Entire Attire Rant

My daughter (who shall remain nameless, due to the fact that one day she may be famous) takes drum lessons. I am sure that many of you have children who are in the same boat, either with piano, drum, voice, or euphonium lessons. One can never tell what a child might be interested in. Well at this moment she is eight years old, and did you know that children her age (unless a prodigy) don’t have any rhythm, nope, none what so ever. Plus she is the only female student of the particular drum teacher, which in itself says something. It seems that “girls” don’t usually play drums. I being the middle of the road parent that I am (minor feminist, I mean, I still like having the door held open for me) didn’t give it another thought that my little girl wanted to learn how to play the drums. And Santa brought them to her on Christmas so what is a mom to do – You get lessons. The deal was that she would play for 1 year without giving it up. That was my one and only rule, well that and you have to practice 15 minutes a day – but that was really Phillips rule. Phillip is her teacher and he is fantastic, lovely, charming and patient. He also plays with the brass band and symphony here in town.

Which brings me to this evening’s entertainment. Phillip was gracious enough to give us tickets to see him play with the Brass Band and it was fantastic. Enough can’t be said for the arts these days. Young people of the world listen up. Go to a concert that doesn’t include swearing at the top of your lungs, it just might be a worthwhile evening. My only pet peeve about the entire evening was the attire of some of the audience. Maybe I am just old fashioned – I can’t be that old fashioned I am just over 40. But when you go to enjoy a concert that people practice every day of their life to perform for you, show them some respect and dress appropriately for the evening. Looking good isn’t all that bad.

There is my rant for the evening. Enough said.

Neglecting your Loved Ones

Boiling water, is that all I’m good for these day. I remember a time we would make popcorn together before the movies on Friday night, and heat up the pizza leftovers on Saturday morning. Now it’s just boiling a cup of water for tea. I know that I am just a microwave, but throw me a potato won’t ya.

Just Happy To Be Here

My last post for the evening, it is getting late and when you look through slits of eyelids to edit your writing you are bound to miss something. I am writing every day – working on a screenplay I am going to assault my family with it during our family reunion this year. This isn’t my first screenplay and will surely not be my last; I like punishing myself this way. I am writing a Dramody this time, you know that cross platform of comedy and drama, but to be quite honest it should just be called drama because real life is funny.

I am getting to that age where I’m so damn happy that I wake up everyday that I have a hard time relating to people who are in a pissy mood. I find that I don’t mind waiting in lines at the grocery store, or the bank anymore because of this new philosophy. I am reminded of a person that I knew growing up who was my age now, then. This man couldn’t stand to have people talk at the dinner table (get a life buddy, that is what dinner is all about) and actually walked out of the Muppet Movie – (I am showing my age). These are the people who drop dead in their cars of a massive coronary because some Buick driving 80 year old has had their left turn signal on for the last 20 miles. So my thought for the day, don’t stress it, it all comes out in the end, and when you wake up in the morning tomorrow be seriously happy that you get to live another day. Who knows you might just win the lottery.

My Living Room

You know this place; it’s a place much like the one you live in. My living room isn’t much more then a place for stuff, a sofa, couple of chairs, the television and plenty of movies to go around. Of course there are walls and a ceiling, well maybe not. I have seen places in Arizona and New Mexico that could be called a living room that had no walls at all, only curtains hanging from thin wires stretched crossed pillars.

I guess my living room is more then just a room in the house. It is the place of happening, the room of memories. This is where Kelsey took her first steps, where many heated arguments took place and where, I’m sure, many more will take place. The sofa in this room is more then a place to rest your tired feet, it is the sick bed for all the family, the place for sacred conversations with my children, the place of oh so many naps and sees more than it's fare share of backsides. The chairs and the carpet are the same, play dough, juice, pie, you name it; it has been spilled on, thrown-up on and pooped on.

The walls at the moment are in disrepair because I'm taking down the last thirty years of dark paneling – lord I hate paneling. I am repainting and repairing. Owning a house with a living room means you do this from time to time. Now is the yellow time. I am in a French provincial mood this week and I want to see yellows and reds in this room for the next few years.

If the Kitchen is the heart of the house then my living room is the lungs, it’s what breaths life into a home. Kick off your shoes, plop down on the sofa; we have a movie getting ready to start. If you're lucky we might spill something on the new carpet and get the baptism over with while you're here.