Hallelujah

I was in Boston Sunday night for a concert, and before the show, my friend and I had some time to wander about Quincy Market. Which, yes, tourist trap, blah blah blah, but can I just tell you?

I love me some Quincy Market.

True story: When I was in college in Boston, I used to wake up much earlier on the weekend than my roommates... and all of my friends ... and probably, honestly, nearly everyone else in the city. I've always been an early riser. As anyone who's ever lived with other people in very cramped quarters knows, this is often awkward because you can't really DO anything without running the risk of waking the roommate, which seems rude.

So I would leave. I'd take myself off to Quincy Market, get a coffee, and then wander down to Columbus Park and look out over the harbour, drinking my coffee and thinking my thinks. When the coffee was gone, I'd go back to Quincy Market and people watch until I thought that it would probably be safe to return to our pad on Hemenway Street without waking anyone up.

I loved those mornings.

At any rate, Quincy Market is all decked out for the holidays and looking its festive best. Big old Christmas tree, lights everywhere. Fabulous. And then, much to my delight, I could hear the Boston Pops playing.

AND THEN ...

The lights started twinkling in conjunction with the music.

I know, it sounds incredibly cheesetastic. It sounds ridiculous.

It was BEAUTIFUL.

(You'd have to see it, I think. And you should. Get on the train and get over there. Have some coffee. Just sit and watch. Totally worth it.)

At any rate, I was walking in a happy holiday haze when I heard it. The beginning of the Hallelujah Chorus.

Which brings me to another "when I was in college" story ... and since I have SO few of these (which is a story in and of itself), I'll share this one too.

Freshman year in college, and I was ... sort of ... seeing a guy who lived down the hall from me. I liked him quite a lot. Right before Thanksgiving, he asked me if I wanted to go to the symphony at Christmastime to see/hear Handel's Messiah.

Um, yes.

So he got the tickets and we planned to go.

And then I went home for Thanksgiving. He did NOT go home for Thanksgiving. Instead, he stayed at the dorm and threw me over for a slender blonde with a ridiculous nickname who had ALSO stayed at the dorm over the holiday. (This was when I learned that sometimes, in relationships? It can come down to nothing more than proximity. And blondeness.)

Suffice it to say that he kind of no longer wanted to go to the symphony with me.

A better woman than I would have been like, no, you should totally take the new girl. Unfortunately, I'm not a better woman. I was, however, a slightly bitter woman because, really? Who gets dumped for going home for Thanksgiving?

Plus, you know, the symphony. Band Geek here.

We went. I got all dressed up. My friend Jay (bless him) had a talking to with the young man about being nice to me, and maybe wearing a tie. We went to Symphony Hall. The music started.

And I forgot about cranky Dumper McCheaterson beside me. I forgot that we were barely speaking to each other or that I was still kind of mad at him. I forgot that the shoes that I was wearing were not comfortable and that I was overdressed and looked like kind of an idiot. I forgot everything except for the music.

It was so beautiful.

I'd heard it before, of course. Again, Band Geek. I was down with some Handel. But I'd never heard it like this. NOTHING had ever sounded like this. It was like being wrapped in a blanket of the most amazing sound.

I may have cried a little bit. I'm just saying.

I'd like to say that evening repaired my relationship with the Quicker Breaker-Upper. It didn't. I don't think we ever spoke again, to be honest. We just went in different directions, which I realize now is kind of what you're supposed to do when you're 18.

I thought of him, though, when I was standing in Quincy Market, hands pressed together, listening to the Hallelujah Chorus and watching the lights twinkle. I sent him a little prayer of goodwill. Because he taught me some things, about who I was and who I wanted to be, and what it meant to be gracious, and also? He gave me the Messiah.

Hallelujah for that.

Dreaming and Daring

I read somewhere recently that you never dream about people you've never seen. Every person in your dreams is someone you've actually viewed at least once, which means that the women my brain cast as Amish sisters who were taking part in an obstacle course (one portion of which involved swimming through a tank filled with eels and some especially large, angry looking fish) that was ALSO a televised reality show were people I have seen before, though I don't recognize them.

The older sister was a very good swimmer, by the way. The younger one had some trouble because she was frightened of the fish, though the eels didn't bother her.

I was willing to accept the "You only dream about people you've seen" theory at first, because science, but then I wondered, how do you prove that? How do they KNOW?  It seems to me as thought that could be a statement that would drive fellow researchers crazy at cocktail parties. "Prove your theory is true!" "No, you prove it ISN'T true!" "Smithers, fetch me another martini!"

I've been thinking about dreams lately, because as always seems to happen when Insomnia is slouching around my apartment, a delinquent in a black leather jacket with cigarettes rolled into his sleeves, I've been playing vivid and bizarre movies in my mind when I do manage to go to sleep. I don't remember them all (and I've never been one who writes them down) though the "Wipe Out"ish one from last night is lingering with me -- possibly because there were SO MANY eels in that tank, and the fish had such enormous teeth.

And why was it important that the sisters I was working with (I was not a contestant, I might add, but a production assistant) were Amish? Though now I'm thinking that perhaps they weren't Amish at all, but just very quaintly dressed. 

I was going to go on some sort of dorktastic literary theory nuttiness about dreams here (NERD ALERT) but now I'm not, because it strikes me as significant and kind of sad that even in my dreams I'm a worker bee. I don't even allow myself to play when I'm DREAMING. Instead, I stay behind the scenes, comfort the scared girl, make sure the eels are properly fed, convince a coworker to handle the big ugly fish. There may have been exhilaration and daring present -- the older sister ROCKED that tank, y'all, if only you could have seen her in her 1920's ish bathing suit, all modesty, slicing through the water while the fish crossed her path menacingly and the eels wriggled around her and emerging triumphantly on the other side -- but none of it was mine (though I was quite happy for both her and her sister, who didn't complete it so smoothly but was certain she could make up for the time on the portion of the course that involved an impossibly vast chasm and a very tiny rope bridge because "heights are not an issue for me").

You might be thinking that I'm over thinking it, that it was just a dream and that dreams don't really mean anything. I understand that sentiment, but I also know this: I have become boring to myself. Not because I'm a behind the scenes kind of a girl-- I'm proud of what I'm able to accomplish back here-- but because I've become the girl who only owns black clothing because I would no longer ever consider being on stage, in front of the lights.

Boring.

I need to find a tank full of eels and take the plunge. Only, please Lord, let that remain simply a metaphor because ... eeew.

Friday Randoms

i

"Whatcha doing?"

"Watching Downton Abbey, drinking wine, and practicing a variety of British accents from the comforts of my couch."

"Why would you do that?"

"Why WOULDN'T you do that?"

ii

"So, before you start to yell at me -- which would be completely appropriate and understandable -- let me say this: I was wrong. I messed up. I would like to know how to avoid making that mistake in the future, so when you're done yelling at me -- which, again, I totally understand -- can we work together to develop a plan to make sure this doesn't happen again?"

"Oh. Well. Now I feel like I can't yell at you."

"No, really, go ahead. I think we'll all feel better. And by that I mean you'll feel better. I'll just be sad."

"STOP DOING THAT."

"See! Do you feel better now?"

iii

"If I had known this conference call was going to be two and a half hours long, I would have had lunch sent into my office."

"Dude. If I had known this conference call was going to be two and a half hours long, I wouldn't have had three cups of coffee before and one during. I think my bladder is going to explode, and this is NOT how I want to die."

iv

"Have you ever really looked at Brad Pitt and thought that he looks a bit like a chipmunk?"

"No."

"Look at this photo. He's got, like, a chipmunk face. All I can think of is Chip and Dale. I mean, if either of them were humanitarians and (snort) serious actors."

"... thanks for ruining him for me."

"What? Chipmunks are cute."

v

"I bought ramen at the dollar store the other day."

"Was it good?"

"It tasted kind of like nostalgia and depression, so all in all I'd say it was fine."

"Please tell me you drank Boone's Farm with it. Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease."

"Sorry, I wasn't able to bring myself to complete the 1994 collegiate fine dining experience."

On Kindness

One of the things CG* HATED about me was my documented inability to leave well enough alone. Of course, this was mostly due to the fact that our definitions of "well enough" were drastically different. For him, it meant that he should rarely have to interact with random strangers. And for me...

...well.

I may be shy, and I may be awkward, but I'm also the girl who will talk to people who look like they need help. Of course, in my world, "needing help" means many, MANY different things. It might mean that you look a little sad. It might mean you're asking for directions. It might mean that you're trying to manage your bags and a toddler all alone at the airport. It might actually mean you've locked your child and your keys in your running car in North Carolina in the summertime.*

In any of those situations? I'm your girl. And I will go out of my way to help you.

The reason for this is quite simple: I've been in positions where I needed help, and when I did? People came to my aid.

It's not complicated.

What is problematic, at least to me, is that people so seldom expect others to be kind. It startles them. Acts of kindness have become heroic. They make the news. While it's nice to see kindness recognized, it's sad -- at least to me -- that it's suprising to people, as though we're much more accustomed to a raised fist than an open hand.

This is on my mind because two of my favourite people on the planet are (hopefully, if everything is cooperative) having a baby today. I have heard, several times, that this is a tough world to bring children into. I think, yes, maybe that's true, but then I think this:

It doesn't NEED to be.

Because the world can be full of kindness. You might be rolling your eyes at me -- CG would be -- but it takes very little more than saying to yourself: "Yes, I want to be open to helping other people. Yes, I will make sure to acknowledge that they are just as important as I am. Yes, I am willing to default to patience, even though sometimes it's REALLY HARD."

Sometimes it will be.

But mostly it won't be.

And it will always be worth it.




*The ex, in case you've forgotten or you're new to the party.

**Yes, this happened.

Love/Hate Wednesday (The Holiday Edition, Part One)

Oh Y'all, this would be the longest post ever if I didn't make myself stick to the two things format. But because there are so very many things during this season that I both love AND hate? Expect this to be a theme through December. (I mean, really. Can YOU choose only two things that you love or hate during the holidays? I can list at least 17 without even thinking about it.)

So first. And I know the video thing might be getting boring, but I REALLY want you to see/hear/love this.

Love

Pentatonix


 

(In case the above doesn't work, click here. )

In case you're all "Who are these ridiculously young people" please allow me to tell you. Once upon a time, NBC aired the only reality competition that I ever watched. It was called "The Sing Off" and you know it was good because Ben Folds was a judge.

BEN FOLDS WAS A JUDGE, YOU GUYS.

It was an a capella singing competition and I feel bereft without it. Anyway, this is the group that won last year, in what would prove to be the final season. (Sniffle. Sob.)

So yeah. This? All voices. No instruments. ALL AWESOME ALL OF THE TIME.

And I love it. You should too.

Hate

Being the Person Who Remembers That Things Must Be Done

It happens every year. It shouldn't, but it does. The holidays roll around at the same time. EVERY YEAR.  And yet they strike people as a surprise, as though they didn't know they were coming.

So every year I remind my superiors at work "Um. Company gifts? Christmas cards?" And they're all "WHAT? Oh, I totally forgot!" because apparently the holidays are super stealthy, what with the marketing beginning before Halloween and all.

And then every year -- because I'm the girl, and because I poked the sleeping bear -- I end up with this on my plate. EVERY YEAR.

Here's why I hate this, though: because I end up making the choices and getting everything sent out because no one else wants to do it/ is capable of it/ can remember that it needs to happen? I'm also the one who gets every one of those choices scrutinized after the fact. "Oh, why did you pick out THIS card?" or "I was hoping the cards would have glitter on them!" or "Last year's gifts were nicer" or "I really think that we should move away from presents that might contain candy" or "I would have liked it if you had chosen a different vendor" or "How come you sent something to X and not Y even though I told you that X was definitely the way to go?"

Every year.

Hate it.

Next week:
Love: decorations
Hate: Wrapping gifts

... and Then I Got Sucked Into Downton Abbey ...

... I couldn't HELP it.

Here's what happened: I had plans that had to be cancelled due to a combination of not-so-good weather and my (generally acknowledged as poor) driving skills. As a result? I was bored and cranky, because I'd been looking forward to the event that I was now going to miss.

I watched the snow fall outside my window and the part of my brain that loves Robert Frost was pleased at the beauty. The part of my brain that wanted to go out and play with my friends was pouting. And yet another part of my brain suddenly mentioned that this situation required mulled wine, and would I please move all parts of my brain (and, you know, the rest of my person) into the kitchen and make some?

The other two parts of my brain perked up at the idea of warm, winey goodness and stopped rhapsodizing and pouting long enough to be all "oooooh, wine!" So off to the kitchen I went to mull away.

(As an aside, if you've got a pot filled with red wine and other things? Try not to drop a half of an orange into it. Turns out that will make a HUGE mess that you will have to clean up before you can enjoy any of your winey genius. Also, red wine? That'll stain. I mean, not that I DID that. TWICE.)

After successfully making what might be my new favourite beverage ever, I went into the living room and discovered that a) I no longer have HBO (which is weird, because I didn't CANCEL it and I don't know where it went) and b) there was nothing on tv. NOTHING. 100 plus channels and nothing to watch.

The pouty, "But I wanted to GOOOOO" part of my brain started whining again. I drank some wine. It briefly shut up.

And then I thought: hey, didn't I get Season One of Downton Abbey a while ago? I should watch that.

Now, you may be wondering how it came to be that I had purchased Downton Abbey and not actually watched it. The truth is that I don't watch very much television. I just don't. I don't like to sit that long (unless it's with a book, in which case my entire house could burn down around me and I might not notice because I'M BUSY). As a result, I caved and bought season one of Downton because people kept telling me I would love it, it was awesome, I needed it in my life, and then put it in the DVD shelf and promptly forgot about it. (This is not the same as Season One of The Walking Dead, which I purchased for the same reason but was too scared to make it through the first episode. Oh, and does anyone want Season One of The Walking Dead? Because, really.)

This would be a good time to watch, like, the first episode, I thought. Nothing else is happening right now.

Six hours later, I was STILL WATCHING. I'd forgotten about my wine. I'd forgotten it was snowing. I'd forgotten to eat dinner. I'd managed to forget that I'd had to clean my entire kitchen twice. I DID, however, manage to start sending my poor friend Shilo texts that said things like "OMG THE CLOTHES!" (She actually started watching this show when it was new-ish. Whatever, I'm only three years late to the party.)

I finally went to bed. In the morning, I made a cup of coffee and watched the last installment of the first season. It ended. I sat on the couch, staring at the credits.

"But there's MORE," the credits seemed to slyly whisper. "There are two more seasons. YOU NEED THEM!"

I looked out the window. It was clearly icy outside.

I looked at the tv. It looked back at me.

"AMAZON.COM,"I said out loud.

So, yeah. If you need me this week? I'll be in Downton Abbey. Catching up with Mr Bates and Anna and Lady Mary and the Dowager Countess. (And, probably, drinking mulled wine. Tis the season.)

Christmachanukwanzatever

I want to address something that comes up every year at this time and drives me completely mental.  This year, it came up early on when I was on Facebook and saw that someone had changed their status to show an arrow pointing up at their profile photo and the text “This Person (arrow, pointing) Will Be Wishing People MERRY CHRISTMAS.”

("This person" by the way, keeps referring to the tree they're putting up as a CHRISTmas tree, apparently unaware that -- and this is just according to the Encyclopedia Brittanica -- "Tree worship was common among the pagan Europeans and survived their conversion to Christianity in the Scandinavian customs of decorating the house and barn with evergreens at the New Year to scare away the devil" I'm just saying.)

At any rate, for THIS PERSON and his CHRISTmas loving buddies: Way to be. Rock on, with your Christmas-loving self.  That’s cool. If you say “Merry Christmas” to me? That will make me happy.

It will also make me happy if you wish me a Happy New Year. Or a Happy Chanukkah. Or a Happy Kwanzaa.  Or a Fabulous Festivus.

Or if you just say “Happy Holidays.” But I do have the feeling that if I say Happy Holidays to you? Things are going to escalate. QUICKLY. So I am going to point out the following. Again.

Saying “Happy Holidays” instead of” Merry ChristmaChanukwanzaatever” isn’t designed to take away from any of those holidays.  It just includes everyone. (Plus, it seems to me that TECHNICALLY you would only say Merry Christmas ON Christmas itself. You don’t go around saying “Happy Birthday” to someone for weeks before their birthday, or wish someone a Happy Easter for the entire month of April. However, that's just a technicality, I guess.) So “Happy Holidays” is a nice way of saying to someone “WHOA, there is a boatload of holidays coming up. Please, enjoy all of them!”

But oh boy, do people get irritated by “Happy Holidays” – it seems like the Christmas celebrating folk get the most worked up about it, but that’s just my impression (mostly created by the fact that no one has, so far, shown up on my Facebook wall announcing “THIS PERSON WILL BE WISHING PEOPLE HAPPY CHANUKKAH AND THE C IS SILENT, Y’ALL”).

Here’s what I think: there are so many things to get angry about in this world.  Are we REALLY going to get wrapped up about how we express goodwill toward one another? If I am trying to tell you that I want you to be happy, that I hope you are loved, that I wish amazing things for you, does the exact phrasing matter? Or does it matter that it comes from an honest and loving place in my heart? Because it seems to me that sentiment matters more than wording.  It seems to me that taking the time to wish someone joy is the whole point. So if you want to wish someone a Merry Christmas? Go ahead! And if they wish you “Happy Holidays” in return? They’re not trying to steal or devalue your holiday or beliefs. They’re just returning the well wishes.  That’s ALL. The words are meant as kindly as your words were meant, and believed as sincerely as yours were believed.

So. From me, to you, Merry Christmas. Happy Chanukkah. Merry Kwanzaa. Happy New Year.

Happy Holidays.