tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-143688732024-03-07T18:35:57.694-05:00Meanderings and MusingsMiscellaneous brain-ramblings, my take on current events, and a host of general stream-of-consciousness thoughts. You know: your basic BS.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.comBlogger567125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-80513601280878570062023-02-12T18:33:00.001-05:002023-02-12T18:33:21.291-05:00Walking Each Other Home<p>I wanted to share with you a thing of true beauty I saw today at church. </p><p>Let me preface it by saying while I am no fan of Clemson University athletics, I love one of the programs that the University has called ClemsonLIFE. It is a collegiate experience that helps young people with intellectual disabilities prepare for employment and independent living. There is classroom coursework, social interaction, career guidance, and much more. It is a wonderful program. </p><p>In our parish is a young man whose name I don’t know. But he is faithfully at Mass every Sunday morning. Based on just the outward appearances, i assume he is one of the ClemsonLIFE students. From just the observations at a distance, you can tell he is a kind soul. Sometimes he comes up for Communion with the choir instead of with the regular cadence of the congregation but you know, it’s ok. </p><p>We also have a sweet lady I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for almost 20 years. The ravages of time are taking their toll on her physical and cognitive abilities, and it seems to be worsening. I worry so much for her. She’s had several falls over the last few years, broken bones, and it’s hard to watch her struggle physically to stand and such. Her husband - also getting frailer himself but still sharp - will lean down and whisper, “don’t worry about standing, just sit” at certain portions of Mass.</p><p>Today, she decided to get a head start on the Communion line a little early…. before her husband could stop her. But the young man who was sitting at the end of the pew saw her and ran over to help steady her. He stood with her the whole time until it was time for us in the choir to line up. He made sure she was okay. He was offered the spot in line right behind her, but deferred to her husband before getting in line. He walked back with them both to the choir area, made sure she was okay, then took his seat for prayers. The two collegiate girls sitting next to him in the pew gave him warm smiles to thank him. I don’t know if he saw them, though, as he was focused on his prayers at that point.</p><p>You know, a lot of theologians and ponderers like me would do well to imitate the young man. He saw a need and responded. He followed through. He did what was needed at the time. He didn’t care if it was within the proper “order” of things. He just loved. </p><p>A good lesson for us all.</p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-91956534317117305782021-10-25T21:15:00.001-04:002021-10-25T21:15:35.328-04:00One More Time AroundSo today has been my 52nd birthday. I’m thrilled to be here! Although I sometimes joke that “the next time my name appears in your crummy newspapers, it had better read ‘Blanche Devereaux COMMA 39…” But really, I’m perfectly happy to state my age. <div><br></div><div><br></div><div>It sometimes feels hard to believe I’m 52. I still feel in my head that I’m in my late 20s or early 30s. My body tells me otherwise, especially with going through another PT regimen. I also see it as 52 years worth of fodder for an eventual story. It’s there and I will tell it somehow. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>But for today, I am content and overwhelmed by the love and care of friends! </div>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-56703825092266709672021-05-30T16:33:00.001-04:002021-05-30T16:33:25.279-04:00My Crazy Mutt<p>Kendi definitely is not a normal dog. Treats (as an incentive or reward) do not faze him. Toys are not his thing. He loves a good car ride as long as it involves going to the dog park. He loves a good chase at the park. People still scare the bejeezus out of him.</p><p>But what also makes him a bit different is his walk. When he trots from the back fence up to the deck, it’s almost like watching dressage. A funky dressage, but not a typical dog trot — like legs straight out, in a dog show trot. It’s wild to watch.</p><p>i wonder how he learned it.....</p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-30626519885917089372021-04-09T21:51:00.001-04:002021-04-09T21:51:00.093-04:00“So what do you do”<p>I gotta be honest. I hate that phrase. I hate it because it automatically classified us based on our jobs.</p><p>So what <b><i>do</i></b> I do? </p><p>I avidly follow the Atlanta Braves and pray every year for a World Series title. I live - or more often, die by paper cuts - with the Gamecocks. I listen to all types of music but primarily 90s alternative and can tell you more about the Big Four from Seattle (and others) than you would ever want to know. I love live music and missing all those shows this past year has made me cranky. I sing in my church choir and with an a capella group and in the shower and the car and any other place it’s allowed. I love to go in thrift stores to see what I can find and if I had the whatever to see my grandiose Flea Market Flip momentary whims come to life, I’d need a 6000 square foot house. I write, not all that well, but I write because I can’t imagine not writing. I paint, nothing that will ever hit a gallery but purely for the love of creating something. I play piano incredibly poorly and guitar even more poorly. I laugh at horrible puns and can quote so many movies it’s unreal. And there’s so much more that I do.</p><p>In order to pay for the things I do, I work in customer service. It’s not a glamorous job, but I’m good at it and I get paid nicely to handle other people’s problems. Some are easy, others complex. They’re all paying the bills and allowing me joy in my life. I have awesome customers and awful customers but they’re all waiting on my assistance. One of my technicians asked one day how I managed it all and I laughed and said, “overwhelming anxiety. Fear I’ll mess it up. That’s how.” I wasn’t joking but I was laughing.</p><p>I’ve learned through doing this work — and in 16 years of experience at this company — that my ability to think ahead and consider all the components of a service call come into play.... what do I need to make sure that accounting or billing or inventory or purchasing will need to know about this customer, this location, this technician? Because I’ve been the person in accounting going back asking why an invoice is unpaid, and I’ve been the purchasing person ordering the same part over and over for the same customer.....</p><p>And while I’m proud of what I do and the work and knowledge that goes into it, it doesn’t define me. It’s not the only thing about me. It doesn’t even touch the surface of who I am and such. </p><p>So I really do think we need to reframe “so what do you do” into something else entirely....</p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-47742409145816829942021-02-22T22:35:00.001-05:002021-02-22T22:35:03.575-05:00Five Years Ago Tonight... <div>Five years ago right around this time, on another Monday evening, I was getting home from our monthly a capella group practice. I walked into what I thought was a normal evening at home. Suddenly from the bathroom, I heard my dad yelling, “Sit up! What’s going on? Hey! Sit up!” </div><div><br></div><div>I looked into the room where my brother was and said “let’s go. Something is way off.” Mom had apparently slumped forward as she was TCB. My dad was in there with her because she’d become such a fall risk — and with a glass-paned corner shower, he was very afraid of her falling into it and cutting herself badly. After she slumped forward, dad sat her up against the tank but she kept sliding down. The three of us managed to get her into a seated position but it didn’t last long. </div><div><br></div><div>We decided to try to get her up and out to the car for a trip to the ER. Herding jello would have been easier. Mom had zero ability to stand on her on. We got her on her feet and to her rollator. She remained hunched over. When my dad pushed on her hips to get her standing straight, she started going straight down to the floor. I had Dad and Richard sit her back in the floor. I looked at Dad and said, “I’m calling EMS. There is no way the three of us can get her out of this room and into a car. They’ll have to take her on a gurney.” I knew dad would be worried about the cost (as would mom) but I looked at them and said “as long as my tax dollars are paying for your Medicare....”</div><div><br></div><div>The EMT’s were there soon and at least got her out of the floor. They got her seated onto the chair part of the rollator — long enough to get her onto a gurney. About 10:20 the ambulance drove away.</div><div><br></div><div>She didn’t ever return. They sent her from the small community hospital she adored to the larger hospital in their chain for additional cardiac care. I called twice a day, always on the way to work in traffic, to speak with the nurse to see how she was. On Wednesday night I went to visit and she’d gone way downhill from when my brother saw her that afternoon on his lunch break. I’ll never know for sure but my dad and I think she had some sort of stroke or something else. She was pretty much non-responsive most of the time after that.</div><div><br></div><div>By Saturday, her kidneys were failing. The doctor moved her to cardiac ICU for additional monitoring but also told us to start thinking about our decisions. We did a lot of crying, a lot of praying, a lot of pondering.</div><div><br></div><div>I called my boss to tell her and let her know I wouldn’t be in — she said to take all the time I needed. She cried on the phone with me. Within five minutes, I had texts from all my coworkers offering their kindnesses.</div><div><br></div><div>Mom had some lucid moments. She spoke with some of my dad’s relatives that next week. But she slept more often than not — 23 out of 24 hours. I logged into work that next Wednesday, when Dad rang me: the doctor wanted to meet with us. I rushed down there as soon as I dressed. Mom greeted me with a big “Hey Annette!” And it was all I could do to hold it together. Those were her last lucid words to me. The doctor met us: the tests were not improving and her kidneys were kaput. Dialysis wasn’t an option — if we couldn’t get her into the car in the shape she was in that week before, how were we going to ever manage getting her to a dialysis center? And for what? Was her life going to ever be better? Our other option was hospice, and in her shape, at the local Hospice House. With very heavy hearts, we agreed to have her assessed. </div><div><br></div><div>I was there when the nurse checked her out and said, “yep, she’s a prime candidate for hospice care.” It weighed so heavy on me. Dad and Richard had gone home to rest. My cousin showed up with dinner for me, and she was the first person I told of our decision. </div><div><br></div><div>I remember her going to Hospice House the next day. It turned SO cold and I came home to check on Maddox (and have him say his goodbyes to his Nanny. I walked out onto the carport and flurries fell. It was freaky. I took him into the room and mom — all drugged up in morphine patches and Ativan — reached for him to pet him. He sniffed her for a while, went down to the foot of her bed, and whimpered. He knew.</div><div><br></div><div>i went back on Friday afternoon, taking shifts so Dad and Richard could rest. I sat with her, I sang to her, I talked to her, I sat in silence and discomfort. At 5:00 she started to rouse and I felt all my anxiety surface. Was I watching the end? Would I have time to call Dad and Richard? </div><div><br></div><div>She said one last word: “aaaaahhhhhhhmmmmm.” Her arm. She had dislocated her shoulder back on the 22nd somehow. They found it on an MRI later in the week. They couldn’t operate on her, so they had no alternative except to manually pop it back into place and constrain her on that side. And in all she’d been through in 10 days, her arm still bothered her most. </div><div><br></div><div>I found the nurse and she brought morphine. She had to massage it down mom’s throat; she could no longer swallow on her own. And she had an accident in the meantime. A couple of nurses came in to fix her up. They were so patient and caring even in the mess and muck.</div><div><br></div><div>About 20 minutes later, one of my mother’s cousins stopped by for a last visit. I was so drained I looked at her and said, “I’m going home. She’s just been changed, they just gave her morphine so she won’t be too responsive. I’m exhausted. Bye.” I couldn’t even muster the words to be a gracious hostess. So to speak....</div><div><br></div><div>The call came the next morning, 6:04 am. When they asked to speak to my dad, and I offered to relay a message and they said they’d hold, I knew.</div><div><br></div><div>She had passed around 5:55 am. It happened more quickly than the nurses realized, enough that they knew it would be useless to call us in.... we wouldn’t make it in time. Mom was not in a family-sized room. They only had one bed left when mom was admitted, and we were lucky to get it. So they held her hands as she made her last flight.... I don’t have any guilt however. Our first moments there, one of the nurses told us, “don’t leave this room without saying anything you think you need to say. You may not get another chance.” I had said everything I needed to that day before.</div><div><br></div><div> And in five years, I still miss my mom. I miss her, but I do not wish her back. She is fully healed. She isn’t beset by the aches and of old age, of heart disease, of fibromyalgia, of unacknowledged anxiety disorder (because oh noooo, no one in HER family was crazy, noooo sir!). It is different with my brother: he was taken too young and I would wish him back. Not that he would come back.... but you know.</div><div><br></div>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-66607191729445781232021-01-18T20:58:00.001-05:002021-01-18T20:58:56.259-05:00Family Memories <p>My aunt’s passing has gotten so many of the cousins talking, in the best way. We are sharing memories that go beyond just our own immediate families but into our extended ones as well — even the “other sides.”</p><p>i must say that this is a time when social media has been a blessing rather than a curse. It’s brought up those “oh yeah, that’s right!” kind of things — like when a cousin reminded me a few weeks that his uncle-by-marriage on his other side was the attorney for a large state university’s board of trustees, and had more or less authored the severance deal when one of their high-profile coaches found himself on the wrong end of the NCAA’s investigative arm. </p><p>And today, another cousin reminded me how much my other grandmother had been loved by my dad’s family. I’d often heard over the years how “Miss Prince” was so well-regarded by my dad’s mom, siblings, and their families. She and I were talking today about my aunt and her <b>amazing</b> strength — and I mentioned that I’d been there before too (having to be strong for others when I wasn’t feeling it myself). We started talking about my grandmother and she said, “oh yes, you were her shadow when you were a kid.”</p><p>I suppose I did, in many ways. My granny was my world. She was my first roommate and always made me feel like I was the only person in the room. And I probably repaid the devotion. I felt protective of her because of her disabilities.</p><p>And my dad’s family felt just as warmly toward her. I know they knew about my grandfather’s untimely passing, and how my mom and grandmother had been making it work as best as they could. They may have felt just as protective. </p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-70147528199456702482021-01-15T19:37:00.001-05:002021-01-15T19:37:51.057-05:00Fading, fading<p>Earlier this week, my cousin texted me to let me know his grandmother (my aunt) was in the hospital. Today I got the text: “when you get a moment, please call me.” </p><p>I’m no dummy. That’s never good news. For roughly the last 11 years, my cousins calling direct has almost certainly meant bad news, and too often the worst kind. And so it was today as well. My aunt suffered an unexpected cardiac arrest, and was unable to be resuscitated. My dad’s only remaining sister is gone, almost 3 years after her other sister. Now out of the seven, only four remain, all boys.</p><p>My aunt Peggy was my Shero, in so many ways. I could tell a million reasons why but suffice it to say that it was her outlook. My dad’s family is notoriously stoic. Up until they all got older, they didn’t say much (but my cousins and I can attest to how CHATTY they’ve gotten in old age). Each of my dad’s siblings have taught me something, and for me, with Peggy it was resilience. She has overcome things that would drive lesser mortals to their knees. She did it with this sense of one deep breath in, one long exhale out, and “okay, now we know, what comes next?” attitude. A moment to reset and then come up swinging. </p><p>And she did so with tremendous love and caring. You were always welcome at her house, around her table. She was a sharp cookie and no pushover but she had a lot of empathy and care. </p><p>That’s who I want to be: a woman of strength, resilience, empathy, love. I have a long way to go to get anywhere in Peggy’s league. </p><p>Godspeed Aunt Peggy. After you have seen your husband and son again, please give all the relatives my love. I can see my brother laughing it up with you already. And I’ll see you one day.</p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-53933585528571325682021-01-10T19:14:00.001-05:002021-01-10T19:14:50.126-05:00Some Sunday Evening Thoughts<p>So let’s just start out with this: I have a <b>lot</b> of opinions about a plethora of topics, all from just this week. And I mean <b>a lot</b>. Probably enough for a novella. But right now, it all feels so raw and so sharp that I’m still processing it. Until I can and do so in a rational, better-thought-out manner......</p><p>I saw a tweet that I’ve seen for a few days and it brought a pleasant childhood memory to my mind. Right now, I need a little soothing so I wanted to discuss.....</p><p><i>Kristen Arnett @kristen_arnett</i></p><p><i>when find myself in times of trouble</i></p><p><i>mother pound cake comes to me</i></p><p><i>speaking words of wisdom</i></p><p><i>sara lee</i></p><p>Sweet little memories of dinners at Granny B’s house where the dessert was almost always Sara Lee pound cake, with strawberries and cool whip. Granny B was my next door neighbor and really was like another grandmother to me. My mother’s mom lived with us until I was 7. My dad’s mom was always at least an hour away and didn’t have a car. I’m not sure either of them had a driver’s license. But Granny B was there. Her grandchildren were much older than I was. Her great-grandchildren were more my brother’s age (and younger). Her daughter was my mom’s best friend. The house had been built originally by my grandmother’s cousin for my great-grandmother. It was a lot of interlocking parts. </p><p>Usually on Saturday nights, once or twice a month, we’d go to dinner there. Usually nothing terribly fancy but just the joy of getting together and we’d have to be done by 7:00 because Lawrence Welk would be on, at which point we’d all gather in the living room to watch. Children of my age have memories of only two shows on Saturday nights: Hee-Haw and Lawrence Welk. And most of us got varying levels of exposure to each. </p><p>I loved those Saturday nights for a lot of reasons. When I was there, it felt like I had a bit of a Norman Rockwell childhood. Of course, I have some differing thoughts about Rockwell’s portrayals than I did then .... but it felt safe and normal. I was a kid missing one grandparent already when I was born and the next one would die just months later. I didn’t have any aunts or uncles nearby (except my grandmother’s siblings or their widows). I felt almost feral sometimes, in part because I truly don’t think my parents knew quite what to do with me. Not in a bad sense, mind you; I just wasn’t </p><p>At her house, there was genteel guidance, presented in such a way that I wanted to do those things right, so that they wouldn’t be disappointed in me. Things like saying please and thank you all the times, or no elbows on the table. Even little things like learning to say, “may I be excused?” instead of jumping up saying “I have to pee!” At 4 or 5, that’s an important thing to know in order not to appear completely uncouth at school. My mom could have said these things to me a million times and all I would have heard was blah blah yadda yadda. When Granny B said it, it had far greater importance. I don’t know why but it did. </p><p>I can still taste the pound cake and thawed strawberries all these decades later. And maybe I need to think of the words of wisdom imparted to me lo those many years ago at Granny B’s house.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-85466962490249549502020-11-25T17:51:00.003-05:002020-11-25T17:51:28.380-05:00Well Dammit, Part 2<p>So two weeks ago (November 11), dad had a rapid-results COVID test that came back positive. He has been a good boy and isolated himself. I had a test the next day (November 12), and it came back negative. WHEW, right?</p><p>In the words of Lee Corso, "Not so fast, my friend."</p><p>On Sunday the 15th, I had a sudden nausea attack, leading to sweating profusely (lying in the bathroom floor between upchucks because it was nice and cold).... and being so tired that I went to bed. I woke up four hours later, then went back to bed. I slept off and on for a few hours (with snippets of the football game playing on my SiriusXM app). I assumed it was an awful migraine because of head and neck pain, and the lethargy. I luckily had taken the week off work so I didn't have to worry about that, at least. </p><p>On Monday the 16th, I more or less slept all day again -- or at least I lay in bed all day. Zero energy, still some residual head and neck pain. Finally around 1:00 PM I got up on Tuesday, shaky and hungry to a small degree. I ate a half-sleeve of saltines. It was all I wanted. And back to bed for a while. By the afternoon I felt I had had enough of this and forced myself to at least sit up in bed while I watched old episodes of <i>The Addams Family</i> (don't ask how many times now I've seen pretty much the entire 2 seasons). </p><p>On Wednesday, I finally started feeling human again -- a diminished appetite, but human.</p><p>By the weekend I was feeling much better. Until yesterday afternoon. Around 2:30, I noticed that the candle I'd been burning all morning -- about 3 feet from my office chair -- was not as potent as it normally would be. So I lit another candle. It too lacked a certain potency. So did the Watermelon candle. And so did the Bath & Body Works hand cream. </p><p>I told my dad, "I think I've lost my sense of smell....." He asked me to smell some various essential oils. Peppermint? Didn't register. Breathe Easy Blend? Nothing. Another blend I had at my desk? Nothing. Then he brought out the ultimate test: an old bottle of Brut left in the bathroom by my brother. Brut, the stankiest ...... stank there is available for sale. Brut, which makes me gag because it just reeks.</p><p>Nothing. Not even a hint. </p><p>I went to the bathroom. Lavender hand soap? Nope. Lemon hand soap? Well, at least my hands got extra clean. Bath & Body Works Raspberry Sugar shower gel? Nothing. </p><p>This morning it was only minimally better. If I leaned deeply into my cup of coffee, I could pick up a very faint hint of coffee. Same with the lavender soap - but I almost had to put my hand on my nostrils to even get a tiny aroma. It's like a volume knob that goes zero to 100 -- mine is at 5, at best. I still have to breathe super deeply to even get minor hints of scent. I have a pack of cinnamon-scented wax melts on the desk as well...... barely moves the needle. </p><p>So I talked to my doctor this morning, and she had me go to the hospital for a re-swabbing and re-testing. It's drive-through testing and I got there at 11:15. I left at 12:30. I felt awful for the occupant of a car a couple up from me. It was a small child getting tested and he or she did <b>not</b> like having their nasal passages probed in the least. I wasn't crazy about it either kid. But on a positive note, it did make my left eye water..... </p><p>I'll find out within 24-48 hours. But I'm already pretty sure I am COVID-positive and that what I had last week was probably the manifestation of it. Different, to be certain, than what others have experienced, but definitely in line with it. And I'm betting if they tested the city's wastewater, they'd find a much higher occurrence in the general population.</p><p>Our county has the distinction of the fastest growing positive rates in the state in the last 2 weeks. FORTY percent jump in cases. And while we are home to a large university, our county administrator (a high school classmate of mine) advised us today that student positives are not counted in the county totals, but go to the student's home area -- whether across the state, or in another state. I'm not exactly sure how all that works (since chances are they contracted it here) but it's not my say. </p><p>At any rate, I'm staying put for another two weeks. </p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-55277015509133745712020-11-12T21:53:00.001-05:002020-11-12T21:53:07.850-05:00Well dammit....<p>After months and months of taking every precaution and doing everything we could to keep ourselves safe, someone else’s carelessness has resulted in a positive COVID-19 test for Daddy. Mine -miraculously- was negative. Maybe being in another room facing a computer screen all day has its advantages.</p><p>I am feeling a complete rollercoaster of feelings — gratitude that dad’s case so far has been fairly mild: just a low-grade fever, a horrid cough (along the lines of a really bad case of bronchitis) and tiredness.... I have had a scratchy throat (a la post-nasal drip) but that’s it. </p><p>But I’m also feeling a huge amount of anger and frustration. People are treating this virus so cavalierly and after months and watching figures jump exponentially.... how? How do people justify acting so nonchalantly? I’m angry at people who’ve put their own selfishness ahead of others. All it has taken is someone somewhere not caring.....</p><p>I can’t say it enough: WEAR THE DAMN MASK! Wash your freakin’ hands. Cover your mouth when you have to cough or sneeze. And be a responsible human being. </p>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-3515494565426758712020-06-15T21:35:00.002-04:002020-06-15T21:35:43.940-04:0029 Years Ago....Fall 1991, College of Charleston, Charleston SC.<br />
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His name was Carlos X — or at least that was how he signed the op-ed piece in <i>The Cougar Pause</i>, our biweekly student newspaper. He told his story of how he’d experienced racism on our fair campus.<br />
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People lost their damn minds.<br />
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There were multiple pages of letters to the editor in response. One was mine. And mine was one of two written by white students that didn’t automatically discount his experience. The other was J.J. Biondi, who if I recall correctly was a resident assistant at one of the dorms (or had been). We offered our apologies as they were, and offers of reconciliation and conversation. Funny the details we can recall. There was also a letter from Larry, a guy who was known for being somewhat militant around campus. Our very own Huey Newton or Stokely Carmichael.<br />
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I worked with two young African-American men in the computer labs. One was Trey, who was an absolute Mac whiz and who taught me what little I knew about Macs back in the day. We were working one morning and he suggested we go to lunch to continue a conversation we’d begin about the Carlos X situation. He personally knew Carlos. He told me things Carlos had left out of the op-ed piece, details which I knew were closer to accurate than not: how one of the frat boys (from a certain fraternity known to glorify the past) repeatedly called him <b>boy</b> when he worked the dorm check-in desk. I remember being dumbfounded. Trey opened my eyes that day to how he was seen as a black man on campus. I mentioned that I’d had classes with one person in the minority student council who was perceived as very militant.... he laughed and said, “yeah, that dude’s a bit extreme, and he’s just as wrong in some ways.” These many years later, I can begin to see why Nate’s views had been shaped that way.<br />
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A couple of days later, I was working with Troy, a sweet young African-American man in the computer lab. He always called me ma’am, no matter how much I tried to have him stop. He was polite to a fault. We were sitting there also having our conversation. He shrugged off the whole thing, and I really wanted him to take it more seriously, especially after my talk with Trey. In walked Larry and I asked how I could help him....<br />
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“You’re Annette McClellan, aren’t you?”<br />
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Oh shit. What had I done? I barely knew Larry, pretty much by name only, and his letter.<br />
<br />
I squeaked our, “I’m Annette, and you’re....?”<br />
<br />
“I’m Larry (last name), do you know me?”<br />
<br />
“I know the name.....”<br />
<br />
He held out his hand, “I came here to shake your hand. For being one of two people on this campus who doesn’t think Carlos is crazy.”<br />
<br />
I exhaled, Larry smiled, and we shook hands. I told him I appreciated his kindness and he said the same. Troy eventually exhaled too. Larry went off to find J.J. to shake his hand as well.<br />
<br />
And here we are, 29 years later. We’re still trying to figure it out. But things are different at C of C. Just a week or so ago, it was announced that the college had revoked their acceptance of at least one student who had been shown in the past to make racially charged remarks, or other displays of racial insensitivity. We’ve made great strides.<br />
<br />
And we have a long way to continue to go.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-6770038259216888652020-05-20T11:19:00.001-04:002020-05-20T11:33:29.669-04:00Bronze Thoughts on Golden Throats 3 (Sweethearts of Rodeo Drive)It only took thirteen years after posting <a href="http://nettiemac.blogspot.com/2006/02/silver-thoughts-about-golden-throats-2.html">Silver Thoughts about Golden Throats 2</a>, but I *finally* got Golden Throats 3 (Sweethearts of Rodeo Drive). One, back then, trying to find a copy was hard enough but if you could, it was in the $50 range. I was patient, kept it on the Amazon wishlist, and only 13 years later, it finally came in at a reasonable rate (under $15).<br />
<br />
Was it worth it? For pure kitsch factor, absolutely. Let's face it, none of these folks will ever be known or remembered for being beautiful singers. Okay, maybe one, but......<br />
<br />
Let's do a rundown, shall we?<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b>I Walk the Line</b> (<i>Leonard Nimoy</i>) -- nothing out of the ordinary from all the other Nimoy covers I've heard. He has a serviceable basso-baritone that with some additional vocal coaching would have been just fine on the airwaves. But the delivery? Oh, the delivery. It's never as hammy as his Star Trek costar William Shatner, but always slightly stilted, as if he were still in Spock character. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>I'll Be Your Baby Tonight</b> (<i>Goldie Hawn</i>) -- it's not horrible. It's not great, but not horrible. Again, a little vocal coaching could go a long way. Or a couple of extra practice sessions.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Hey Good Lookin' </b>(<i>John Davidson</i>) -- Those thumps you hear? Hank spinning in his grave. This is a total lounge act rendition. Even Nick The Lounge Singer is going, "Okay, that's a bit much, dude."</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Green Green Grass of Home</b> (<i>Jack Palance</i>) -- again, not horrible, but not great. Truth be told, it barely leans into the okay category. I'm waiting for him to say "I don't need (wheeze) some fancy cologne (wheeze)....." before launching into the virtues of Skin Bracer...... </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Back Street Affair</b> (<i>Carol Channing and Webb Pierce</i>) -- both well-known, both stars of their varied genres. Together, this is just a mess. Think an older, twangier version of Andy Gibb and Victoria Principal doing "All I Have To Do Is Dream" ..... or for the youngsters, imagine Bieber singing with one of the Kardashians. Moral: just because you <b>can</b> doesn't mean you <b>should</b>.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>San Antonio Rose</b><i> </i>(<i>Michael Parks</i>) -- no. Just no. If your name ain't Ray Benson or George Strait, then stay the hell away from Bob Wills' music.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Almost Persuaded</b> (<i>Louis Armstrong</i>) -- I love Satchmo, but no. Was he <b>HIGH </b>when he recorded this? I mean, I really have to ask. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Ringo</b><b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>(<i>Lorne Greene</i>) - this is all in French, and it's more a recitation over music as opposed to actual singing. Kind of like he drew inspiration from Sebastian Cabot. But oddly, it's probably the best offering so far (so what does that tell you?) And in his recitation, it's very similar (and I mean <u>very</u>) to the cadence used by Debbie Harry in Rapture. I'm waiting for Fab Five Freddy to tell me everybody's fly.....</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Tumblin' Tumbleweeds</b> (<i>Merv Griffin</i>) -- and now for the WORST rendition on the record. God better have already had a word with ol' Merv for the murder of this song. Backup singers going, "Tumblin', tumblin' tumbleweeds." And sadly, Merv isn't a bad singer. He had a career prior to TV with the Freddy Martin Orchestra. But this.... <b><span style="color: #cc0000;">in. ex. cus. a. ble. </span></b></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Your Cheatin' Heart</b> (<i>Buddy Ebsen</i>) -- weeeeee doggie, Jed sings. Well, kinda. It's very meh. The backup singers are a huge distraction, especially the ones doing the Kathy Najimy as Sister Mary Highnotes impression.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Mule Train</b> (<i>Rod McKuen</i>) - very meh. Nothing will ever make me forget the Frankie Laine original. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Cool Water</b> (<i>Walter Brennan</i>) -- this one almost makes me wish for Merv Griffin's Tumblin' Tumbleweeds. It's everything you'd expect from a Walter Brennan tune. I was hoping Richard Crenna would show up and save Grandpa McCoy, but alas, no. I was also waiting for Forest Whitaker to offer to take some pictures for a friend of his in 'Nam, but........</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Folsom Prison Blues</b> (<i>Living Marimbas + Voices</i>) -- this rendition would have fit in beautifully in the wunnerful wunnerful world of Warwence, umm.... Lawrence Welk. I can see the champagne bubbles now.......</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Desperados Waiting For a Train</b> (<i>Slim Pickens</i>) -- Golldurn, Mr. Taggart, you use your voice purrtier than a ....... Actually, it's not bad. He doesn't sing as much as recite over music. I'm waiting for a sh...load of dimes for the jukebox on this one.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>I Walk The Line</b> (<i>Telly Savalas</i>) -- surprisingly, not as bad as you might think. Telly actually had a decent singing voice. But I kinda would have enjoyed hearing "Who loves ya, baby?" at the end.....</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Peace In The Valley</b> (<i>Wink Martindale</i>) -- Wink needs to stick to his Deck of Cards (both on record and on TV). I often laugh about the hoopla over Elvis, but Elvis had <b>THE </b>definitive version of this song and nothing else will ever compare.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Games People Play</b> (<i>Jim Nabors</i>) -- you might imagine, bombastic as hell. This is the Joe South song of "Games People Play," not The Spinners or Alan Parsons Project. Although I can imagine those would be just as bad. You know, him doing Nessun Dorma, sure. But him doing covers is just as wretched as you might guess. </li>
</ul>
<div>
If you have never had the pleasure of listening to the Golden Throats series, and love kitsch as much as I do...... treat yo'self!!!</div>
nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-20829660889850553872020-05-12T21:31:00.001-04:002020-05-12T21:31:38.126-04:00Purpose In The Time of CoronaYears ago, the big thing was <i>The Purpose-Driven Life</i> by Rick Warren. It seemed that every church group or book discussion group was reading it. I probably have a copy from when mom's church ladies' group was reading it.<br />
<br />
I never got into it. For one thing, I'd pretty well established my mission statement early in life thanks to another book -- <i>What Color Is Your Parachute</i>, which was big in the early 90s HR circles. Since I was a "permanent temp" myself back then (yes, that was a real thing) and we usually gave that book to recently displaced former employees, I figured it would behoove me to read it. It was a good read.... and I figured that my MISSION (big lights, capital letters, etc.) was more or less "to help people, no matter what job I found myself doing." And more or less that's ended up being the trajectory of my career. I kind of gravitated to those positions and shied away from anything that would force me to directly manage people. And over time, I've come to see I'm far better at managing data and the like than I am managing people. People are messy and I like my work to be neat. <br />
<br />
But my purpose -- the WHY AM I HERE -- oh my. Different altogether. Answering "what am I supposed to do" is far easier than "why am I even here." The first, you can figure out in a few years with a lot of trial and error. But <i><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">why am I here, why do I exist, what is the meaning if any of my very being?</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #351c75;"> </span></i><span style="background-color: white;">That's something altogether different.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">That takes nearly a lifetime of living. Of making error after error, of wrong paths and misdirected efforts. Of trusting people who weren't worthy, of eventually finding your tribe and loving them hard, of having your sweet fragile heart broken over and over again and deciding whether you're going to let it shrink you or expand you. It's learning who you are and whose you are. It's the process not so much of reinvention than peeling another layer to say, "Oh yeah, I'd forgotten that part was even in there!"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">So here I am at 50 and a half (thank you very much). Corona-quarantine has given me much time to think (and I just took out an entire paragraph that I'll use for another post shortly)...... And tonight I was thinking about my purpose -- not my mission, but my purpose.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">I want you to tell me how I'm doing. Honestly. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><b>I believe my purpose is to be court jester/fool in this life.</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
I didn't say to be stupid. Who was one of the wisest characters in King Lear? The fool. Lear's jester. He saw things others didn't see, especially Lear who was so caught up in his own importance that he failed to see what was real and what was not. Throughout literature, the concept of fools to convey a greater message has been used as a counterpoint to conventional wisdom.<br />
<br />
If I'm not there yet, I'm on my way.<br />
<br />
But you tell me.......nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-75746506399532302312020-01-01T21:34:00.000-05:002020-01-01T21:34:00.078-05:00A Look Back at the 2010sI think about the last decade — all that transpired in my life — and I’m grateful to still be here.<br />
<br />
WORK: I was working in HR in 2010 and questioning and second-guessing EVERYTHING I did. To a couple of people there, nothing ever seemed to be to their liking, because I actually wanted to follow little things like correct hiring practices. By 2013, I was out of active HR (doing payroll support and some other things) but crying at my desk at some point almost every day. I kept thinking where had I gone wrong, where had this path diverted to this? I was technically let go that fall from that position and in the company, but given the opportunity to stay on in a different department. I felt like I had no choice -- I needed the benefits and the salary. So I made the move but I felt so defeated. Again, I questioned for months if I’d done the right thing — it ended up being one of the best things I ever did. I found my niche and I love what I do and the team I work with. That's not to say we haven't had our share of swerves, curves, and craziness. In the 2010s, I filled at least 8 different roles, worked on 5 different systems (and 3 different payroll systems too), had more bosses than I can count (5 this year alone) and one physical move to a new location. Most of the changes happened without me ever leaving my cubicle. (Reminds me of an ex-boyfriend who has never left his office and worked for 5 different companies thanks to acquisitions and mergers). Underwent a few of those as well …..<br />
<br />
HEALTH: the 2010s were a case of "what else could POSSIBLY go wrong?" In 2010, I was at my lowest weight but finding lots wrong with my overall health. I passed out cold twice in the next two years, to be sent to cardiology referrals to figure out why an otherwise healthy person was passing out, and having pulse rates in the 50s. What I learned after a year of monitoring was that I had just a naturally low heart resting rate and strong vasovagal reactions, especially under extreme stress. Even now, at the highest weight I've been in a very long time, my resting heart rate still barely registers above 60 -- most of the time, the high 50s. In the midst of all that, in 2012, I got the call no woman ever wants: “hey, we found something odd on your last mammo, can you come back in?” Long story short, it took 7 weeks and an MRI to determine that “oh, it may have just been a bad area of film, you’re clear....” Starting that summer, the migraine disorder kicked into high gear. The old OTC remedies weren’t working. I begged my doctor for a neurology referral.... but instead I got sent to an ENT. I learned after almost a year of migraines and sinus/respiratory infections, that I have chronic rhinitis — meaning that there pretty much isn’t a damn thing they can do. My baseline is another person’s raging infection. Thanks for nothing, doc. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">In 2014, the stress had gotten to me from all this, and I broke out in a horrid case of shingles. I would not wish that upon my worst enemy. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"> I struggled with weight again — and after a foot injury in late 2014 which would worsen, my weight went up. In 2015, I had foot surgery to correct a bunion that was getting worse and straighten out the two adjoining toes which were almost in hammertoe shape. I was off my feet for months, so yeah.... you see where this is going. With other things (see later) that happened, I turned to food again for solace. And now on the entrance threshold of a new decade (even though technically, the decade does not end until 1/1/21 but WHATEVER)…… I find myself trying to figure out where to get back on track. </span></span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
MENTAL HEALTH: In 2014, after all the stress and the shingles outbreak, I also decided that I needed to get my ass into therapy. That for me was a MASSIVE step. My last experience with counseling had been a couple of quick trips to the counseling center on campus when I was in college, and I had stopped going once my crisis was over. Not this time.... I knew I would need some additional help. Some friends I lucked into a really good and caring therapist who diagnosed me with generalized anxiety disorder and thought there may also be some depression at play. She was a great therapist, and the only reason I stopped was because I couldn't make appointments while recuperating from foot surgery. But there was one more twist...... in the last part of 2015, although I didn’t see it at the time, I was spiraling into an awful place. I was snarly and snappy and just plain mean, and having the closest thing to a manic episode ever the last few weeks of 2015. I suddenly had a crapton of ideas and yet I felt like my skin was going to peel itself off me from sheer energy. Example: one night, driving home, I got the bizarre idea that I needed to pull in somewhere and buy a pack of cigarettes just to have something to do with my hands and the odd idea that in the rhythmic inhale and exhale of smoking, I might find a crazy peace. Now<b> that</b> is messed up (especially knowing that prolonged exposure to cigarette smoke will trigger a migraine). Finally, after my boss sat me down and asked me if the workload was too much -- because all my coworkers were going to her to ask what had happened to me..... the very next week, I sat with my doctor and got on an antidepressant.<b> Best. Thing. Ever. Ever. Ever.</b> Seriously - because without those meds I could not have made it through the next portion of my life.....<br />
<br />
LOSS: 6 weeks after going on antidepressants, I was planning my mother's funeral. I had gone to the doctor near the end of January 2016. In late February, my mother had some sort of cardiac event and we had her taken to the hospital. She never came home. We know she had a heart attack, but we think either she also had a stroke of some sort because she pretty much became non-responsive -- or she just mentally checked out and it took the body a while to catch up. She ended up going into organ failure, primarily in the kidneys. In her weakened condition, dialysis was not a viable option. We did all we could do - so we had her transferred to Hospice House, where she held on for another 42 hours. Here I am almost 4 years removed from things, and I am forever analyzing and revisiting my relationship with her, what I could have done better, and yet knowing I did all I could. I was the last of us three to be with her at the Hospice facility. I sat beside her and talked and sang, and I did my best. I helped plan a beautiful send off for her. 8 weeks later, I lost one of my aunts by marriage. My cousin Lori and I were suddenly bound by a same pain. We had to suddenly navigate seas we weren't quite ready to sail on. On the 9-month anniversary of mom's funeral, I had to say goodbye to my beloved Maddox. I thought saying goodbye to Mom hurt, but this one killed me. I held him as he began breathing his last deep slumbering breaths, and I still cry at the memory. Not even 2 months later, I said goodbye to one of daddy's sisters. My childhood was dropping around me and I was powerless to do anything. Then in May, I lost my favorite musician -- in 2016, some of the ones I loved most were all dying at a staggering rate, but losing Chris Cornell only 2 weeks after I'd stood 10 feet from him on stage (me in the pit) was heartbreaking. And of all the losses I would suffer, his is still the one that has no reasonable explanation, no rhyme or reason or anything which would make sense. But the worst was yet to come.....<br />
<br />
RICHARD: Four months later, I was at work on a Friday, getting ready to work a weekend shift because we were so far behind after a system changeover. I was almost out the door when I remembered I'd left my phone at the desk being charged. I turned it over face up, and there was a string of messages from daddy, "Come home as soon as you can, I think your brother's having a heart attack." I lost the color from my face (so they said), and leaned against the wall. One of my bosses offered to drive me home, but I declined -- because by God, I was going to break whatever laws I had to in order to get home. I was going to say some decidedly unladylike things to the other drivers (and I did, be sure of that). I drove up right at 7:00 to see Daddy and his pastor on the porch. There was no news yet. Daddy and I started calling family members to tell them to pray and pray hard. Lori's response was unlike all the others -- while all my cousins and aunts and uncles were shocked and going, "Oh my gosh, what do you need, what can we do?" Lori gave me a quick, "Okay. Okay. Okay. I'm on it. Okay." The same type of response I give in crisis mode - no time to panic, just do. Daddy and I left for the hospital - Lori met us there, saying, "There is no way that I'm letting y'all be alone in whatever you need at this moment." They took us in a room and a lady came in. I knew who she was by her name badge: the coroner. They don't send the coroner in when they're telling you that he's still in ICU, etc. So I knew he was gone. But to hear her say it...… My cousin held me as I cried. She helped call the family to tell them the bad news. It's been 2-plus years, and I am still not over my brother's death. I don't know that I ever will be. There are times I look up to the skies and scream, "You ought to be here, you asshole! You left me here to do all this shit myself and I need you here, you little turd!" (These are my moments of anxiety when I'm scared to death at the thought of being a caregiver for my dad when those days come and having no one to count on - not that I'm sure I could have really counted on my brother, but that's another story).<br />
<br />
And lest we forget: POLITICS: if the last three years haven't given me a breakdown yet, nothing will. But it has damn sure galvanized me and that is ALL I have to say.<br />
<br />
So today I looked at an article that said, "If you have dealt with mental health issues in the past decade and feel like you haven't accomplished anything, WRONG! You survived....." I started thinking about the 10 years past and HOLY SHIT, I have survived. I haven't always thrived like I wanted to, but I have by God survived. And I've become more open about my struggles because I am not ashamed of them -- There are days when I throw my arms open and think, "you haven't taken me down yet, motherfuckers!" (But then I don't because I do not want to invite any bad juju, you know....)<br />
<br />
So what do the 2020s hold? I don't even want to think about it. Literally. I spent a little time doing so the last few weeks and honestly, some of the options overwhelmed me so much that I had to take breaks to go breathe. I'm still holding out for a safe time and space when I can book the meltdown I so richly deserve.<br />
<br />
But I have survived things that I never imagined I would. Pure grace and stubbornness and overwhelming kindness and the refusal to give in for even one minute. That's my odd mix of coping mechanisms. Oh, and concerts and plenty of dank humor that no one else would even begin to understand.<br />
<i></i><br />
<i>Oh, I, oh, I'm still alive...….</i>nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-67454100809827633112019-12-31T23:21:00.003-05:002019-12-31T23:21:51.958-05:0050 at 50: Doing What I Love<i></i>Another year-end reflection (I've been working on these over the last few days).....<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Let's fall in love with music</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The driving force of our living</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The only international language</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Divine glory, the expression.....</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>-- Andrew Wood, "Man of Golden Words"</i></div>
<br />
The thing I'll remember most about the 2010s is that sometime around 2014, I fell in love again with live music. In my college days, we had live music everywhere — especially in a touristy artsy town like Charleston. I couldn’t always afford the cover charge (and being real, I’m not pretty enough to get a guy to pony up the cover for me), but there was weekly live music for free on campus. If you were really lucky, a frat might hire a local band for one of their parties and even if you didn’t go, you could hear the music nearby. My service fraternity had a yearly event with live music. Our College Activities Board sponsored at least one big concert a year.<br />
<br />
It's been 30 years since I went to my first REAL concert. I was in college — Elton John on the Sleeping With The Past tour. Charlotte Coliseum, October 16, 1989. Some things you never forget. We were still making our way into the venue when “Bennie and the Jets” started. On the second song “Island Girl,” we’d finally made it in and I remember going up the stairs at nearly full speed (not easy for a fat girl, mind you) and I was in heaven. My next concert was just a few weeks later, a Jimmy Buffett show as a benefit for Hurricane Hugo victims and we were blessed enough to snag front row seats.<br />
<br />
After that, I didn’t go to another show until 1995. Honestly, I was making crap wages, paying back student loans at a ridiculous rate (because private loans since my parents “made too much” for federally funded loans). I went to mostly some local gigs from friends or things with maybe a $10 ticket because again — low wages.<br />
<br />
Finally in the mid-2000s, I got a decent job with awesome benefits, good living wages, and was in the process of regaining the woman I’d discovered in college and then quashed to make people happy. And it all started with a Facebook post from Marc Cohn: "Hey Greenville SC fans, where's a great place to eat when I come there?" That was it. I knew I'd have to go!<br />
<br />
So I started out a little slow, with two shows in 2014 .....<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Marc Cohn (Peace Center Amphitheatre, Greenville SC)</li>
<li>Steely Dan (Township Auditorium, Columbia SC)</li>
</ul>
<br />
And I was hooked again. There were no shows in 2015 (foot surgery instead) .... and then in 2016, it began for real. Eight shows that year.<br />
<br />
It actually started with me finding out in December 2015 that Pearl Jam was going to tour. I was thinking, "Okay, so I'll just go to Atlanta because that will be the closest show....." Then the schedule was released: GREENVILLE!!! My brother -- who wasn't a huge PJ fan -- texted me immediately, "You ARE getting tickets, right????" So we went..... it was both the first and last show we ever saw together. <br />
<ul>
<li>Pearl Jam (BSW Arena, Greenville SC)</li>
<li>The Mavericks (Peace Center Amphitheater, Greenville SC) </li>
<li>Chris Cornell / Fantastic Negrito (N Charleston Performing Arts Center, Charleston SC)</li>
<li>Rick Springfield / Night Ranger / The Romantics (Midtown Amphitheater, Charlotte SC)</li>
<li>Fantastic Negrito (Asheville Music Club, Asheville NC)</li>
<li>Avett Brothers (BSW Arena, Greenville SC)</li>
<li>Temple of the Dog / Fantastic Negrito (Madison Square Garden, NYC)</li>
<li>Temple of the Dog / Fantastic Negrito (Paramount Theatre, Seattle)</li>
</ul>
Eight more in 2017.<br />
<ul>
<li>Bon Jovi (BSW Arena, Greenville SC) **NOTE: my brother was supposed to go with us, but he had an eye exam that day, and they dilated. He said, "But what if I have a ticket for the Bon Jovi concert tonight....?" and the staff laughed. Luckily, my friend Nicole drove in at the last minute and we enjoyed it together!</li>
<li>Soundgarden (Carolina Rebellion, Concord NC) — also Eagles of Death Metal, The Cult, Every Time I Die, Radkey and probably plenty of others who played that I didn’t go see. And I got to meet my friends Mike Z and Nancy C in person that day. </li>
<li>Soundgarden / The Dillinger Escape Plan (Tuscaloosa Amphitheater, Tuscaloosa, AL) -- got to meet my friend Clayton B that day in person, and ran into someone I knew from one of the fan sites. She was wearing her TOTD shirt and I was wearing my white Soundgarden King Animal logo shirt. </li>
<li>Steve Winwood / Lilly Winwood (Peace Center, Greenville SC)</li>
<li>U2 / OneRepublic (Cardinal Stadium, Louisville KY) (The first show I saw after Chris Cornell's death, and I admit, I *cried* during "Running to Stand Still" and "One Tree Hill.")</li>
<li>Lake Street Dive / Ron Pope (Pisgah Mountain Brewing Co Outdoor Pavilion, Swannanoa NC) -- left probably 2/3 of the way through the set because RAIN at 10 pm and a 2-hour drive home.... and a migraine starting. :(</li>
<li>Foo Fighters / The Struts (Colonial Life Arena, Columbia SC) -- AMAZING! But it was the first show after my brother died, and before I realized it, I was singing along on These Days and the line "One of these days your heart will stop and take its final beat....." and I couldn't breathe for a few moments. </li>
<li>Trans-Siberian Orchestra (BSW Arena)</li>
</ul>
Only six in 2018 (would have been 7 but unfortunately Brandi Carlile fell ill and had to cancel).<br />
<ul>
<li>Black Jacket Symphony as Pink Floyd: Dark Side Of The Moon (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>Foo Fighters / The Struts (Turner Field, Atlanta GA)</li>
<li>Black Jacket Symphony as Led Zeppelin IV (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>Fantastic Negrito (Asheville Downtown After Five)</li>
<li>3 Doors Down/Collective Soul/Soul Asylum (Heritage Park Amphitheater, Simpsonville SC)</li>
<li>Brandi Carlile (Peace Center) **CANCELLED**</li>
<li>Black Jacket Symphony as Tom Petty: Damn the Torpedoes (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
</ul>
I kind of made up for it in 2019:<br />
<ul>
<li>Asleep at the Wheel String Band / Kyle Petty & David Childers (The Spinning Jenny, Greer SC)</li>
<li>Black Jacket Symphony as Queen: A Night At The Opera (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>Alabama / Charlie Daniels Band (Greensboro Coliseum, Greensboro NC)</li>
<li>Nick Lowe & Los Straitjackets (Haw River Ballroom, Saxapahaw NC)</li>
<li>Tom Morello / The Last Internationale (The Orange Peel, Asheville NC)</li>
<li>Drivin n Cryin / Gin Blossoms / Collective Soul (Heritage Park Amphitheater, Simpsonville SC)</li>
<li>Weird Al Yankovic (Heritage Park Amphitheater, Simpsonville SC)</li>
<li>Tedeschi Trucks Band with Blackberry Smoke and Shovels & Rope (Heritage Park Amphitheater, Simpsonville SC)</li>
<li>Heart / Joan Jett / Elle King (PNC Music Pavilion, Charlotte NC)</li>
<li>Hootie & The Blowfish / Barenaked Ladies (PNC Music Pavilion, Charlotte NC)</li>
<li>Peter Frampton / Jason Bonham Led Zeppelin Experience (Heritage Park Amphitheater, Simpsonville SC)</li>
<li>Adam Ant / Glam Skanks (Atlanta Symphony Hall, Atlanta, GA)</li>
<li>Marty Stuart (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>The Avett Brothers (Bon Secours Wellness Arena, Greenville SC)</li>
<li>Black Jacket Symphony as Fleetwood Mac Rumors (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>Robert Earl Keen / Shinyribs (Peace Center, Greenville SC)</li>
</ul>
(As you can tell, I love going to Black Jacket Symphony shows and I cannot recommend them highly enough!) <br />
<br />
Two more were on the slate for 2019 but didn't pan out:<br />
<ul>
<li>Radkey (The Radio Room, Greenville SC) — I went to the venue even after a horrid day at the office with mass layoffs, then learned my cousin’s child passed that day. My heart wasn’t in it after that.</li>
<li>Willie Nelson / Alison Krauss (Bon Secours Wellness Arena, Greenville SC) — Got cancelled due to Willie getting ill. </li>
</ul>
<div>
And I already have 8 planned just through August of next year: </div>
<div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Black Jacket Symphony: Pearl Jam/Nirvana (Von Braun Center, Huntsville AL)</li>
<li>Radkey (The Radio Room, Greenville SC)</li>
<li>The Bellamy Brothers (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>KICK: The INXS Experience (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>Black Jacket Symphony as Prince: Purple Rain (Walhalla Performing Arts Center, Walhalla, SC)</li>
<li>Lake Street Dive (Peace Center, Greenville SC)</li>
<li>Black Crowes (PNC Music Pavilion, Charlotte NC)</li>
<li>Weezer / Green Day / Fall Out Boy (SunTrust Park, Atlanta GA)</li>
</ul>
<div>
What I’ve learned is that there’s nothing quite like being in the crowd and singing along. There's nothing like the feeling of having music wash over you and cleanse you.<br />
<br />
And oddly, as an introvert, I normally avoid crowds, and I also normally don't strike up conversations with complete strangers (my mother did this with amazing ease). But there's something about a concert crowd that's different. You're all there for basically the same reason. It's not a far stretch to say that in some places and some songs, it's a spiritual experience. And it's easy to talk to people over music. Example: I'm there at the Heart concert, and the guy two seats over from me had brought his young daughter for her first show! And during the intermission, a lady two rows behind me said, "Hey, Temple of the Dog lady!" (I was wearing my light gray one) -- to ask me if I had really gone and which show. She had wanted to see them so much and asked how the show was. I said, "Madison Square Garden was huge but awesome. Seattle was smaller and BEYOND amazing," at which point she was like, "I want to hate you for going to two shows but I can't!" :-) Ran into one of my college frat brothers at Hootie. Ran into a former coworker at two Black Jacket Symphony shows. Took / taking my dad to a couple of shows.<br />
<br />
Music is my lifeblood. And it's why I hope to keep continuing to enjoy live shows for as long as I can. </div>
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nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-54874517593900144182019-12-31T22:52:00.001-05:002019-12-31T22:52:25.426-05:0050 at 50: Musical Memories<br />
So I'm sitting at work a few days ago, listening to "Wingspan: Hits and History" (Paul McCartney & Wings), which I had bought a few years ago and truly enjoyed. And "Let 'Em In" came on -- whenever I hear that song, it's Spring 1976 and I'm laid up in bed with chicken pox. I'm missing my first grade class as I'm in quarantine, just me and my Woodsy Owl coloring book, a copy of Little Women and math workbooks (little geek that I was).<br />
<br />
It made me think how music can be an instant time machine. If I close my eyes on a certain song, I can still see the room I was in, the people with me, the weather outside, so many things that take me to another place and time. Not necessarily the first time I ever heard the song, but a visceral memory that has seared itself so much into me that I cannot separate it from the song. <br />
<br />
The opening riff of "The One I Love" by REM? I'm a college freshman, fourth floor of the Stern Center, sitting in the fraternity office, working on some bit of studying and Tim G walks in. He says, "Hey, turn that up a little" and I roll in the office chair to the table where the little plug-in radio is. I can still see the afternoon sun starting to set over Charleston. I'm facing southeast toward the Battery and the ocean, even though I'm still a good mile or two from there. Tim's wearing a plaid shirt. Five seconds of a song and it comes rushing back.<br />
<br />
Or "Cherry Bomb" by John Mellencamp. Roughly the same time frame, and I'm driving myself home for a weekend. The sun is slung really low in the sky as I drive northwest toward home. I can feel that mid-November fall air all around. Everything is in those fire-soaked autumn shades of yellow and gold and brown and red. I'm wearing a pale yellow heathered sweater that I'd bought on my first trip home in October from the store owned by my high school BFF's mom and dad. Funny what the brain retains.<br />
<br />
Or "Nothing" by Dwight Yoakam. It's summer 1998, if I recall. I'd lost track of calendar time while still in shock from a breakup that I knew was coming and yet still couldn't believe had actually happened. Even now, I'm hard pressed to recall specific events for about a year-and-a-half time frame. I can think of maybe 10 over the course of 500 days. But it's summer, and the song comes on, and all I can dwell on is all that I lost. And I start crying -- again. And this little voice from the back of my head whispers, "What if you just didn't take that upcoming curve at the right angle and went sailing into those trees?" It is the first ideation I've had in years at that point and quite honestly, it snaps me out of the funk. I'm shaking and crying and I'm scared and I pull into a parking lot (I think for a church), and I sit and I cry and I'm more frightened by the idea that I would do such a thing over a guy. Am I really that sad and desperate? I cry it out for a while for a variety of reasons and then wipe my face and drive to my destination. I think that was the day I knew I really would survive.<br />
<br />
Or "Blow Up The Outside World" by Soundgarden. It's late fall 2015 and I am spiraling into a funk I can't explain and I can't shake. What I do know is that my already-established dread of the holidays is intensified to a level that I've never known before. Every person on the planet is irritating me to an extreme. My head is exploding every few days with a recurring migraine that never seems to abate. And having to go into any retail establishment -- even to pick up groceries or office supplies -- is a trip into existential hell. My earbuds and MP3 player have become my best friends. And after exiting any store, I get into my car and cue up this song (#3 in the CD changer, song #6). And I sit there and breathe. I try to stop my skin from feeling like it's going to melt off my body and I try to ease the pounding of my head. These days, the song doesn't bring up that image unless I think about it hard (like now). But I understood that feeling of wanting to just tell the world to eat crap and die and isolate yourself. It would be a few more weeks before I would finally get on some meds that turned out to be a tremendous help.......<br />
<br />
And then there are the funny ones that I shared with my brother. Yesterday, as part of their "Big 1000," the Big 80s on 8 played Rick Astley's "She Wants to Dance with Me." I had to laugh SO so hard -- not just because, hello? Rick Astley? But it also brought back a crazy memory: my brother changed up the lyrics (long backstory) but it was almost Weird Al-like: "She wants to pray with me / Yeah, I love when she clutches her rosary...." and I could see my brother singing it and doing the funky Rick Astley dance and it made me smile -- it also made me miss him but it made me laugh more!<br />
<br />
So what are some of your favorite musical memories? I'd love to hear them. Drop them in the comments (note, comments WILL be moderated). <br />
<br />
And I'm sitting here tonight, as 2019 rolls into 2020, about an hour or so left in this year, and I'm grateful for music and memories.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-47302293936743518192019-12-24T19:42:00.001-05:002019-12-24T19:42:02.526-05:00The Queen’s Christmas Message Not Elizabeth’s but I like mine too....<br />
<br />
For nearly every Christmas of my life, my mom would spend at least some of the time crying. In my younger years, I didn’t get it. As time went on, I understood a little more. I don’t know now if she’d be pleased or saddened to know that I get it. You’d think that years later, things wouldn’t make my eyes leak as much.<br />
<br />
But that’s the beauty of a broken heart. When you have your heart broken again and again and again, something remarkable can happen. It has a way of breaking off the crusty exterior, so that as it heals it grows — and gets stronger. The old enclosure doesn’t fit anymore. I always hope that my heartbreak has made my heart sweeter, more tender and loving, more open. I don’t want a calloused-over heart but one that knows only two things: how to keep beating and how to keep loving.<br />
<br />
I think a lot about this when I think of the tender babe in the feeding trough — the enfleshment of Love itself, so helpless and in need of care, and yet so powerful that time itself is measured by the presence. His love is immeasurable, far-reaching, unconditional, and immortal. This is how I try to model my life. Do I always succeed? Not by a long shot. But I will always keep growing and trying to emulate the love that brought him to earth, to live among us, as one of us, and so selfless that he literally emptied himself for us all.<br />
<br />
May your holidays — whichever you celebrate — be filled with love of that ilk, love that’s immeasurable, far-reaching, unconditional, and immortal. May it saturate every cell, every fiber of your life, and in turn, may that love quench our arid world longing for living water.<br />
<br />
Happiest of celebrations to you all!nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-22275354473106891472019-08-18T21:47:00.000-04:002019-08-18T21:47:25.361-04:0050 at 50: That Was Then, This Is NowSo earlier this week, I saw a meme that said....<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYM4yvdZDZUKK_0sSMwhWTmDhQza1z01EJP9lf9Ar2UIhXGmnp7oNpnYV9lk6aN8yCGoEtv5W96ox_lSghmynbDcerKTPVS3e8YZBCeGlSnriTqIFbv30JkaZm4LoWOWFMfE-RA/s1600/4F406C03-4E29-4FE1-BAF5-6A6327604D18.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLYM4yvdZDZUKK_0sSMwhWTmDhQza1z01EJP9lf9Ar2UIhXGmnp7oNpnYV9lk6aN8yCGoEtv5W96ox_lSghmynbDcerKTPVS3e8YZBCeGlSnriTqIFbv30JkaZm4LoWOWFMfE-RA/s200/4F406C03-4E29-4FE1-BAF5-6A6327604D18.jpeg" width="182" /></a><br />
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And I didn't post it. Not because I was scared of the answers - more that I knew who I was back then and I didn't like me. I didn't exactly want to be reminded of who I was.<br />
<br />
I was arrogant, aloof, standoffish, and snobby. There, I said it. But I don't think anyone at the time (myself included) really understood why I was that way. I honestly didn't believe I was better than everyone else. In fact, it was the opposite: I worked my ass off to prove I was a decent person. <br />
<br />
No one -- classmates, fellow students, teachers, administrators -- had any idea of the daily internal battle I waged. Every single day, I had to navigate how to silence the inner critic, for whom nothing was ever good enough. No person alive could ever criticize me nearly as much as that inner voice. High school in a small town also isn't the place to try to find your own voice, especially when it's married to a personality that wants nothing more than to please as many people as possible.<br />
<br />
Far too often, a 96 on a test wasn't a cause for happiness, but began a search for what I missed (<u>one</u> question out of 25), and figure out why I missed it and resolve to never do so again. Getting a D, the only one of my high school career? A 10-pound loss from not eating because I was trying to figure out how to tell my folks, how to spin it for college transcripts, how I could make up the difference throughout the rest of the year to counteract it, and OH MY GOD, IF I HAVE TO STAY IN THIS PODUNK TOWN I'M GONNA DIE (<i>commence to breathing in a paper bag</i>).<br />
<br />
So I buried myself in books, in music (especially in music), and in my studies. These were lifelines to worlds beyond my own, with people and characters who might help me figure this crazy inner world out, who might let me breathe. And it did. Oh my gosh, books and music, words and notes. They are still my refuge and my peace. <br />
<br />
Some of these things I still battle. My over-perfectionist tendencies mean I get incredibly frustrated when I can't get things to mesh together as I think they should. I have a very high set of standards for my fun and my work -- sometimes even a little higher than I should set them, and I still make the mistake of assuming everyone else does the same, too. After nearly 28 years in the real world, you'd think I'd know better. Optimism dies hard, I guess. <br />
<br />
But what I wish I had truly known all those years ago is that it's okay .... it takes a lifetime to find your voice, to grow into it, to love the person behind the voice. I don't know why I thought I had to figure all this out by the time I was 18. I'm just over 2 months away from 50 and I'm not sure I will ever figure it out. And it's really okay, because I'm finally enjoying the journey.<br />
<br />
I'm going to say that again because it's the really important part. Ready? <span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><b>I'm finally enjoying the journey.</b></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><span style="color: black;">I was</span></span> so focused on the destination -- getting out of high school, getting out of Dodge, getting somewhere and finally being whomever they thought I should be, setting the world on fire -- I did not take the time to enjoy where I was. There are always those lovely "What would you go back and tell your (x)-year-old self?" and I usually answer "Lighten the hell up, kid" or words to that effect. But I also know that no variant of my younger self -- especially anything under 22 or so -- would have paid attention and listened. But I do wish I could go back and give that little 5-year-old, 8-year-old, 12-year-old, 15-year-old, and even 21-year-old a huge hug, a shoulder to cry on, and just to sit there with myself in that pain with years of wisdom gleaned from all those mistakes. <br />
<br />
To anyone I knew back then and who was hurt by my attitude or my aloofness, please know it was not intentional and not personal. I didn't make eye contact often because I was petrified that you would figure out I didn't know jack about jack -- and back then, that was a fate worse than death.<br />
<br />
If your parents ever said, "Why can't you be more like....?" I sincerely hope you weren't. I hope you had things way more together than I ever did, and that you were far easier on yourself than I was on myself. <br />
<br />
And to the me to come in the future, I sincerely hope that when I'm 85, I can look back and read this and be proud of my 50-year-old self -- and also laugh and say, "My God, you were always such a navel gazer, weren't you?"nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-18431218716839518622019-08-04T17:00:00.001-04:002019-08-04T17:01:26.052-04:0050 at 50: Idealistic Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I went to bed last night with a heavy heart, with another mass shooting in our nation. I woke to the news of another mass shooting. I'm lost somewhere between numb and angry -- I'm not numb to the pain, just numbed by the idea of "how many more lives must be lost?" And damn right I'm angry. I'm pissed beyond all hell that as a nation, we have turned one piece of a 225-plus-year-old document into a mantra, something that has been placed on an altar where inanimate objects of death and destruction are worshipped as an inviolable right, while the lives they have taken are treated as casual losses, just part of the collateral damage of the business.<br />
<br />
God help us all. Not by some magical immediate end to all the evil in the world (let's face it, ain't happening) but by changing our minds and hearts.<br />
<br />
I firmly admit that I'm an old idealistic sort. I believe in the power of love and in hope and in real prayer to change things. I believe prayer changes things not by magic but by our actions and our being the agents of change. I believe that we can still make a difference.<br />
<br />
But I also came along with a healthy distrust of the government, the everlasting legacy of Watergate. I have zero confidence in elected authority to do the right thing at any time. I voted for people who I believed could be agents of change, and then......<br />
<br />
I will always vote. I will always believe in the power of the people to make the real change. And so it's up to us. I don't know how but we've got to figure out how to do it. We have to be the ones to stand up and say "ENOUGH IS ENOUGH."<br />
<br />
Because the hatred and ignorance and seething fear and unchecked racism is not the America I believe still exists, it is not the America I know still lives in our hearts. But it is the America that has lurked in a dark underbelly. It is an America that is foreign to me, even as a white female. Maybe because I have chosen not to foster it in my life. Maybe because I want to see things through the eyes of my minority brothers and sisters, to understand how in my privilege I have failed to see their pain and suffering. How I can use that privilege -- which isn't much, but it's there -- to empty myself and make things better. Thanks always to my dear friend Kevin (whom I hope to meet in heaven
someday), I have learned not to be colorblind, but to see each person's
beauty and their story through their eyes and their experience and to
honor and love them for that.<br />
<br />
I remember very well the idealistic 17-year-old girl who went off to college, fresh-faced, scared, but determined that I could make a difference. Well, here I am, inching ever closer to 50, and the idealism has been tempered by reality, but only slightly. I still believe in the collective power to do good - maybe not on the global level that I imagined all those years ago, but certainly where I am.<br />
<br />
I will do it by refusing to entertain those who believe the color of one's skin determines one's worth. I will do it by refusing to single out those who come to our nation to better themselves. I will do it by standing up for wrong where it exists.<br />
<br />
And I will love. I will love wholeheartedly. I will love without reservation. I will love regardless of condition. <br />
<br />
Because love has the power to change the world. Of that, I am sure.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-68859570351930945242019-07-18T21:00:00.001-04:002019-07-18T21:00:25.954-04:0050 at 50: Shades of GreySometime when I was in my late 20s or early 30s (there were a few years that were indistinguishable), I overheard a contemporary say, "The older I get, the more clear everything becomes.... just BAM! there it is, laid out in black and white, right and wrong." She isn't all that much older than me, but boy, she was so incredibly sure of her words.She left, and I turned to my friend who was there and said, "Did I hear her correctly? Because I can guarantee the older I get, <b>nothing</b> is clear. It all gets fuzzier to me." My friend assured me that my view was probably closer to reality for most people.<br />
<br />
It's been about 20 years and I am almost proud to say that I am even less sure of anything than I've ever been. There is almost nothing that's black-and-white, and every shade of grey I thought I knew then has mutated into a thousand microshades. Every time I think I am close to an absolute, something comes along to make me see that there is another aspect to the situation and I had best hold off on any pronunciation of surety.<br />
<br />
My faith? Still solid in terms that I have faith. Gelatinous in what I know and believe. I've come to believe that the only certainty I have in the world, the only real command I need to follow is to love. Love without reservation, love without condition, love without measure. Love even the people I hate. As I said to someone the other day, even the person I dislike most (so much so that I do not even use his or her actual name) is still as much a child of God as I am, and for that reason alone, I wish them no harm. Anything other than that is dogma, and I will leave it for the theologians to battle. And when my end comes, I'll take a chance that I did the best I could. I still believe in an afterlife and that my loved ones are there ..... but I no longer want to rack up brownie points for some great reward. I'm better off trying to make life better here for people who really need it. I'm not saying I don't care about all the other stuff, it's more that I'm not trying to keep score anymore. I don't care. It's not important. Love is important and it should <b>always</b> win.<br />
<br />
My future? I have no expectations. I have hopes and desires and plans, but no expectations. I plan for living as long as possible, but always with the knowledge that nothing is a given. This lyric says so much to me: <i>"It's a fragile thing, this life we lead. If I think too much, I can get overwhelmed by the grace by which we live our lives with death over our shoulders...."</i> And really, that's it. We are chased by that specter our whole lives but we cannot let it keep us from living. So I am enjoying life while I have it to enjoy.<br />
<br />
My priorities? Thanks to Facebook, I get a daily dose of walking down memory lane, and where I was five or six years ago feels like a different person. And while I like that person and would like to be back toward that place physically, I also see where I was heading into a very obsessive place too. I see now where some of my anxiety issues came into play, and I don't want to go there again too. I don't care to be hyper-competitive anymore. I'll always have a competitive streak, but I don't want to play the game anymore.<br />
<br />
As I mentioned in another post, when I hit 40, I was beginning to think I finally had it all in place, and life said, "Oh you're cute... let me show you something" and suddenly my life was all cattywampus. At 50, I'm laughing with life, saying, "Okay, okay, I get it. I don't know it all. I really don't know sh*t about sh*t. So I'm just going to roll with it."<br />
<br />
So maybe it's not that I see a million shades of grey; it's that I see more of the entire spectrum of color that's part of the beauty of the world.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-38381243690104667522019-05-03T17:31:00.000-04:002019-05-03T17:31:19.837-04:0050 at 50: The Angry SeasonIt started in about 10 days, maybe 2 weeks ago, and it will keep going for another week or so. The relentless guilt trip that is Mother's Day.<br />
<br />
<img alt="Image result for M'Lynn funeral scene" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZu8YgTjs4MZ0FShHPA1i-atd8V-nSdGfDvf9zHY8_Aq1xz7mCCEwLdvQqnuDHCAkgsNAS4M9_deqvngSO8h404JJ3uz9gQvabmyxXQLcVmQH8Ryu1yoc9aVGAHJyt_GVOMBR/s400/New+Picture064.bmp" width="400" /><br />
<br />
My friends know that I've always had an ambivalent relationship with Mother's Day, maybe due to my imperfect relationship with my mom. In my 20's, it was a consistent reminder that my mom and I were often at odds, and we would never reach a point of seeing eye-to-eye. We lived a quasi-awkward detente for so many years. It was also a reminder that the idea that I would one day be a mom was slipping away. Don't ask how I knew this in my 20's -- some things you just <b>know</b> in your marrow so deeply that it's how you cope with a reality not-yet-real. Sure enough, my thirties rolled around, and I cared less how it affected me as a childless person. By that time, I came to realize that so many of my friends also had conflicted relationships with their mothers -- like attracting like, I suppose.<br />
<br />
There's something about it that kind of rankles me in a million ways -- for all of us who are childless whether by choice, or by biology, or just by circumstance. For all of us who had difficult relationships with either our mothers or our children (or both). For all of us who feel that a woman's worth isn't dependent upon being a mother, but simply by our existence -- that we are whole humans regardless of our status as a progenitor or a caregiver.<br />
<br />
The year Mom died, it was so very raw -- even more so for my cousin, who had lost her mother just days before, who had one of those great relationships that I would never have had. I remember standing in the craft store and seeing all those "make this for Mom!" displays and thinking, "Just another stabbing reminder that I don't have a mother anymore." I don't even remember what we did that day -- I think just treated it like any other Sunday, floating in a cocoon of emotional goo and waiting to birth into the butterflies we should become.<br />
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The next year, the grief was still raw, though lessened somewhat by time, and I was angry. I wanted all those damn advertisers to hurt as badly as I did. I never related to M'Lynn Eatonton as much as I did in that moment. I wanted to deliver a bouquet of throat punches and weiner jabs to all of them. I wanted to deliver a box of chocolate laxatives to them. Take them to a lovely dinner where the food had been salted with my tears.<br />
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Last year was a bit better but not by much. On top of that, by that point, I had suffered two more jarring losses. I had to cantor that morning at church, and it was almost too much. Odd -- the morning after Mom's death, I was in the choir, singing as if my own life depended on it, and now two years later, I suddenly can't? I made it through, but I went home that day and in our ministry scheduler, marked myself as unavailable on the 2nd Sunday of May from now on.<br />
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This year ...... I don't know. Part of me wants to wrap the blankets around my head and pretend the day just doesn't exist. Part of me wants to go to the cemetery and talk to Mama...... Part of me wants to smash things. I hear the ads and such (mostly on radio because I spend so much time in my car) and I roll my eyes and groan at the pandering and commercialism. I silently smile smugly at the knowledge that Anna Jarvis herself regretted establishing the holiday because of the commercialization.<br />
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I'll always be ambivalent and probably always a little angry. And sometimes, that's okay too.<br />
<br />
I think Anna Jarvis would be okay with that.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-36421201374420007062019-04-19T11:23:00.001-04:002019-04-19T11:35:25.882-04:0050 at 50: Soul SistersI've never seen a truer sentiment than this:<br />
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<img alt="Image result for girlfriends quotes" height="320" src="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ca/a5/09/caa5098b0178b75c1c132b96ce53f175.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<br />
If there is <b>anything</b> I've learned in my nearly 50 trips around the sun, it's that you find your tribe and you love them hard. Your girlfriends are there for you when shoes and hearts break. They're there for you when you have buried your mama and your dog in the same year. They're there for you when you get the promotion -- and when you get passed over.<br />
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In my life, I've noticed that a good many of my girlfriends all share either being a oldest child who happens to be a daughter, or an only child who's a daughter. I think we vibe to each other because we know what it is (especially by now) to care for a sibling and later a parent. Often we've parented those siblings and sometimes those parents (even in younger years). We know how hard it is to make your way in the world in a culture that still treasures boy-children as kings just because of their anatomical makeup, and expects us girls to adjust accordingly.<br />
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My girlfriends were there during all the fights with my mom (from elementary school on), during crushes and getting crushed, during the breakups that devastated me. They've held my hand and <b>literally </b>wrapped their arms around me to keep me standing when I didn't have the strength to do so. They've cheered my successes and ate ice cream with me in my failures. And a select few also look at me and say, "Okay, girl, you have bullshitted yourself long enough. No more" and I know that they say it with every ounce of love in the universe.<br />
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Some of them made their way into my circle early on. Some left as more came in but I believe in U's instead of circles where everyone has a place..... and in circling up when it's warranted for my own protection. Some of them I have yet to lay physical eyes on -- even after almost 20 years -- but the magic of the Internet has made those barriers nothing.<br />
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If I could teach young girls these days anything, it's that their vibe attracts their tribe -- so be aware of what you're putting out into the universe. But when that tribe comes together, you hold onto them for as long as possible. Men will come and go but your girlfriends will feed your soul. You may not share DNA but they are your sisters.<br />
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To every one of my soul sisters -- and you are legion -- thank you from the bottom of my wounded but still beating heart, from a soul overflowing with gratitude.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-77320529908983027362019-04-10T17:25:00.002-04:002019-04-10T17:25:39.537-04:0050 At 50: RealI think that as I age, one of the compliments of the highest degree that I could ever hope to hear is "she's real."<br />
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It wasn't always thus. Not that I was false, more that I wasn't truly real.<br />
<br />
I am a people-pleaser to the core. I'm not sure why, or what drove that instinct in me, but the need to please and to fit in was so incredibly overpowering. For much of the first portion of my life, I was a chameleon. I could adapt and blend in and everything was malleable and up for debate. It was kind of like Julia Roberts' Maggie in <i>The Runaway Bride</i>: with every new boyfriend came a new favorite type of egg dish. Finally, she realized her own favorite was Eggs Benedict. She'd been so busy trying to be perfect to please someone else that she didn't know her own life.<br />
<br />
Hello? Hand raised?<br />
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<img alt="Image result for samesies" height="180" src="https://media1.tenor.com/images/75f1b583cc497a66dc5f1a7bb087118f/tenor.gif?itemid=7402185" width="320" /><br />
<br />
Yep. If we hung out long enough and you decided you didn't like Italian food.... okay, that might be a deal breaker. But let's say you decided CCR was the worst band ever, then I would never ever mention that I like their music, or get very wishy-washy about my opinion on their work.<br />
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For example: Star Trek? Haven't watched an episode since he left but yep, loved it when he was here. (But to be fair, I'm still a fan of TNG and DS9 -- I just don't have my DVR set for every single time an episode comes on). Started liking Pearl Jam again after he was gone; stopped listening to the local morning show. You get the idea -- I hadn't been a huge fan of this or that or the other, and I quashed my own likes and dislikes in order to possibly gain some sort of advantage.<br />
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I'm not sure what triggers the change in someone to finally stop doing that and own themselves at last. For me, it was a lot of different things, all over the course of the rest of my life so far. Mostly, though, it was the realization that I didn't need to be artificial. People were either going to like me or not. It had taken long enough for me to learn to like, then love, myself. I didn't have the energy to convince others to do so. If you like me, great. If not, well, hate it for you but wish you well.<br />
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Being real is so much easier -- why didn't I do this back in my teens? <i>(Easy answer: small town, and those "people pleaser" tendencies). </i><br />
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Real is knowing that I'm most at home in jeans, a tee, a hoodie, and a comfy pair of tennis shoes or my beloved Docs. Real is laughing at my own awkwardness. Real is knowing my customer service voice went to Ivy League and my "come at me bro" voice is country as can be. Real is facing my shortcomings every day and knowing I gave it my best.<br />
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Real is pain, indescribable and sometimes almost unbearable. Real is joy from the depths of that same wounded soul. Real is walking around with huge holes in my life and not being embarrassed by any of it. Real is laughing with your girlfriends and knowing that they have your back and you have theirs. Real is holding their hands when bad stuff goes down - just like they held your hair when.... well, you know.<br />
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I'll take real any day of the week.nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-28120149270425511372019-03-29T17:32:00.005-04:002019-03-29T17:32:56.681-04:0050 At 50: Looking ForwardThis has been a difficult week in <i>Cerveau de Moi</i>. There has been a lot of upheaval, a lot of wistfulness and sadness, and yet some good in it as well. It gave me reason to reflect, and as I am wont to do, I meandered down a few paths.<br />
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It is still mind-boggling to think I am going to be 50 in about 7 months. For a couple of decades now, I've been 27 in my brain. There's always been this disconnect with my age and me -- as a kid, I was the little old lady in the bunch. Too serious, too mature. Now that I'm middle-aged, I don't feel it -- I feel much less serious. My body tells a different story, too many years of wear and tear and so so many years of fighting myself. I think I've moved myself up to a mental age of about 33 now.<br />
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When I was in my 20s, <b>OH THE ANGST</b>! <b><span style="color: blue;">OH THE EXISTENTIAL CRISIS</span></b>! <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>OH THE MELODRAMA</b></span>!! To think of that time in my life, I'm actually quite sad at how much energy I expended in navel-gazing, and about things that weren't worth my time. I read my journals from those last couple of years in college and through my twenties, and I want to both laugh and cry. I laugh because again, <b><span style="color: #134f5c;">THE DRAAAAAAMAAAAAAAH</span></b> and so much of it self-induced! I cry because I want to grab my younger self, and to tell her to snap out of it, that he's not worth this much emotion, that your mama is not the arbiter of your worth, that you don't have to live life settling -- <b><span style="color: #4c1130;">DIDN'T YOU SWEAR YOU WOULDN'T?</span></b> -- and yet, here you are. I wish I could take that girl who was so lost at 23, 24, 25.... and remind her earlier of who she was, and not to lose that person.<br />
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But because of that, my 30s were filled with rescue: rescuing my self-worth, my essence, my soul, my health, my career. I started with a slow crawl out of a tomb, shook off the cobwebs, unwound my graveclothes, and started living more. I remembered the young girl I'd been in college and resolved to find her again. I decided my health was worth saving. It wasn't always easy and it was one step forward, three back sometimes, but I arrived at 40 happy and becoming fulfilled. I finally started feeling comfortable in my own skin.<br />
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My 40s were life's way of saying, "Mmmm, not so fast there, hoss." Healthy was about to be a relative term. At 42, I had a cancer scare (that ended up literally being nothing, just "smudgy film"). At 43, it was a year of headaches that would not go away and a slew of work stresses that just exacerbated the issue. Worse, I had these nagging feelings that things were not as bright for me as they once felt. At 44, I was under such stress that I broke out in shingles. At 45, I had foot surgery and a continuing downward spiral <i>pas de trois</i> with anxiety and depression. At 46, the losses began piling up: my mother and an aunt in just 8 weeks. And losing my faith in people to do the right thing. At 47, more losses: my dog, another aunt, a beloved artist, and then my brother all within 9 months. At 48, I began holding my breath every time I had a twitch, wondering if I was the next one whose picture would be X'd out in some grand scheme of the cosmos. All along I was again losing my battle with the bulge -- and swearing it was going to get better. Right. I finally turned 49, and on January 1 of this year, I exhaled heavily when I hadn't lost anyone else in my immediate circle that year.<br />
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But on the decade as a whole, I gained just as much as I lost: I gained perspective and clarity about what really matters. I gained a completely new appreciation for my family, who rallied around me in my darkest moments. I gained friends for whom music was a lifeblood, as much as it remains for me. I gained a lot of compassion each time my heart was crushed, because it broke up the crusty outer shell and allowed my heart to grow all the more. I gained a sense of now-or-never. I had to really start living again. The years were no longer on my side...... I rediscovered my love for live music. The backbone that finally emerged around age 35 became galvanized.<br />
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What do my 50s hold? I don't know. I have some expectations, but if nothing else, I've learned not to count on anything - and not to count anything out either. I'm in this last year of my 40s having literally just gone through another head-spinning transition (one which caused a pretty decent spike in my anxiety). I know that whatever awaits me, I will meet the challenge head-on. What other alternative is there?nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14368873.post-90380775267497900272019-03-04T12:47:00.001-05:002019-03-04T12:47:59.468-05:00Forgive me if.....Forgive me if I’m not myself over the next few days. This is probably my hardest week of the year, because so many things hit at once.<br />
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Today is March 4, 2019.... 3 years since the last time I saw my mom alive. Correction: since I saw her existing. She was on so much pain medication that she was out for all but about 10 minutes of the time I spent with her. I sang to her that day, and the songs “Given to Fly” and “I Am Mine” and “Scar on the Sky” still hold a very sweet place in my heart. They always will.<br />
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Tomorrow marks three years since that phone call .... 6:04 am. She’d passed at 5:55. I knew what it was when they wouldn’t speak to me but wanted to speak to Daddy. The resignation of “what time?” and knowing for sure. Dealing with things I never imagined — waiting on the mortuary, figuring out clothes to cremate her in (like it mattered but it was for us to see the body one last time.<br />
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The next day (March 6) will be both joyful and weirdly somber — Ash Wednesday and Daddy’s 75th birthday! I’m also getting together with some friends, one whom I haven’t seen in 5 years! I’m looking forward to that and will celebrate with Daddy over the weekend.<br />
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March 7 is back to somber — my maternal grandmother passed that day in 1982. There are moments it still stings as much as it did back then. She was the one person in this world who showed me completely unconditional love as a child. I miss that as an adult. We need more Grannies in the world who are here to do nothing but give unconditional love.<br />
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March 10 is another hard day, especially this year. My friend Tee from high school would have turned 50. It is still unreal to believe she’s been gone for 13 years now. It sucks that she hasn’t been in the world.....<br />
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March 12 will suck even worse. That would have been Richard’s 44th birthday. I am still not over the fact that my brother is perpetually 42 for the rest of my life. That I’ll never get to wish him a happy birthday ever. That I’m an only-again. Is there a support group for oldest-only-agains? There has to be somewhere.....<br />
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March 19 is a weird day too. It was my grandfather’s birthday but also the day his sister passed. My great-aunt Mary was like another grandparent to me. Weird to realize that she’s been absent from my life for all these years and yet I still remember how much she impacted my life.<br />
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And as always, there’s the 18th and 22nd..... days I never forget.<br />
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Maybe someday March won’t be weird......nettiemachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00835731271577804010noreply@blogger.com0