The Time Machine Known as Music

I'm having an affair. 

It's been a lifelong thing, really, and I'm so head-over-in-heels in love.

Now before you think this is some racy, adulterous admission,

it's just not. 

The love affair I'm talking about is the one I have with music. 

It started when I was young . . . and once I fell in love,

there was no going back.

Music became my muse. 

My therapy. My escape. My sanity. My celebration. My release.

My voice when my own couldn't find the words . . .

Have you experienced this?

The overwhelming, soul-consuming powerful force that is music?

On more than one occasion, I have been driven to tears by the lyrics of a song,

the sound of a melody.

When I was sixteen, I got a speeding ticket on the highway . . .

and I still blame Prince. 

I had been driving home from my job at the mall, 

and I was listening to Delirious.

The song was so incredibly full of life and energy and ecstasy that I had to crank up the volume and dance. 

The club beat pulsated through the speakers of my dad's 1992 Pontiac Bonneville. 

I get delirious whenever you're near
Lose all self control baby just can't steer
Wheels get locked in place
Stupid look on my face

I sang at the top of my lungs and pictured myself in a music video,

and then a dance club,

and then my thoughts drifted to the boy who had turned me on to the song,

and well . . .

the red and blue lights of the police car behind me interrupted what would have come next. 

But I know to this day it would've been good.

I had gotten so lost in the song and the world it created for me that I must have driven a bit over the legal posted speed. 

Lose all self control baby just can't steer

Yup. Literally.

I was inspired to ramble on about all of this because of a song that popped up on my shuffle this morning as I work away at my desk . . .

From the first note, a tidal wave of nostalgia hit me,

and I had no choice, no say, I was powerless to fight it.

I was instantly taken back in time and I don't even know if I closed my eyes,

but despite being in my chair, at my desk,

it wasn't my office I saw anymore. 

The first note was all it took . . . 

and then the sound of Christine McVie's voice flooded my mind with even more memories.

I was standing in the corner of the tiny dorm room I inhabited in 1999.

Columbia, Missouri.

The walls were purple and my steps squeaked from the water squishing between my shower shoes and my feet. 

I had a towel turbaned on my head and a toothbrush poking out of the pocket of my bathrobe. 

I don't know why, but every morning when I would get ready for class,

I would listen to Fleetwood Mac's Everywhere. 

And because of it,

for the rest of time,

I will always always be taken back to 1999, to that Mizzou dorm room whenever I hear that song. 

There are so many other songs that are linked to memories like this for me.

I can still name all of the songs on the mixed tape I got from my first real high school crush.

No matter how much time passes, if Del Amitri's Roll to Me happens to play,

I can sing all of the lyrics.

Blind Melon No Rain means I'm sitting on Susan Tibbetts' roof, with our gang of friends, doing nothing really but having the time of our lives.

Train Hey Soul Sister will always make me smile, reflexively, as I think about LG and Count and law school.

Dave Matthews Crash was the soundtrack for my drive to Ripon to visit my high school/early college boyfriend. 

The Righteous Brothers You've Lost That Loving Feeling means a road trip to a Haunted House in Green Bay with my besties crammed in the backseat and a bunch of the football team in the back of my Dad's Jeep serenading us.

I could go on and on . . . forever really.

I love my love affair with music.

I love what music means to my soul and the emotions it can stir up in my heart.

And most of all,

I love the memories I will be able to share with my daughter as she gets older,

because a song comes on the radio,

and a part of my life's story is replayed for me. 

I hope her story has it owns soundtrack someday . . .

life is damn beautiful but somehow everything is just a little bit sweeter when there's a song playing in the background.

T.G.I.F. That is all. The End.

Work . . . is . . . insanity right now.

As in, if I cloned myself and there were four of me doing my job,

the fab-four posse of mes would still be drowning in too much shit to accomplish.

So you know, 

this.

Although it's not like a real Friday for me because I will be taking up residence in my office all weekend long.

Before you express sentiments of pity for me,

know that I am actually totally pumped about this.

Besides the fact I am a quasi workaholic,

 I love knowing that I will be able to get at least a little caught up by Monday.

And the 6 pack of Angry Orchard I plan to bring with me doesn't hurt my enthusiasm either.

The Tiny Human and legal husband (again, not to be confused with Husband, the professional football player and leader of the Pack) are venturing off for his family's belated celebration of Christmas in a few hours,

and I I will remain here,

 digging myself out from the piles and piles of shit-on-a-stick that are consuming my office (and my soul) and causing me ulcers and anxiety attacks. 

I have an appeal brief to write and a memo to research and draft on choice of law provisions between Wisconsin and South Carolina . . .

wait, what?!? 

You got bored and stopped actually paying attention?!!?

Shame. Shame.

Not.

True Statement. 

T.G.I.F.F.

If you aren't keeping up and haven't figured out what the extra "F" is for,

we likely shouldn't be friends.

Happy Friday all and let the good mojo juju vibes begin for Hubs and my Packers!

How We Roll On Our Crazy Train

I feel like my last few posts have been a bit heavy . . .

so in attempt to get back to what we (mostly) intended this blog to be,

I shall present a real life example of why LakeGirl and I are soul mates. 

The short answer is: we're the same kind of crazy and we embrace being weirdos whole-heartedly,

without ever passing judgment. 

For example . . .

as I was "cleaning" and purging my Pinterest boards,

because really, who doesn't do this now and then for fun,

cough cough OCD Type A freaks like me aside cough cough,

I came across this picture and the following two-year-old exchange between me and LG.

Caption: Well hello there Vampire Bill.

LG: I'm really distraught because it appears true blood is NOT available on nextflix. what. the face.

SWMNBN: Well that doesn't seem appropriate. Also. My phone is dead but we seem to be pinning at the same time. So I needed to tell you I saw the preview for The Lucky One. 1) Zefron. Woah. No words. 2) See Number 1 Again please. 3) We MUST see this. I sense Charlie St. Cloud. But hotter. And better.

LG: um 1) I never actually saw the previews, just a movie poster. will be fixing immediately. 2) what's wrong with violet now?? 3) I enjoy how we've replaced FB wall-to-wall posts with pinterest pin-to-pin posts.

LG: well shit. just watched it. and woah. agreed no words. we're seeing this the day it comes out. no question.

LG: p.s. I think he got hotter.

LG: p.p.ps. it appears there is once again water in this movie. which is great news.

SWMNBN: This is my new Facebook. Fo' Sho. Homeboy. And... yes. Hotter. By a lot. Didn't think that was possible. Further, he has a tattoo. I realize it is a fake for the movie, but still. You know how I feel about ink. Pretty sure I should rewatch the trailer now. happy Wednesday morning to me.

So like I said. Absolute crazy. 

And to fully appreciate this, you need to understand our own weirdo language, 

and the fact we name inanimate objects in our life.

Violet = my phone.

Phillipe = her Keurig

Frank = her old Tahoe

etc, etc, etc.

And I'm sure there's more underlying weird back stories you would need to fully appreciate or follow along with this pinterest comment discussion,

but you should get the point.

She's one million percent my weirdo equal. 

And I love her to pieces because she embraces loving the silly randomness in life right along with me.

New Year's Resolutions

Happy 2015 all!

My house is still knee deep in the plague . . .

so our New Year's Eve, which also marked my 34th year on Earth,

was pretty low key.

For the two seconds I was able to distract the Tiny Human away from the TV long enough to pause the Sofia the First episode we've been watching on repeat for days in order to steal a glimpse at the raucous debauchery that was taking place in Time's Square,

I had to chuckle to myself.

It really wasn't that long ago I used to leave my house to ring in the New Year . . .

I would wear sequins and sparkly things and heels and make-up.

I would toast my friends with a glass filled with some variety of adult-oriented beverage,

and actually be awake as the ball dropped while one year conspicuously become a part of our past while a new one took its place as our present. 

As I sat in my bed this New Year's Eve, 

at 7:00 p.m., 

wearing elastic-wasted sweatpants and a ratty sweatshirt, 

which was entirely crusted over on one shoulder with dried snot from the wiggly little human with unkempt hair who was picking her nose next to me because she had already overused my arm as a kleenex,

the cheers and noise I heard were not coming from a party-loving crowd but from that same tiny little human,

who was demanding we put Sofia back on while at the same insisting I refill her sippy cup of milk.

I grabbed her cup,

which was next to mine, filled with extra-strength Mucinex dissolved in apple juice by the way,

and had to laugh.

I think for the most part I had always, always wanted to be a mom . . .

but do any of us as we dream of being moms really dream of this?!?

Probably not. 

And yet I would not have wanted to ring my new year in in any other way.

Not gonna lie . . .

I do miss the sexiness and glamour and spontaneity now and then of my life-before-the-tiny-human.

But I miss it for mere minutes. 

Fleeting moments at best.

This little girl of mine is the absolute love of my life.

I would trade a sequined-mini-skirt and a night on the town any day of the week for an otherwise mundane night-in with her.

So the new year's resolutions I plan to make have less to do with bettering me,

and more to do with bettering us. 

I think life is so much about balance and I totally admit that I want to and need to get back into doing some things just for me,

because a happier, healthier me will mean a happier, healthier mama for her.

And I owe her adventure and exploration and fun,

and I plan to do my best to fight against the excuses I have let bog us down along the way,

with the result being a stale routine where more often than not we go through the motions and check things off a list instead of really truly living.

Not a bad start, this list.

I plan to take more deep breaths. React less and appreciate the moment more.

Be less uptight.

It really will be okay if the laundry doesn't get folded tonight or we go to bed with the family room a messy disaster. 

I will be more patient and pick my battles.

I will forgive more and then try to forget, too.

I will continue to screw up and fall short and do things I wish I hadn't,

but when I do I will be quick to say I'm sorry,

and be an example that it's not perfection we should seek but a constant and vigilant desire to always be a little better than we were before.

I think this is going to be an amazing year. 

I can just feel it.

So what do you say?

2015- let's do this. 

Like a boss.

All I Want For Christmas . . .

is to be healthy.

I was so so excited for Christmas this year.

The Tiny Human was, like, really getting it. 

The anticipation for Ho-Ho to come, the story of Baby Jesus . . .

all of it.

And then we all came down with the plague.

And instead of sparkle and magic and fairy dust,

there was Kleenex and Mucinex and the cool, wet vapor from our Froggy humidifier.

Blah.

I missed Christmas Eve church for the first time in my entire life. 

We sort of did presents, but it was a totally pathetic attempt, really.

We've spent three days in jammies, tucked away in our germ-infested cave of a room,

wiping noses, forcing down fluids, and sleeping in drug-induced comas.

So needless to say, I was starting to feel a bit grinchy and bitter about the whole thing.

And then I decided I needed to start changing my perspective. 

2014 has been a lot of this type of thing-

unexpected chaos that thwarts my otherwise grand plans for life,

let down and hurt and disappointment.

But I wonder if if has to be that way . . .

or if I am letting life get the best of me.

Silver linings.

That's what 2015 is going to be about.

Finding the good. 

Being grateful for what is, not what isn't.

And even though we didn't really get to do Christmas like I had planned,

in some ways,

it was it's own sort of magical.

I got three days of rest and non-stop cuddling with my girl.

I didn't get out of jammies, and that's something to celebrate.

And I got to watch almost every single one of my favorite Christmas movies.

Along with the Polar Express and The Grinch about a hundred times a piece.

So not too shabby after all.

Moustached Llamas and Other Christmas-y Magic

Did you know Christmassy is a real word?

As in totally legit and in the dictionary.

And by dictionary, of course I mean a real dictionary, not the Urban Dictionary or Unwords.com.

I use the word all the time but I have always assumed it was just a weirdo part of mine and LakeGirl's made up language. 

Because we actually have one of those, you know.

But it's real. 

Downside is... the real word is spelled Christmassy. 

{pause . . . crickets . . .}

I left some blank space there so everyone could take their time getting to the conclusion I hope you all reach.

Are you there yet?

ChristmASSy

You can't have ass in Christmas-y. 

The word literally means exploding with magic and happiness because it's Christmas. 

That does not include an ass.

Anyway. 

This is why I choose to spell it like this- Christmas-y. 

With a nice little hyphen and one less "s" so we can avoid this whole ass business and just focus on what an amazeballs adjective Christmas-y is because as I said before it means magic and twinkle lights and all things Christmas. 

There just isn't an ass in Christmas-y.

I absolutely love, love, love this time of year.

Love.

Love Love.

I've struggled a little bit since getting married because I unintendedly (not sure that's a real word) married Ebeneezer Scrooge and sometimes despite my best efforts to feel all warm, fuzzy and magical about Christmas-y things, his grumplestiltskin self sort of sucks the happiness out of it.

I didn't put up a tree for my daughter's first Christmas. 

I remember being all jazz hands and Christmas carol singing under my breath as I chattered on and on about hiking into the woods to find the perfect pine.

In return, I got a blank stare and a grunt. 

I know I should have cheerfully said "Bah Humbug"

 and set off to make Christmas magic on my own . . .

 but it's just so hard to keep up the energy and happiness when you get absolutely none of it in return. 

So instead I turned my Christmas switch off and stopped trying.

I know I can't do that anymore. 

Because my daughter deserves the chance to experience this magic. 

So I'm gonna give her magic.

Christmas-y magic things come in all shapes and sizes.

Including turquoise pajamas with scarf-wearing Llamas. 

Who also happen to have tiny little Hitler-moustaches.

You see, this is why Christmas time is the most magical time of the year.

Because there is magic and happiness and an extra scoopful of joy in absolutely everything.

You just have to chose to see it.

In other magical news, I'm going to quit my day job and start a present wrapping business.

Probably not for real, but I do dream about it . . .

Things that bring me joy. 

The Pfister Hotel in Milwaukee. If you haven't been,

go now.

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Just get there.

I got to be there last week for a seminar and I actually just stood in the lobby doing nothing for about 15 minutes.

I hoped that by standing there long enough perhaps Christmas would seep into my veins. 

I think it worked. 

We also enjoyed Christmas-y magic in the anticipation of a visit from St. Nick.

When I was a kid, instead of stockings, we left out shoes. 

At some point, I came up with the genius idea to leave out one of my dad's shoes instead of my own.

He wore a men's size 12, which clearly trumped the size of my own footwear. 

I'm pretty sure I thought I had pulled a fast-one on the man in the red,

since he would have to bring more presents to fill up the giant shoe I had left by the fireplace.

In the end, my trickery was for naught . . .

 I got the same amount of loot as my little sister,

who of course I enthusiastically encouraged to leave out her own peanut-sized shoe.

Model older sibling I was . . .

The Tiny Human left out her little boot and was absolutely thrilled to find it chock-full on the morning of the 6th.

Some of the goodies were actually courtesy of her fairy godmother, LakeGirl.

I mean, who else would track down the only Christmas book in the world about a unicorn?!?

Such a win.

Somehow the month is half past . . .

and another year is threatening to be a part of history in no time at all.

How does this happen?!!

I swear, I swear I make a conscious effort to slow down, and soak it in . . .

but time marches on.

I've always thought this life of ours is never quite long enough.

And then I read this on a card the other day . . .

Life is long. It is living we risk being short on.

Christmas-y magic. 

Living every single moment you've got. 

And what better way to really start this business about living than with threads like this that speak the truth. 

Thankful(ish)

Hi. 

Remember me? Likely not . . .

since I sort of just disappeared for a month or so. 

But here I am. The pretend girl, who pretends to blog, albeit very infrequently.

But I will be better about that.

Or I won't. Meh.

So I figured nothing screams "Welcome back to my blog!" better than a whiny, woe-is-me sort-of depressing and much too heavy post. 

So let's get to it, shall we?

I know this. 

I swear to the sweet baby Jesus, I really, really do.

And 99% of the time, if I just take a deep breath, or two, or three,

I can snap myself out of whatever funk I might be in and drag myself out from under the black cloud I am convinced has rooted itself perfectly in place over my head, 

and find a way to see some sunshine. 

But then there's the little bitch 1% where I just. can't.

And wouldn't you know, my inability to get over myself and be really, really thankful for the amazing things in my life happens to take root the day before the holiday where we are supposed to take stock of the blessing in our life.

Very funny, fates. 

Your timing is impeccable. 

Truth be told . . . for the last . . . well, let's just leave the amount of time part a secret.

For the last (fill in the blank), I've so very much wanted to answer the question,

"Are you okay?" like this . . .

And since we're all in the whole tree of trust, spill your honest soul zone right now,

I will admit I am being a little melodramatic. Ish.

In an effort to feel less like I do now and more anything other than I do now,

I am not going to get into all of the details. But the long and short of it is this . . .

I've lost hope, which means when things get tough, and lately that's most of the time,

I struggle mightily to believe that "this too shall pass." Because it never does.

I just feel defeated.

And stuck.

And I am scared to death that I am not making the most of this all-too-short life we are given.

I'm smart enough to take stock of the things that are making me feel this way,

and yet I am a total chicken when it comes to making the choices that I think, and probably know, I need to make to do anything to change it.

So I'm stuck. On repeat. 

And I am thoroughly exhausted. 

The Tiny Human is the source of most of this exhaustion . . .

I started seeing a child psychologist a few weeks ago to help me deal with her explosive, manic, fiercely stubborn personality,

but I think the road ahead of us is reaaaaaaaly long when it comes to managing and hopefully changing her behavior.

So there you have it.

But I pinky-swear promise cross-my-heart that this little place of ours isn't going to be a constant dumping ground for my weary heart.

It's just that now and then it's sort of cathartic to release some of this stuff,

even if it's only onto a computer screen and out into the world where no one will ever really hear it. 

It's out there. And that's enough.

And just like, we're back to the fun-loving, light-hearted magical this place should be.

I present me, pregnant with my turkey baby. 

So here goes: there really is a lot to be thankful for. And I know that.

So despite my exhaustion and the nagging sadness in my heart,

this year, when I count my blessings, I will be especially grateful for these things:

Health. My own. My daughter's. My family's. Life has it struggles and obstacles and challenges, and that is simply unavoidable. But the people I love are healthy and they're here. They're living and breathing and able to fight back when the world tosses a curve ball their way. 

I am so very grateful for that.

My job and the people I am so very lucky to work with every day. It's not the paycheck or the insurance or the fringe benefits (although I am thankful for all of that stuff too) . . . it's being able to come to work everyday and truly enjoy the people I am surrounded by. It's the opportunity to become better at what I do every day because of the willingness of my partners to teach me. And it's the chance, the privilege really, to be a voice for people who need someone to speak up for them. To take someone who is broken, and help them fit their pieces back together. My job is all sorts of crazy stressful but it's all sorts of crazy good stuff too. And I'm grateful. 

Elastic-waisted sweatpants.

You know, to accommodate my turkey-impregnation.

(I can't end on all too serious note, now can I?)