I can front and say it's for my daughter, Jack White's biggest fan, but it's for me.  When the widget loads below, click it, and it'll spin like a record, baby.  Enjoy!



"Love Interruption" from the upcoming debut album, "Blunderbuss."  I know we're looking for it over here!

Golden Children, Freaks, and 20 Years.

20 years (and now a few months, since I took this post out of the draft back burner).  That's how long it's been since I graduated high school.  Reunion pictures circulating on Facebook, from the two high schools I went to, prove it.  Yet when the grocery shopping, bill paying and preteen raising duties are not weighing on me--like when I'm in my car with the sunroof open and the music cranked, or on a date with my husband (who I met in high school)--I still feel the girl from back then peeking through (the young part, not the awkward part).  Sometimes so much so, I feel like I'm just playing house and pretending to be an adult.  Sometimes it only feels like a few years have passed...but I've got to say, when I look at some of those pictures of my classmates, I can see those 20 years, and then some (yes, that sounds awful, I realize).  Some of yesterday's popular girls have held onto the same bangs that made them "hot" in the late 80's/early 90's...yeah, it doesn't work so much anymore.  Nor does the "party hearty" stuff I'm still seeing in picture captions and written all over the faces of the once-elite.

Whoever would've thought all those adults who told me that the golden children of my high school wouldn't be so golden in a decade or so would be right?  I was growing up the sensitive fat girl (or the goth girl, or the girl who got picked last in PE, or the girl with the unrequited crushes).  Back then, I just wanted the popular kids to stop their superior bullshit and leave me alone as I walked the quad or sat in Spanish class.  I wanted to write my tortured soul out on paper and have it noticed, be told the angst it dripped with made it amazing and that I was well on my way to being the next Plath (minus the death and all that).  I wanted to catch the eye of the guy with the eyeliner and the classic truck with the bondo all over it, and I wanted him to be overcome with the urge to kiss me and ask me out, and I wanted to be seen in that Ford monster.  And none of those things ever happened...back then.

But who'd have thought the swaggering jock who flipped carrots at me would end up squishy, bald and divorced?  Or that the cheerleader in the perfect clothes and make-up, with a poison pen for mean-girl notes, would have wrinkles, polyester pants and a job she hates?

Because the geeks, the freaks, the quiet kids, and the don't belongs...well, we end up with the long end of the stick, if we're patient, because we don't wear that stick out early on, I guess.  I've seen my fellow high school misfits get the educations, the money, the careers, the looks, the notoriety, the over-all happiness...most of all, I've seen them keep their empathy, humility, and senses of humor.  And since none of their success was handed to them, they develop an appreciation of it all.  20 years looks good on them.  Hell, it looks great on them, figuratively and more-often-than-not, literally.  (And they don't have to keep the same bangs or beer bong to prove themselves.)

Yep, it's true.  It does get better.  Much, much better.

Fairies from Falling Leaves...

Here's a peek (but just a little one) of how Autumn and the turning leaves of the east coast have inspired me when I'm not writing novel #2.  :)

http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Curious-Crow/187779446295
Come visit me on Facebook!  Feel free to show me some "Like" while you're there!



Then head to the website and see all my girls!
www.thecuriouscrow.com




*I know I haven't written here in awhile, but my focus is on completing my WIP--it's *almost* ready for beta readers, and I'm too excited to divert my thoughts to other writing topics.  In the meantime, I hope my fairies will suffice--they're me, too!

One Year.

September 18.  A year ago today I was both gutted and given a gift, all in one day.  My dad died last September 18th. But he waited for me to get to him, and he looked at me, and he smiled when I walked in the room.  For an entire year, my heart has flooded on me when I'm not expecting it--made my throat close and tears surprise me...but there is also laughter that breaks through when I think of him telling me my animals all have "hippie names" or myriad other Dad-isms.  A year ago today I found out it's possible to feel like a 30+ year-old half-orphan if a parent disappears. 

For the most part, my memories are happy, and I don't wallow in grief.  For the most part.  But on this day, I'll not censor the emotions as they come, rapid-fire.  Today I'll listen to the song I brought to him in the hospital, the one I haven't been able to listen to all the way through since. 

Tomorrow I'll pick back up and live in ways that honor him--little things he would have done: I'll throw the ball to my chihuahua, drive the winding road I wanted him to see so badly, and I'll marvel--just as he would have, if I'd have gotten him here--at the way the light falls through the trees.  Tomorrow I'll even do his "would-have"--the one he learned too late, but I learned from: I'll get my flu shot.

I love you, Dad.

Holidays, Duct Tape, the 18th, and Dad.

My first Father’s Day without my dad is coming. 

I’ve been thinking about that, off and on, since Mother’s Day.  The thing is that the 18^th of each month, for me, is lived a little differently since last September—there’s a subconscious sadness to that day, and about halfway through, I take note of the calendar, and I understand why.  Halloween (he was always the one to take me trick-or-treating—rather, running full tilt and falling in lava rocks—each year), his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, a new year…they’ve all come to pass, and with each I thought about what used to be for those days. 

But let’s be honest, I don’t need a specific holiday to remember my dad.  I think of him every time my husband pulls our utility trailer behind our SUV, because Dad took him outside and taught him how to drive with a trailer before we moved cross-country, and had he not also taught him how to back up with one, we might still be stuck somewhere.  I think of him when I see his gold chain peek up from my husband’s shirt collar—Brian hasn’t taken off Dad’s arrowhead necklace (which he wore for as long as I can remember) since it was given to him, and I love him all the more for that.  I think of him when WD-40, duct tape, Husqvarna or NASCAR is mentioned, and driving home from the grocery store last week, I saw my dad’s doppelganger, shirtless (as anyone who knew him could attest he always was), on a riding lawn mower, and I smiled because he’d have enjoyed being that guy.

Yeah, I think about my dad all the time, so why should one day be more profound than another?  Because to not have a dad to send a card to or talk on the phone with, on a day that’s specifically meant for one—that’s something else, entirely.  By now, I’d usually be deciding which nuts to send him (tradition), picking out either a sarcastic card or one with a Chihuahua on it (couldn’t go wrong with one of those), and my husband would be trying to procure a company t-shirt for him (because they were, for some reason, his favorite).  But not this year.  This year, someone’s missing from the equation, and there’s only one dad to buy for: my husband.

I think, this year, I’ll probably be more mindful of the gift my daughter and I have in my husband, the good dad he is to our girl.  And along with his card and present, I think I’ll tell him that.

To those who have dads around—who fuss at you, aggravate you…who love you and tell people behind your back how proud they are of you—take the time to make or pick out the perfect card this year, not just the one that “will do.”  Take an extra second to give a hug you mean, not just one in passing, and when you say “I love you” this year, think about all the ways you mean it, and trust that—though your heart says it with the same conviction when they’re gone—it feels much different when the person you say it to isn’t there to say it back.

And to those, like me, who have dads with them in spirit this Father’s Day, know that you honor them by mindfully taking the time to appreciate the other good dads in your life.  And know that if you listen hard enough, they're probably still fussing at you…but more than that, know they never stop loving you, either.

*How often, you might ask, can duct tape come up?  Quite often around here, actually, because duct tape creations are the hottest thing since silly bands at my daughter's school.  My mom and I have come to the conclusion that dad would be proud.

*Husqvarna?  After his Bultaco (which I always thought was Bull Taco) dirt bike, he got his Husky.  Brian's looking for a new lawnmower, and Husqvarna keeps coming up in his "wants."

QUESTION: Who are you missing (even if not a dad)?  How do you honor them?  Feel free to share a tribute about them and your ways of remembering in the comments section.  :)

Also See:
-To a Dad, From a Daughter  
-It Is Written; It Is So.
        

Press On, Pop Off.

I'm about to date myself here, but I tend to do that often--once more won't kill me. 

Back when Lee Press-On Nails first came out, I was a seventh grader with a bad hairdo, braces, and a want to be beautiful...or at least win the heart of a certain boy who, looking back, didn't deserve mine (not that he wanted it).  I'd discovered make-up, specifically, "Faded Denim" eyeshadow and a tube of white-pink lipstick that--in actuality--made me look like I was about to vomit.  When those damn nails debuted, I knew they were the last step I needed to make me an instant-Madonna.

The great secret of Lee Press-Ons, was an uber-thin glue film stuck to tabs of brown paper.  Once that miracle of 80's hi-techness was applied--in my case, partially on, partially gummed up into an uncomfortable mess that glued my nail to my skin--the pre-painted nail (mine, a shimmering pink--I know, I know) was...well, pressed on.  Supposedly, the great wonder of these nails were that they wouldn't come off until you wanted them to.  Easy on, control of off.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that I wanted them off as I made a graded at-home, Home-Ec meal for my parents.  POP.  One off in the biscuit dough.  Stop and put it back on.  Repeat.  At some point, my dad came in and saw my beautiful nails in his dinner, and my Lee Press-On Nails became his favorite "remember when" moment FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.  We'd watch Wheel of Fortune, Lee Press-Ons would be a sponsor, and there he'd go, chuckling and telling me all about those nails like I hadn't been there.  As an adult, if my nails were done, I'd be met with, "Remember Lee Press-On Nails...?"  To say it got old is an understatement, and I had no humor about the incident.  Eye-rolling and growling, yes.

...until my daughter saw some Bonnie Bell nails at Target.  OMG, she HAD to have them, and I shot her down, mean mom that I am.  But the Easter Bunny had some shopping to do, and they found their way into her Easter Basket.  Two sets--one with peace signs, one that says, "Go Green," ONE different-sized nail in each set for customizing sizes (sure), all with chunks of that snot-glue that's supposed to keep them on for 72 hours.  I applied them yesterday, warning as I did (so the heartbreak wouldn't be as bad) that they probably weren't going to last through the night, and I centered those pieces of peace-sign plastic up as best as I could, trying to minimize the appearance of her natural nail as best I could (totally impossible on her thumbs--they look like hard plastic stripes down the center of a fresh pink fingernail).  Within an hour, one popped off, and we had to use an extra nail.

She clicked them, tapped them, stared at them, smiled at them, and I remembered biscuit dough.  As Brian and I put her to bed for the night, I had visions of her waking up in the morning with fingernails clumped and hanging throughout her hair and along the length of her bed.

And I couldn't help but think about how, if he were still alive, I'd be on the phone telling my dad that Air got her first set of Press-Ons, and I knew the exact laugh I'd hear.  I woke up in the middle of the night, hearing my dad's voice saying, "Remember Lee Press-On Nails?"  And for the first time, ever, I laughed about it.

(When groggy Brian asked, "What?" next to me, I kept my secret to myself with a smile.)

To my surprise, only one went MIA through the night, and Air quickly found it when she sat down and got stabbed.  Like a trooper, she pressed it back on, avoided using her hands at all costs (which she totally milked), and I dropped her off to school for the day, I'm sure, feeling super-fly.  (Added after school--they were all gone when I picked her up.)

I have a feeling at least half will be gone by the time I pick her up, but  that's okay.  She finally got her nails, and I finally got to laugh about mine.  Thank you, Easter Bunny.


...and yes, Dad, I remember Lee Press-On Nails.

Challenge Day Seventeen. The One I Often Hear on the Radio.

I don't listen to the radio, so Disney/Nick channel is going to have to do. ;)  I've been through repetitive songs by Big Time Rush (I tease Air with killer dance moves), the Jonas Brothers (with Air completely mocking them and/or making gagging noises), numerous Selena Gomez tunes (I mimic some of her signature singing poses--and give them names--to make Air laugh), and currently a song from Lemonade Mouth (haven't figured out what to do with that yet), which is just about tied for the one I'm posting.

"Who Says" by Selena Gomez--Not a fan, but I have to say, as the mom of a preteen girl who has to grow up in this ofttimes materialistic, egotistic, sexist, ageist, appearance-focused, grass-is-greener world, I hope my child doesn't just listen to the words of this song, but HEARS them. So if I have to hear a kid song again and again, this one isn't the worst I could be subjected to--it may just be the best.

And with that, I end this challenge!  FIN.