Directing Music

Sometimes when I hear a song, I see a movie. In my head. That I've written and directed. And starred in.

Today I was listening to my iPod on shuffle mode, and "The Long and Winding Road" by the Beatles came on. First of all, that song always makes me want to cry. Today as I listened to it, I saw the final scene in my movie:

I was standing on a hilltop, looking out over the horizon. The barely there grass that covered the hilltop was part green, mostly brown. It was a cool day, late afternoon. I was wearing a long skirt, boots, and had a tan colored shawl wrapped around me; think Robert Redford's Sundance catalog. I was hugging the shawl to me, but standing tall at the same time. My hair was very long, and blonder, for some reason. It was blowing slightly in the wind.

As the credits were rolling up the screen, I stood there, reflecting on my life, and vowing to move on from whatever hardship I had just endured, probably a breakup.

Well, that was the last 3 minutes of the movie, anyway. Now I just need to write the other 120 minutes. Does this happen to everyone when listening to music? I could see that scene with all that detail clear as day; it was just there! Fascinating. I was broken out of my directing fantasy when the next song came on: "Ring My Bell." Different kind of movie.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I went to my friends' house for Thanksgiving dinner. What a feast. I was assigned green leafy vegetables, and I obliged by going to Whole Foods and scooping up all kinds of lettuce and kale. I ended up making The Incredible Shrinking Side Dishes.

First of all, I didn't realize that kale shrunk almost as much as spinach. I had bought a whole pound of kale. It filled the pot. Threw in some free range chicken broth and boiled it for 20 minutes, and voila! I had enough for two people. The other six would have to eat something else.

The salad was diverse. It had two kinds of lettuce, some grape tomatoes, shredded carrots, edamame, and some LaChoy chinese crispy noodles for crunch. I wanted people to experience my favorite Japanese salad dressing, so I doused the mixture with it, tossed it up real nice, then went to take a shower. Halfway through I realized I had made that same mistake once before, and the salad had gotten progressively smaller.

Indeed, when I went to check on it, it had shrunk so much I had to put it in a smaller bowl. Thank god these were my friends, and not my future in-laws. They would understand and not judge me.

Turns out there was plenty of food. The turkey was smoked. Whoa. Everything was delicious. It was all laid out on the table, and it looked good. My dear friend Mike, who makes me look wishy washy, came out with a checklist to make sure everything was out. I had to laugh, because it looked ridiculous, but also because I would have done the exact same thing.

Lisa, Mike's wife, made this really cool soup (yes, I actually said cool soup) that was clear with scallions and carrot slices cut in the shape of fancy goldfish. I'm not kidding, look at the photo.

Mike went into the kitchen to carve the turkey, and it's a good thing he did it there. He had on the same kind of yellow rubber gloves I use when I'm cleaning the bathroom, and he tore that thing apart. I had to get rid of the association of toilets and turkeys, so I went back into the dining room to clear my head.

The turkey came out nicely sliced, and it smelled like smoked turkey, not disinfectant, thank goodness. It was delicious. For dessert there were three kinds of pie, and I had slices of two of them. Pure heaven.

For some reason, as we were all chatting away, satisfied and full to the brim, Mike brought out the turkey carcass and started hacking away at it right at the table. When he was done, it looked like a car that one of my boyfriends once had. He wanted to collect insurance money, so he took it to Harlem and left it there for a couple of days, with the doors unlocked. By the time the miscreants were done with it, it was hardly recognizable as a car. They got the radio, the tires, and some parts, and my boyfriend got his insurance money. I thought about this as I looked at what was once a turkey.

I wanted to take one of the nice cloth napkins and cover it up like they do at the morgue. The mother turkey would have to come along and identify her son, who was killed and then smoked, and then hacked to pieces. It would be too much for her; the family friend would have to do the awful deed. "Yes... yes, this is Tom. I'd recognize that pop up thermometer anywhere."

My overactive imagination did not get the best of me, and I had a delightful time. After Mike and Lisa read this, will they invite me over again?

Tattoo You?

My new tattoo has a heart on it with a banner that says MOM. Someone I hadn't seen in a long time saw just the MO part and thought it said MOI. I replied, "Yeah, and it says above it, 'It's all about...'" She laughed and said she wouldn't put it past me. Really? Moi?

I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing

I have always been a late bloomer. While the other 10, 11, and 12 year olds were developing breasts, mine didn't come until I prayed to God when I was 14. I got my period at 16. I graduated high school at 19, and got my college degree after 7 years.

It shouldn't surprise me, then, that at 38, I am just now experiencing a phenomenon that women have been engaging in for years: the old, "eat a whole package of something in one sitting" phenomenon.

I had never done it, had never understood it, could not conceive of it, didn't know how women did it, but today I did it. I ate a whole container of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, 5 of them, in one sitting. And they were good.

I had a major attack of PMS on the way to the supermarket. PMS is such a strange phenomenom in itself. The littlest thing can set you off. I was wearing the new down jacket I ordered from Land'sEnd Kids, and it was feeling too big. It's a size L, 14-16. I was depressed about having cut off the tags, thinking I couldn't return it. I was thinking how ridiculous it was that a 14-16 kids was too big for me, a grown woman. I should be wearing a woman's size, but instead I was going to order a 10-12, and give my bigger coat away to some 11 year-old. I was going to run up my credit card bill, again. My eyes welled up.

I looked like a schlump. I looked like a white girl trying to be a homegirl. Real homegirls didn't know I really was one inside; all they saw was some white little thing with a ponytail and tied sneakers wearing a too big down jacket. They didn't know I grew up in Brooklyn, listening to Red Alert and The Quiet Storm. I was into rap before it was on MTV.

All these thoughts were running through my head as I went into the store to get some milk and cereal. I suddenly got a craving for comfort food. I went to the Pillsbury section and considered the options. I could get the buttery cresent rolls, lots of fat, but no sugary sweetness. They seemed healthier. There were the Grands!, the huge cinnamon rolls. Eventually I chose the regular cinnamon rolls, the small ones I used to eat as a teenager on a regular basis.

I hadn't eaten Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in at least 3 years, since I'd moved into my studio apartment, and it had probably been more like 5 since I'd had them. As soon as I got home, I called my upstairs neighbor to ask if I could use her oven. She said yes, and 12 minutes later I was back downstairs, with a plate full of goodness and a cup of tea staring up at me from my coffee table.

One by one, I popped them into my mouth, mindful of what I was doing. They were delicious, soft, sweet, and cinnamony. I didn't feel sick afterwards, but I'm sure I won't be doing it again any time soon. It's just not a good thing to do. But I know now how it feels to eat a package of something in one sitting. The PMS attack went away. And my new down coat should be arriving some time this week.

Cosmic Music

I made a CD of songs I think kids should know, to play for the kids at my nursery school:

The Banana Boat Song (Day-O), Harry Belafonte
Cars, Gary Numan
We Will Rock You, Queen
Yellow Submarine, The Beatles
and a couple more, just 'cause they're fun, including a song by Harry Belafonte called Matilda. Know it? I didn't.

A few kids were really into the CD. I taught them the meaning of The Banana Boat song, and what the word "tally" meant (Come, Mr. Tally Man, tally me banana). One boy really rocked out to Cars, and memorized the lyrics. It's so cute to hear him sing it. For We Will Rock You, I pounded out the beat on my legs or on the rug, and they really got it. One kid said to his dad at dinner, "You know, Dad, we all live in a yellow submarine."

I put Matilda on the CD because it's a live recording, and Harry Belafonte has parts of the audience and band repeat the chorus a million times, 10 minutes' worth. I thought it would be easy for the kids to remember when they heard it. The chorus goes, "Matilda...Matilda...Matilda, she take me money and run Venezuela..." One of my girls in particular likes that song because her mom is from Venezuela, and they had been there in the summer.

So we played it every day for about a week, and then one of the dads came in and told me that he and his son were in the supermarket and The Banana Boat Song came on. That was pretty cool, but then the next song was We Will Rock You, and that just seemed freaky. I thought it was pretty cosmic.

And then the mom who's from Venezuela called me today with this story:

She was in CVS buying stuff, and she was distracted and almost didn't pay. She came back to the counter and apologized, and the cashier said, "That's okay, I didn't think you were going to run to Venezuela." And the mom stopped in her tracks and said, "How did you know I was from Venezuela?" and the cashier said, "I didn't, I was just saying that from the song, "Matilda". And the mom said, "My daughter has been listening to that song at her school for the past month." And the cashier thought that she was the only one to know that song, because it's not that popular. The recording I got it from was from 1959.

So now there are 3 references to songs that haven't been in circulation for at least 25 years, all within a week. While I'm not the most religious person, I have to say I think it's a sign from God. A sign of what, I don't know. Any ideas?

Far from Reality

I had a reality TV moment tonight. I was in a building that had an elevator that had doors on both sides. I pretended I was on American Idol, going up to the big room to meet with Simon, Paula, and Randy to see if I made it through to the next round. It was a little nerve wracking for a minute there, wondering what if I should kiss the judges or just shake their hands. Unfortunately, my dream was shortened due to the fact that the building only had 3 floors. When the doors opened, the reality of the parking lot was like a slap in the face. Guess I'll stick to teaching.

Public Transportation Day from Hell

To continue my story from yesterday...
I decided to take the B line and change to the red line at Park Street. I figured I'd be on the T for awhile; I'd listen to my iPod and people watch. I wouldn't be cold with my dress on because I'd be inside the whole time. The trip normally takes about an hour. It was 2:30.

At Blanchard Street the T driver made an announcement that it would be the last stop due to construction. We had to go outside and get on a bus to go one stop to Kenmore, and then we had to go downstairs to get on another T to continue to Park Street. At this point I could have abandoned my trip and just gone home. Thing is, I'm a Taurus, and stubborn, and I was determined to get that goddamn tea you can only get in England and Cambridge, Massachusetts.
There were so many people getting off buses at Kenmore. Oh my god, it looked and felt just like a cattle call. We all filed down the stairs like lab rats and finally got on the next T.

At Park Street, where I usually change to the red line, there was a T employee standing at the top of the stairs. Not a good sign. He told us that there was construction on the red line and to go upstairs outside to take a bus that would take us to Kendall Square in Cambridge. We, the lab rats, did as we were told.

I thanked myself for having the foresight to charge my iPod battery all the way the night before, and cursed the public transportation system of Boston. But then I had to take that back, because when I lived in Japan, I made a vow to myself that I would never complain about public transportation again, because I lived for a year without it at all. I reminded myself that I hadn't had any plans that day anyway, so what was the big deal?

Got to Kendall and went downstairs to wait for another T to take me two stops to Harvard. Went into the store, picked up two boxes of tea, paid, and went back out. The time inside the store was approximately 8 minutes for an hour and a half of travel time, one way.

Got back on the T and did the same trip in reverse, only this time we only had to take one bus back, not two. By the time I got home, my bladder was screaming so loud I thought I might have an accident. Tights under a dress are very nice for slimming the waistline, but not so nice for riding a T for three hours.

Got home at 5:30 and put my pajamas on; I didn't care what time it was. Had a very nice evening in front of the telly with a hot cup of English tea.

Bad Sense of Direction

Man, what a day. Started off great. I was invited to a Bat Mitzvah at 10:00 this morning at a temple on Comm. Ave. I Mapquested it, and read to go up Washington, which is very close to me, then take a left on Comm. Ave. Seemed pretty close. By car, 7 minutes.

Thing is, I don't drive, so I figured I'd walk to Comm. Ave. I don't like the straight shot up Washington, and it seemed a long way to continue all the way to Comm. Ave. I thought I'd go the way I know, also known to me as the "pretty" way. I zipped down to Coolidge Corner, and zipped on down Babcock Street, which has all the pretty houses and trees and whatnot. I didn't realize that was a pretty long walk to Comm. Ave. too.

When I got to Comm. Ave., it was 9:50. I was looking for 1845 Comm. Ave., so I looked for the nearest number. It was 1021. Great. Couldn't walk, so I'd either hop in a cab or wait for the B line, which stops every block or so. I waited about 5 minutes, and the B came along. By the time it arrived, it was about 10:05. I got on the T and went up Comm. Ave. and saw one place I could've walked to, and then another. And finally, we passed the place I would have come to had I gone up Washington in the first place. It was very close to the temple. How 'bout that.

Here's a visual: Take your finger and put it at the bottom of a piece of paper. Now drag your finger up to the top, then across to the left. That's what I should've done. Put your finger back down at the bottom of the paper. Now make the letters M, Z, S, and T all over the paper. That's what I actually did. I have a terrible sense of direction. In this case it turned out not to matter.

Got to the temple at 10:15 and didn't miss a thing. The family who was hosting is notoriously late for everything, and this was no exception. They arrived at 10:45. I listened to a lot of Hebrew. It was a beautiful and very touching ceremony.

Afterwards, I debated whether or not I would go home and get into some comfy clothes or just get on the T and go to Cambridge to Cardullo's to get my special tea, made in England. I decided to go to Cambridge. I'd be on the T the whole way, only changing trains once, so it wouldn't be so bad. Guess again.