I had written a piece (for myself in draft mode) about how much I love my parents.  I really do.  It came after my mom’s birthday and then spending time with them visiting my grandpa up in Temple, and I just really enjoy them as people separate from their parental status.  It made me think about the time I was made fun of in college by my crappy dorm mates (note, not friends) since I went home almost every weekend, but I liked being home.  And I didn’t give a crap what those idiots thought.  They smelled like feet and Keystone, anyway.  At the time of her birthday this year, I couldn’t help but write about what a special lady my mom is.  She really is my best friend; a wiser, older best friend who has been with me every step of my journey.  I really do enjoy her as a person, and love spending time with her.

All this love came to a weird head when my mom went to get a routine colonoscopy last Tuesday.  She put on her brave, big girl pants (or rather dropped them) to do something scary and necessary for a woman her age, and did everything as she was instructed: low fiber diet, drinking the nasty liquid that makes you go like Ol’ Faithful the day before, and, like a good student, finding out as much information on the procedure before the big event.

She went in, went under, and came out with 4 polyps removed, one of them looking a bit scary and pre-cancerous.  We found out it was fine.

I called my mom last Thursday, since I always call my mom multiple times a week, and as soon as she picked up the phone, she answered with a calm, yet worried sigh, “I’m going to the hospital”.  In a confused haze, I gently asked, why?  She explained that she had been bleeding a lot, especially when she finally ate normally.  Thinking that this amount of blood probably wasn’t normal, she called her doctor who instructed her to go to the ER.

I sat stunned, unsure of what to do.  Do we run out and take her ourselves (me and Will) to the hospital, even though my dad is on the way?  Do we go to the hospital to stay with her?  I’m not sure how you handle this situation or what the next step is.  So I sat stunned at home, pushing it into the back of my mind since it made no use thinking about it.  She’ll be fine, right?

The next day was a busy one at work: all kinds of chaos, work piling up, one of our guys leaving, not knowing what is going on and feeling helpless.  My dad called to explain my mom had had a hard night and was unable to sleep and could not stop bleeding.  They IV’d her up and set her up for surgery early in the afternoon.

I work in an office of only men.  I don’t like showing weakness or crying or really any emotion beyond the man scale of emotion (which is quite limited), so after I hung up with my dad, I took to the bathroom and bawled.  No one was in there so I just let it out and started talking.  “I want my mom to be okay.  I want her to be okay.  Please let her be okay.”

I stopped.  Told myself to hold it together, and dried my face (and subsequently everywhere else the tears as fallen).  I returned to work, not letting the overwhelming thoughts of helplessness overtake me.  My boss let me go to the hospital at lunch before my mom went into surgery.

I brought her a plant and a balloon with a happy little sun and a robin, a little bit of the back porch of their house in the hospital.  Nervously my hands shook and my stomach became weak and tightened as I entered the hospital.  I hate hospitals. To me, they smell like sickness and are filled with bodily fluids and disease and pain and fear.  The smell is a combination of soiled linens, bad cafeteria food and sterile needles.  I seriously hate hospitals.  When I was in high school, our show choir (think Glee) went and performed Christmas songs in a hospital.  We went through the rooms, happily singing about ‘tis the season, in our bowties and red vests, and I couldn’t sing because all I could do was hold back the strong pangs of nausea that hit my stomach like crashing waves.  I couldn’t get passed the smells, the stench of fear and depletion and I couldn’t stop thinking about my grandfather who had died in the ICU a year earlier.  (Ding, ding, ding, there it is, that is why I don’t like hospitals)

I nervously entered her room and saw my mom, my normal mom, but she had little tubular tentacles escaping her body reaching towards machinery.  A bag of saline to keep her hydrated, a blood pressure monitor and heart monitor beeping away.  Around her little sticks of hydrating q-tips she could suck since she can’t drink water.  My mom, still herself with her great spirit, sitting and waiting in a hospital bed.

She went into surgery and my dad and I ate in the cafeteria.  Well, consumed food but I’m not sure if we really enjoyed it.  We worried, wondered and sat quietly.

Sunday I couldn’t keep it together.  I didn’t sleep at all on Saturday night and as a result I was tired and unstable.  Every time I mentioned my mom, my voice would get shaky and I would start crying.  Even when I was aware of it, I just couldn’t hold it together.  So before we met with good friends of ours, I went for a nice run while listening to Quadrophenia, showered and then took a shot of Jamaican rum follow by a big glass of wine.  Once the alcohol seeped in, I finally felt relaxed and okay.  I could talk about my mom without losing it.  I instantly turned to my husband and said, “Holy cow, it DOES work!”  I enjoyed my afternoon (loaded with alcohol) and while I wasn’t drunk, I could cope.  I know, I know, alcohol is not the solution, but it did give me the ability to be less emotional.  Who knew?  For one day, it was the band-aid I wanted and needed to function.

I didn’t realize how much blood she had lost until recently.  I knew she had lost a lot based on our phone calls and what I had witnessed.  When I visited her Friday, I had to use the restroom, and there was blood all in her bathroom and bloody paper towels in the trashcan. Wishing I wasn’t squeemish about medical things, I very quickly used the restroom and found I had to pee much less due to my stomach clinching.

We found out Wednesday that she has lost half of her blood in all the bleeding.  Let me repeat, she lost half her blood.  She ended up needing two pints of blood, which in theory can help 4 people. She also ended up gaining about 25 pounds in water weight and bile.  After an uncomfortable night of pain and bloating, they began pumping her out on early morning Wednesday by putting a tube down her to start getting it all out.  To clarify that statement, they have put a tube up her nose that goes down her throat and into her stomach.  It pumps out all the liquid (water, bile, general junk) since the body cannot process all that excess fluid.  It then collected in a large, clear 7-11 Big Gulp kind of cup, which ends up looking like a Root Beer Slurpee over my mom’s bed.  You’re welcome, you didn’t need to drink those ever again, anyway.

They still don’t know exactly what is wrong.  They know when the colonoscopy was performed they perforated the colon when removing a polyp (unintentional, of course) and as a result air, bacteria and liquid began leaking into her body.  From the notes I took over hearing the nurses, she had/has a GI Tract Infection, possibly ileus (Google it).   Her white blood cell count went up which means she is fighting an infection.  Her body is giving a fight for not knowing what is going on.  When it comes to how much and how to fix it, the doctors might as well be from a House episode using trial and error until the hour is up and they find the real cure.
But she isn’t a character on a show: she is my mom.  

She has been on morphine because her pain is so intense and as a result she is having realistic dreams that blur her perception of reality.  Think Inception.  She sometimes isn’t sure what is happened and what didn’t happen. She hears music and people and babies that aren’t there, and she has had visions of running down the hallway of the hospital, thinking she really did this (which of course this did not happen).  She falls asleep in mid-conversation or when someone is telling a story, but all of this is because of the morphine.  She looks like herself, talks like herself and is in great spirits.  She laughs, makes jokes, is comprehending conversations and seems really positive and aware that the morphine messes with her and makes her loopy and tired.

I say all this because it is our family’s reality right now, especially my mom.  She’s the one in the hospital bed, going through the pain and discomfort and sometimes isolation.  She’s been incredibly strong and such a trooper when I would have crumbled early on.  She did not prepare for this: she prepared for a simple, routine colonoscopy.  As we are passing the 1 week mark of being in the hospital, I wish there was a solid resolution.  I wish we knew she what was going on in her body, or more importantly, I wish her doctors knew.

If you are reading this, please do NOT visit her.  When you visit someone in the hospital, they oddly feel obligated to keep you entertained to talk to them and she needs to rest, not entertain.  When she gets out, I know she will be happy to get together and talk.  Right now, she doesn’t need that.  Plus sometimes people visit the hospital to feel closer to the sick (it’s a strange phenomena where people like living in the chaos of illness, it’s odd), and they are doing it for their own chaotic rush than her healing.  Please don’t do that to her.  I know there are also those who truly, genuinely care and really want to show your support and love for her.  And that is great.  But she’s not at that place yet.  Not yet.  It’s not you, it’s her.  And she’s okay with that.

Needless to say, with all my visits to the hospital, I have overcome my fear of that scary place.  I now roam the halls with confidence and am practically ready to remove tubes from people’s bodies.  Wait, no, not that comfortable.  They still freak me out, but I’m getting better.

One place that still scares me and gives me the shakes is the blood donation center.  Yet, every time I get over my intense fear since I’ve got good blood and I’m healthy, and someone needs it.  Yesterday, in honor of my mom, I left work early to give blood.  I still get queasy when they ask me if I’ve had a brain graft or certain diseases, and I hate it when they put in the needle, but people facing scarier things that need my blood more than my fear of giving it.  So I donated for all of those who need it and did not anticipate it, or those who knew they needed it and are thankful that I got over my fear and did it.  People like my mom.

For you, mom! And all those like you!

I visited my mom afterwards, and we ended up talking for for about two hours.  She had a tube in her nose and into her stomach, so she wasn’t the best at talking, but she had a great outlook.  She was herself, and I could see her.  She wasn’t gone.

“Lauren,” she asked, “when are they gonna take this tube out?  They said it was only supposed to be in at max 4 hours.  That was 24 hours ago”

“I know, Mom.  I don’t know.”

She sighed.  “I just want to go home”  Her eyes filled with tears, the pain and discomfort coming to a head.  “I just want to be okay, and I want to go home.  And I don’t want this tube in me anymore.  I can’t wait for the day I don’t have to have this in me.”

“I know, Mom.  Give me your paw.”  Then we held hands and she squeezed them while she felt surges of cramps and pains.

Then she looked at the medicine bag coat rack looking thing, and said, “I want to go all Office Space and destroy that thing with a baseball bat.  It yells at me and won’t let me go for walks.  It’s an jerk.”  See, my mom is there.

Still my mom, only now with a magic nose tube!

They did take the tube out and give it 12 more hours to ensure that the liquid food is taking.

Driving home on the way home, I thought about what the real reality of all of this is: so many times, most of us go through our lives taking our health for granted.  We don’t have aches or pains or trauma, and we fill ourselves with garbage without doing anything physical.  Not to be a rant, but please, please, please do not take your healthy body for granted.  Do not assume that you will always be healthy and active.  There will come a day when a tube is down your throat and you will long for the day you didn’t have to stop and think about your health.

This is also isn’t meant to be dramatic or explain and live in my own chaos.  Some people like crises and thrive on the feeling of life a crisis give them.  I write because it is the one, great, powerful outlet I have and people read it.  I don’t write songs or poems or talk, really, but I can write my words and thoughts down.  It’s the only way to muddle through the overwhelming thoughts and chaos, even when I hate chaos.

Anyone who knows me well enough know that: Just ask my mom.

My Own 12 Week Challenge

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UPDATE from last week: So I wrote about how my reality is waking up in the morning and being even slightly functional. I decided I would sign up for my gym’s 12-week challenge, shed some poundage, and get motivation to get my butt out of bed to workout.

I walked into the gym on Saturday, excited about getting signed up and ready to go, then came the fine print. There’s always fine print, isn’t there? A big, beefy trainer pulled me into his office, excited to see me sign up, but asked if I knew all the details. I said, “Uhh, it’s a 12-week challenge and I get weighed and then win money…when I dominate!”

“So you know it is a requirement to be with a trainer 2-3 times a week, correct?”

Silence. “…What?”

With his handy, dandy calculator, he did some quick math, to come to a conclusion that with 2 training sessions a week, it would equal roughly $1,400.00 for 12 weeks of training. Holy. Crap. No…nevermind.

But I am still never one to back down from a challenge. So I am starting my own 12 week challenge, and I’ve got my own set of rules. Last post I said I wanted to lose 15 pounds: granted in theory this would be great, but currently I am in no way overweight. At all. I said 15 to see if I could. The truth is that in a matter of weeks I gained about 5 pounds and I’ve noticed my blood pressure raising so that is what is pushing me to keep moving. Those 15 pounds are just a number and an addition to already being healthy, so instead I’m leaving my challenge goals to something far more tangible and reasonable:

Workout at least 5 hours a week.

  • Do at least 2 morning workouts to achieve time goal
  • No drinking alcohol Sunday – Friday (except at Eggjam and special occasions)
  • Eat mostly vegetables with fruits, nuts, lean meats, fish and some healthy grains.
  • Make my lunch just about everyday which consists of the food above.
  • Accept that sometimes I will not follow this completely, and will make better decisions the next go around.

Okay, so it isn’t so much a number goal, but instead this one is far more healthy in the long run. Plus, I’ve found some great inspiration to write about.

As of this week, I am hitting all my marks. Yes, I did TWO morning workouts yesterday and today. And I’m still awake! I have to say, I was totally wrong with my previous assessment! I woke up right at 5:45am (ugh), put on my clothes, got in the car and started my workout at 6am. I did have some cheats: I drank a Celsius (a vitamin energy drink) before my workout and a low-sugar Quench (HEB’s Gatorade knock-off) during to keep energy up.

I had a freggin’ blast! I did 45 minute workouts both day, hard and challenging Nike Training Club circuit training workouts, and I was home at 7am. I actually left the gym thinking, holy cow, I’m done with my workout today! And I haven’t even started my day! It set the tone for my day and really felt unstoppable, so I don’t foresee this being a challenge in the future. I even got a compliment from a stranger: a woman was watching me, and she just says out loud, “Man, you are working hard! It’s incredible!” I told her I just do what the woman in my headphones tells me to do, which probably made me sound crazy since I didn’t go on to explain that I had an App that tells me the circuit training moves through my headphones. Instead, it sounds like Jillian Michaels has a nest in my head and tells me what moves to do. Scary.

The goals in these 12 weeks are to feel better, feel stronger and more healthy. I want to feel good about my strength, my spirit and work ethic. I’m telling you, when you’ve run sprints, followed by burpees, then lifting heavy weights in a sumo squat, and can live through that to do another 30 minutes of the same, sending a strongly worded email or telling off a harasser on the street doesn’t seem nearly as difficult. Neither does sprinting for the bus for 5 blocks. I did, and I made it onto the bus without running out of breath.

I’m sure this challenge will inspire a plethora of topics to write about, so I’ll keep you in the loop on the progress and interesting thoughts I hope to have. For the time being, enjoy this (directly from my playlist!):

Reality Fridays: Morning Workouts

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I want a start a new piece called Reality Fridays.  This is where I express things I’m thankful for, everyday human struggles and general words in hopes of getting an ‘Amen’ from you, the person reading this.  My hope is that the crap and stuff I’m dealing with surly isn’t limited to just me.

This week, my reality is morning workouts.  I really am not a morning person.  My husband can attest that I cannot wake up correctly in any circumstance.  Even on Christmas as a teenager, my brother and I would sleep until 11am-noon and that was after being prodded and poked to wake up.  We love to sleep.  Not even St. Nick and the prospect of supervised underage champagne drinking and delicious pigs in a blanket could coerce me into leaving my favorite place: my soft, warm and forgiving bed.

My reality has not changed.  Whether I am slapping my alarm from across the room in a sleepwalking-like daze or ignoring the angry alarm completely, I cannot do it.

I am grumpy, disappointed and completely out of it.  The best way I can describe what it feels like to wake up in my world is similar to what I assume it’s like waking up from a coma everyday.  I don’t know what time it is, I don’t know where I am, and I have to re-piece and separate the dream world I have just left from this new, more tangible world.  I was happy to find out that my brother goes through the same process every morning, and how it literally takes us about 1 hour to be fully cognizant or talk.  My throat needs to warm up, my brain needs to regain oxygen and my eyeslids have to de-glue themselves and lose the heavy weights.  Seriously, think coma patient in a Soap Opera.

It has recently been brought to my attention, by my pants, that I’ve been skipping the gym to sit at home and watch a plethora of Gordon Ramsay shows.  While his over-the-top British antics are quite entertaining, that deep nagging voice and that darned zipper have been pushing me to make a move, literally.  I have ignored my usually normal fitting pants in fear that they will bully me into guilt, so instead I look like I’m about 15 pounds overweight due to my oversized clothing.  Yes, yes, my plan is clearly working!

The breaking point with my current system, though, was trying to go to the gym Wednesday after work.  After about 40 minutes of traffic to drive no more than 5 miles, I pulled into the full parking lot searching for a spot.  After circling like a vulture, the closest parking spot was on the other side of the lot, and only open because one of the cars on one side of the spot had parked all wonky.  If this is the parking lot, I knew that the gym is going to be a mad house.  And not only that, when I work out I take up space.  I need a small clearing to do burpies, inch-worm pushups, mountain climbers and wood chops, and not run the risk of taking someone out with my 20-25 lb dumbbells.  How courteous, I know.

I was defeated, knowing this wouldn’t work.  Everyone goes to blow off steam after work.  I went home, and tried to talk myself into getting up earlier.  I’ve been through this before, that hard-driving, borderline bullying self-talk to get up: “Wake up, when you hear that alarm, wake up.  No joking, you have to wake up, you better.  Do you want your pants to fit?  Get up!”  Needless to say, I can count on one hand the number of times I have woken up and gone to the gym.  Not only that, but while I’m at the gym, I think of how tired I am, then all day at work I double the coffee due to my double energy depletion.  The talk worked, I got up, but I did not go to the gym.  Why?  I just wanted to know I could wake up.  I can.  Now step two, put on clothes and get the hell to the gym.  Not even the prospect of listening to the Earth, Wind & Fire Pandora station could get me going, which is saying a lot.

I also know that all of this is mental and a road block.  This is all me and my excuses are just that: excuses.  It is keeping me from moving and allows be to settle and get my Gordon Ramsay fix or that extra sleep time.  My reality is that I am fully aware it is my own head.  It is my own determination that is keep my from succeeding this little task.  It is literally one hour earlier 2-3 days a week, this isn’t a complete life change, but at the same time it would be for the better.  I could fit in those workouts when I have things immediately following work.  I could work later without worrying about getting home so much later.

My reality is that I need to held accountable and give myself a challenge.  And sometimes there is no challenge other than the reality based one you have to create.

OR: I went to the gym yesterday after work, and sure enough there was a sign for the 12 week challenge.  It’s not just a weight loss competition but just an overall body transformation competition.  I remembered earlier in the year one of the trainers at my gym decided to do it (she looked great to begin with) but after 12 weeks, she looked incredible!  This is it.  This is the challenge to get me going.  Sure, it isn’t the biggest loser and I probably won’t win anything since I’m already starting at a healthy weight, but I want to be even better.  I’m 26, for goodness sakes!  I am at my peak of health and I really want to be at my peak.

So, I will be accepting the 12 week challenge.  This means by Christmas I will be looking pretty sharp, or cut, or whatever.  This will also be that push I need to keep moving forward and get my butt out of bed.  My reality is that I am secretly competitive, and I never back down from a challenge.  Goodbye, bed.  It’s been nice.

What Adults Do on Three Day Weekends…

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This past weekend was probably the most adult, married life three day weekend of my life.  Why?

Because we cleaned the apartment.   Not just scrubbing, vacuum, wipe down cleaning, I mean, pouring out the entire closet and rebuilding, then reorganizing two desks filled with paper work, old bills, cards, pictures and all kinds of crap.  For being so small, my sweet lord that apartment can hold a lot of crap. 

Extreme cleaning.  It was literally non-stop for two full days, and 6 large bags of clothes and 6 large bags of garbage later, a small chuck of our apartment is gone. Thank God!  But there is still stuff.  How the hell does that happen?

A peculiar thing happens when you clean your house.  You find all these little trinkets of memories tucked away and waves of memories or names of people come rushing back.  Aww, this is from a movie I saw in 6th grade.  This is my blankie!  This bill came in on the day we got engaged!  Sometimes it was embarrassing to find a junior prom picture in an old book (Will immediately ripped it up, which was a shame because he looked so adorable!), you find a journal entry you wrote 5 years ago before you ever met, and ultimate you re-discover that old person you used to be but certainly are not now and you are so happy you are a new person.

We had many talks this weekend on the muddled, and sometimes awkward topic of our pasts, each equally filled with other people besides each other, and even more discussions on our lives before each other, how we never though we would find each other and how much better our lives are because of the influence the other one has had on our lives.  FYI – With the little data I have gathered, that’s what a marriage should be.

But when we first got together, I used to find pictures of Will and other women, friends or otherwise, and would get upset.  How DARE he have a life without me!  He didn’t put his life on hold to look for me?  Didn’t he just roll on the ground and yell in agony for me to arrive and tell other women that he was waiting for me, even when he didn’t know of me!?  What a jerk!  I realize now it was more insecurity and fear than actual reality based ideas of him living a celibate and pure life without me.  These girls were no longer in his life, what would happen to me?  And even more so, it made me feel less special, which is a ridiculous feeling in retrospect.

Now, I hate to be that girl who gains ultimate security with marriage, but I will say this, and will reiterate it until the day I die, there IS a difference when you get married.  There is an intimacy and a stronger bond then when you were dating.  Even when engaged.  There is something different, and I can’t explain it, but I can say that the night of our wedding (heads out of the gutter, people), we really did sit in our room and think, what just happened?  This feels…different. (NOT THAT WAY, HEADS OUT OF THE GUTTER!) We are bonded for life, and I’ve never been more excited.

When I saw awkward and confused 17 year-old Will holding the corsaged hand of a 17 year-old bracey-smiled brunette with bangs overtaking her face with an obviously mid-90s backdrop, I am at a place now where I realize there is nothing to be afraid of and that pasts are nothing to fear or compare ourselves to, but they are instead stepping stones to a greater present.  There is nothing to be insecure about, and nothing to be jealous over.  And believe me there are PLENTY of awkward photos of me.  It’s not like I was ever overweight, wearing man-shorts, with a haircut I did myself without makeup while dancing like an idiot.  I thought I burned all of those, and no, thanks to the internet, they will live on forever, lucky me.  There are parts of my life that I didn’t spend with Will, and parts of his he didn’t spend with me.  And it actually sucks because some of them were incredible moments that I will never get to share with him.

I seem to be missing the most important part of this story, the reason we are cleaning.  It’s not like a random day we woke up and started cleaning, because that day will never come in my lifetime.  We are purging before our big move in about 5 and a half months.  We are preparing for our home.  And even more so, we are preparing ourselves as well as our stuff.  Cleaning out the old and unnecessary to make room for the wonderful memories and meaning that will fill our home.  I’m pretty sure that’s the symbolism in all this, even if initially it only felt like throwing out sweaters I don’t wear anymore.  And instead of filling our home with our old junk and baggage, we are cleaning out the crap to only move the things that actually have meaning.  We want a home that is our new manifestations of the growth we have had in the past 4 years.  (Bajesus, almost 4 years?!)  We are more organized, farther in our lives, and ready to begin our new life as homeowners with the things we actually want to move.
And even though we were cleaning, we were spending time together.  Chores are more fun with a penguin partner.

A New Season

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We have arrived!  The most exciting day in the Texas year — the day before September!  To those who don’t understand, August is by far the worst month in Texas.  Hot, sticky and the tail end of a usually hot, dry summer makes September a welcome change of pace.  Instead of 105, it’s 93.  Awesome.

So, as we usher in a new season in here in Texas, the lovely local name of ‘less hot, but still hot’ or ‘Autumn’ to other states, I figure it is best to change the season of my blog.  I have not stopped writing at all, but my writing is no longer about music.  In fact, I’ve lost the majority of my passion for music, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, philosophizing and general personal growth.  All are great things!  Don’t worry, I still love music, but I believe we are just in the middle of a break.  We aren’t speaking to each other at the moment.  But once this electronic key-tar crap passes, I will find my beloved again.

I do love the fall, though.  It is just a magical moment when it actually gets enjoyable outside for extended periods of time here in Austin.  Another reason I love the fall it is causes me to reminisce about memorable autumn memories, such as starting at UT.  I remember being scared out of my mind and completely taken aback with how not only huge the campus was, but how unprepared I was.  I do remember searching campus for my favorite spots, such as the turtle pond and Spiderhouse before it was a restaurant drinking chai milkshakes, and I remember walking for hours on campus listening to my mini-disk player (no, iPods had not hit their stride yet) and generally feeling out this new persona and life.

When I went to UT, I did not like the school.  It wasn’t anything the school did, but instead it was the fact that I worked harder than I ever had in my life and was stretched so thin that enjoying my time was very limited.  I didn’t party (I did like, once, before I was 21), didn’t date and spent most of my time studying and being with friends.

To give you an example, my first weekend of UT, I went to the UT football game at home with my best friend.  We walked from my dorm on campus, like the big kids we were.  We both were excited to sit in the stands as students, with our fellow students, and enjoy a rousing game of football.  ”Bring it on home, boys!” we cheered like turn-of-the-century mustachioed men.  We might as well have had pennants.  About half-time, when we were whooping UNT’s butt by about 30 points, the crowd took a turn.  No longer were we having fun with our fellow student comrades, but instead babysitting the drunk freshmen around us.  One guy fell down the stairs.  One girl tried to start a fight, and suddenly we found ourselves leaving before the end to simply get away from all the madness.  We were THOSE kids.  We preferred nerdy, clean fun.  Heck, I still do (only now alcohol IS involved).  So college wasn’t exactly that Animal House experience.  Almost ever.

When I graduated in the worst year in recent economic  history, my frustration with UT only grew as I wondered why I even bothered to get a degree.  It seemed it was worth nothing.

I realize this sounds pretty harsh, but you have to understand, I had grown up with the idea (like everyone else my age) that by going to college, I would have a chance at a great job.  I applied to so many jobs before graduation, and sat nervously in the Frank Erwin Center feeling like a failure for graduating and not having a job lined up like so many friends of mine.  Turns out, the ability to get a great job after college was not the case for me and so many of my friends/peers.  I applied to so many jobs, many that were below me, that I was giving up hope.  I remember my mom saying, apply to the city!  I applied to 8 different jobs to the City of Austin, and only heard from 1: about a year later.  I wondered if I had worked that hard for absolutely no purpose.  And it got me down.

It wasn’t until I was out of school and landed a professional job that I actually was proud of my school and really liked UT.  It’s amazing how much a little self-respect and finally noticing the difference in saying you have your degree makes.  I was proud of being a former Longhorn.  Not only that, I was proud of taking two languages, dual majoring (short of that second degree by 9 hours), and I felt like maybe all the hardwork did pay off.  I got all kinds of excited with UT merch: clothes, bags, hats, jackets, business card holders.  I was a walking CO-OP. Most importantly, I look forward to that UT fight song.  The one that instills that inescapable sense of pride and excitement.  The one that says, holy God I did it and I have great things in my life to show for it.  We all did it, didn’t we?  UT was an incredible struggle that turned out wonderfully and made me who I am!

So on this note, I always look forward to college football making its way back, small cool fronts (not cold fronts) that make us 85 rather than 95, beer and grilling, and enjoying the long, shadowy days before winter.    I also seem to enjoy the autumn so much more now that I am an adult.  The stresses of life are typically evened out among 12 months, my time at home is not longer devoted to homework, projects or study time as it once was.  I can enjoy the fall.  For the last four years, I’ve enjoyed the holidays!  I never got to do that before in school!

Sometimes a season needs to change because it’s through those seasons you learn the strengths you didn’t even knew you had.  So here is my new season!

Happy Birthday, Paul! My Classic Album review: Flaming Pie

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Happy 70th Birthday, Sir Paul!  MACCA!  Mr. McCartney!  My imaginary boyfriend! (What?!)

Oh yeah.

Paul McCartney is 70 today, which is incredibly hard to believe.  Especially considering I have only been alive a little less than a third of his life, 70 seems like quite a success.

Six years ago, my family went to Paul McCartney’s 64th birthday party at the famous Austin movie theater, Alamo Drafthouse, and we ate cake, played kazoos, and sang ‘When I’m Sixty Four’ as a crowd.  It was hard to imagine he was 64, much less today’s big day.

So I want to review for a popular at the time yet possibly not as well known album of Paul’s, and a special one to me: ‘Flaming Pie’.  It was released in 1997, and was only about a year before the Lovely Linda passed away from breast cancer.  Being at the height of my Beatles fandom, I could not get enough Beatles music.  And Paul was my love.  I thought him talented, the best songwriter and incredibly cute (hey, I was 11 years old).  I’d spend my time listening to every Beatle song possible, fantasizing about meeting them, being friends with them, and kissing them, maybe?  There were few mental options for a 11 year-old when it came to sexuality.  All innocent stuff.

I also grew up on Wings.  Some people feverishly hate Wings (I’ve met and argued with them), but I think they are great and so much fun.  True, Linda couldn’t sing, but who cares?  Neither can Britney Spears.

When ‘Flaming Pie’ came out, I, for some reason, wanted to listen.  There weren’t any real singles, but I wanted to expand my love of Paul.  I would listen to this album late at night in my room, with only the light of my small stereo, absorbing the entire album.  It is filled with many emotions, tempos and has a very balanced ebb and flow of music, going from peaceful to pulsing in a matter of minutes, but it all fits.  Said to be written after the Anthology came out, McCartney suddenly had a surge of Beatles-inspired creativity.  The title, ‘Flaming Pie’ also rumored to be from John Lennon mentioning the ‘a’ in Beatles came from a dream he had about a man with a flaming pie.  No drugs there.

The opening, “The Song We Were Singing” was so beautiful and lended itself to a rousing chorus.  It is also apparently about the Lennon-McCartney writing process.  The main single, “The World Tonight” I think is so fun and a great mid-tempo song.  It also has the perfect range for me, so I would sing it as loud as I could whenever possible.

The parts that stuck out the most to me from ‘Flaming Pie’ were the hints of sexuality in the music and lyrics.  Paul was 50-something years old and he was still talking about having sex with his wife, loving her, being affectionate, and still keeping the flame alive.

I remember listening to ‘Somedays’ on loop because I thought it was the most beautiful song in the world, and, in my tween-age drama, I would cry with anxiety that I would never find my Paul.  I would never find a man who loved me, was affectionate or cared for me.  This song personified all the aspects I was looking for, and in fear I would curl up in my room at night and cry. Drama queen!  Now, great news since that fear has been remedied because I’ve found my Paul: a man who personifies all the qualities I projected on Perfect Paul.  In fact he is better, I’m married to him, and this song is even better now.

When Linda died, I played it the song for my sixth-grade class and my teacher, who was one of the best teachers I ever had and was an avid Beatles fan, became teary-eyed and sympathetic while the rest of the class didn’t get it.  But I didn’t mind.  I was fine going my own path.

“Young Boy” is a great, spread song that fills your entire head.  I was overjoyed when Paul played “Calico Skies” at his concert in Dallas two years ago, because I think it is a simple yet sweet song.  Very basic but effective.  I love that song.

The title song, ‘Flaming Pie’ is fun, upbeat, and had the naughty line (at least to this 11 year old), ‘Making love underneath the bed’.  Hot.  Plus it’s got a sweet piano solo.

So many wonderful songs on this album, including the comforting, lullaby-style “Little Willow”.  Again being 11-12 years old was rough, but it was so comforting hearing Paul tell me it would fine.  I still listen to that song today when I get upset or frustrated since that song transcends generations and situations.  I really would like to sing that song to my baby because it is so sweet and positive.

I really like the song “Beautiful Night” as the chorus is catchy, sweeping and epic.  And the best part is the tempo change in the end.  And then Ringo joins in.  Hello, fun!  The combination of the rocking beat with the orchestra is just so…lovely Paul McCartney.

But the surprise arrives with the final song on the album, “Great Day”.  I’m surprised it was only discovered by movie folks a couple years ago with Judd Apatow’s ‘Funny People’.  It is such a simple yet catchy and optimistic song that I could listen to over and over.  It’s also incredibly fun to sing with its bit of soul and a perfect hand patting song.  It is a great final song as it leaves you wanting more.  You leaving on a hanging chord that does not resolve.

It’s just a fantastic album that holds up over time.  It’s 15 years old (yikes) but is still relevant and contemporary.

Regardless of what you listen to, enjoy Paul’s birthday with some of his finest and travel back to the time you were a Beatlemaniac.

Jammin’ my Eggs! (wait…)

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I did it.  Last night was the first I’ve pick up my bass in a long time and played songs I did not know at all.  All those years of music theory paid off!

For those who are unaware, former and current members of the Eggmen and fellow Beatles fans gather every Wednesday at Waterloo Ice House from 5:30-7:30 to play Beatles songs acoustically.  I have been a few times and have a blast every time.

This week was different.  After being invited to play with the crew, and testing the waters, I gathered my bass, loaded the bus in the morning, and waiting patiently until the end of the day to play.  Now, the twist is that I don’t know most of these songs, wait, let me clarify: I’ve never played them on the bass before.  I know these songs very, very well, but I’ve never performed any of them.  So, armed with Chris’s songbook, chord names and lyrics, we set off.  And for the most part, I could hang!

I hadn’t played impromptu like that in years.  Sight-reading: connecting my eyes, to my brain, then down to my fingers was such a cathartic and comforting experience.  True, sometimes there was a disconnection (F# not F…whoops) but for the most part, for never playing some songs, I was so proud of getting up and doing something potentially embarrassing and disastrous.

I played an hour of the two hour set, as another bass player (who has been playing for 40 something years) sits in, too.  I don’t mind at all.  I just love playing regardless of how long it is.  Before I left, though, I got to do some singing.  It’s become a tradition that I play and sing Led Zeppelin’s ‘Rock and Roll’ (one week it would awesome if Robert Plant showed up. Take a break from Dart Bowl, man), and this week it was pretty solid as a group.  My voice was good, my playing was better and I felt like the crowd got into it.

I then sang ‘Oh! Darling’ by the Beatles.  Apparently, it is a little too high and…’later Paul’ for the guys in Eggjam to sing.  So I plucked away at my bass and sang, letting it all out.  It was a blast.

In the end, I was actually offered a 4 month residency at a club in South Padre Island — a one woman show with free accommodations on the island while I play there.  A gentleman in the audience is talent scouting music for his club and wants me to play.  Sounds fun…if I were a single, 20-something, who really wanted to be a musician (I am only ONE of those three).  I gave him my card, but don’t worry, Austin, I won’t be leaving anytime soon.  As much as I would love to work in the music industry, it isn’t to be a musician full time but to be an advocate of rock, women in music and just supporter of those who really do want to make money playing in clubs in South Padre Island.  Just like a woman likes to get hit on regardless of her relationship status, it is nice to be taken seriously and complimented as a musician.  *Raising the roof like Liz Lemon/Leslie Knope*

Besides, if I left for SPI, I wouldn’t get to come back and play Eggjam again!

Bass Track — I Wish by Stevie Wonder

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While Will is away at the fire station, I always find things to fill my time and not get so down.  With the wedding, it was tons of wedding things, now I’ve picked up my bass and/or my running shoes and either do an extra long workout or learn a new song.  I did both last night.

I had decided earlier in the day I wanted to learn ‘I Wish’ by Stevie Wonder.  When we were on our honeymoon, and it was our first moments on board, we had a drink on the top deck, viewed the grey, wet Vancouver skyline and instantly felt relaxed.  What was playing in the background on the giant outdoor screen?  Stevie Wonder’s 2008 live concert titled, “Live at Last”.  I am a fan of Stevie, and at the moment we were enjoying ourselves, some of his biggest hits were playing.  Whenever I hear that music now, I think of how happy we were on our honeymoon and the excitement of being on a cruise.

Awwwww…

One of the big hit in the background was ‘I Wish’, which many young ens may recognize as the sample for the terrible Will Smith rap in, what, 2000(?), “Wild, Wild, West”.  Sweet jesus.  So, so bad.

But if you’ve ever heard the original, which is a great song, it has a killer bass line that walks all over the board and definitely defines funk.  And feeling sentimental and wanting to relive those feelings again, I picked up my bass, found the song (and the tabs, yes I cheat), and began playing.

This is the song:

Very relentless bass line.  Sure enough, a couple hours of working at it (with dinner interspersed), I got it.  And what a song!  Lots of fun.  So much fun, I got this:

I got blisters on me fingers!  I am proud of all my blisters.  It means I rocked hard.

Now, is the song perfect? By no means, but does it sounds pretty good for a few hours of work.  I’ll keep updating on my bass ventures.  Off to practice!

Hey twenty-six.

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FYI — that is a Steely Dan reference, and I am unashamed.

My birthday.  I love birthdays.  Seriously.  I think they are the one day a year your requests are legitimized by the phrase, ‘It’s my birthday!’, including such scenarios as “I want to drink that whole bottle…”, “I’m wearing my Spanx and THAT dress…”, and the classic, “I’m puking in this hotel ice bucket, and I’m not even staying at a hotel…”.

Although there are those who say my generation was coddled and spoiled beyond our own survival or good, and perhaps I’m playing into it, I still believe everyone should get at least one day where they feel special.  One day where they get special recognition from all those they encounter.  So many days pass and slip through us without a notable change or acknowledgement of progress.  But the birthday is an internationally recognized annual marker that says, if nothing else memorable happened this year, I gained a year.  And if I don’t get cake any other day this year, today I will get free cake somewhere and will get waiters to insert my name into a simultaneously lackluster yet over-excited version of a congratulatory song that can be used for birthdays, anniversaries, or graduations.  Everyone deserves that equal ground.

But let’s be honest, I’ve felt special more than once this year (very special), so this birthday I’m totally content with reliving memories of the past few months and laying low.  Or sitting and thinking.  I remember turning 24 and hearing (and importantly understanding) Neil Young’s ‘Old Man’, and it struck a chord (pun intended).

“Old man, look at my life, 24 and there’s so much more…”

And I remember thinking of how much life I had in front of me and I was still so very young.  Granted, I’m only two years older, but what a whirl-wind two years!  This is the first birthday I feel absolutely at peace.  On our honeymoon, I sat on our balcony, drank wine, watched the cold, grey ocean splash by while silent, heavy mountains seemingly and effortlessly floated past and I happily meditated on my blessings and my joy that is my life.  Who gets this in their life?

So for this birthday my only requests are queso, beer, and some live music.  And the restaurant my family used to go to out near Spicewood, Texas when I was a little girl and we were meeting up with my gnradparents who lived out there.  It’s right next to the Hill Country Galleria, but back then, there was NOTHING out there, so I want to relive those memories and see how the restaurant is doing.  Sounds completely obtainable, doesn’t it?  And sounds completely awesome, doesn’t it?  I agree.

The Future is Nigh!

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Wow, what a whirlwind of excitement!  The wedding rocked, and the honeymoon is in 2 more days.  Holy bajesus.

But don’t worry, my fellow music lovers, I haven’t fallen off the wagon with music — just with writing.  Be prepared for show reviews (Experience Hendrix and Roger Waters), band and music-folk interviews (oh, these are good) and some NEW rock music I have been introduced to and am so very excited about.

It’s gonna be good.  But first I must relax in Alaska before I hit the Rock ground running…