Category Archives: soundtrack

doris day

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"hello, i'm beverly boyer, and i'm a tramp"

“hello, i’m beverly boyer…and i’m a tramp.”

the thrill of it all, 1963

happy birthday, doris day!

i’ve been chided over my life-long love of this fabulous gal, and i’ll defend my adoration to the death!  doris day is a whole lotta perky, kookie, optimistic, sunny, pretty, stylish, warm, lovely, endearing, talented, independent, modestly sexy and real.  a perfect recipe of the era that i love best, that i lived earliest in, and adore still.

summertime was spent largely in our swimming pool, but admittedly, glued, as well, to the television.  that’s where it began, this love affair of mine.  sunny blonde lady, singing a happy tune, watching men fall hopelessly in love with her as she navigated exciting, glamorous careers…how yummy was this technicolor life playing out before me?

couldn’t get enough.

admittedly, when i had children of my own, i tired very quickly of cartoons & barney, so introduced my tots at a very early age to the world of those stylish, innocent early 60s, incarnated by doris and her cavalcade of beaus: rock hudson, cary grant, james garner & rod taylor. the hi-jinx of glass bottom boats, “the cracks in the school yard”, radio-controlled hors d’oeuvres and a nerve-causing rash in romantic bermuda kept those young eyes delighted and riveted, and the torch was passed.

and tonight?  to toast this fabulous gal?

give me a bowl of popcorn, a smart matching set of p.j’s, fuzzy slippers and a doris day movie marathon, with a side of sunshine, any day.

club sandwich

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we didn’t go out to restaurants very often when i was growing up.  so on the rare chance that i found myself at a freshly set table staring at the myriad of goodies listed on a menu, i wowed at the chance to order a club sandwich.  something about those layers fascinated me: i’m sure i thought i was getting more than only one persons share of food.  and as someone who eventually became adept at space planning and design, i’m certain that the sheer tidiness and structure of the thing called to me: quartered, stacked, tidy triangles assembled ‘just so’ on the buffalo china place of all restaurants in the 60s and 70s, and finished off with a jaunty festive bedazzled toothpick!

i took my children on an overseas adventure last month, their first. (i don’t know how else to refer to them: they’re not really children any more…2 in college, 1 nearly out of high school…’big kids’ sounds crass and conjures up images of overfed baby goats…)  i’d been to the uk, europe, italy, et al two previous times, quite ages ago, and found that i’d fed my wanderlust and longing for those aged, wonderful cultures through the meals i’ve created; music that has been my personal soundtrack; films whose subtitles we’ve all labored through; stage i’ve set in my quirky house; and most vividly, the sketches that i’ve conjured up.

this morning, i popped over to my europe sketch file and took a long look at this whimsical sketch of the champs elysee.  brimming with busy little cars as they skedaddle up and down the famed boulevard. (all of the cars, of course, are quite small in europe: my friend last month shrieking that a hired hyundai compact suv was ‘gigantic’ as she dodged oncoming motorists and at one point, a cow!).

but like that club sandwich of yore, this little sketch layers so much within it’s tidy frame.

years ago, flash back to my little house in the village, a paris wind blew through my window and sent me imagining on paper.  i’d always wanted to write and illustrate my own children’s book, and this little french vignette was meant to inspire me further in my story development. one thing or another, most likely life with some grade schoolers, a middle schooler, soccer, school performances, earning a living, tending to a series of adopted senior citizen dogs…i never finished the book.

but in between those dashing cars and swaying trees, i hear the back gate swing open and a posse of boys calling through the kitchen window for my son.  i see my two younger daughters tugging their chef hats onto their earnest, lovely little heads to conquer a new baking project in our italian-bistro-esque renovated farmhouse kitchen.  i hear the brakes of the ups truck pull up to our front sidewalk and the thump thump thump of tom’s brown boots trailing down the steps with his arms filled with packed and labeled boxed notes.  the creek, slam of the corner blue postal box interjects most of the day with it’s cymbol-like clang.

accordian music wafting through the air, i’m cuddled on my great big couch in our newly built country barn loft kitschy house, watching my son leap and hide behind the barn and trees outside, chasing his high school friends as they carry on yet another airsoft battle.  next to me are two adolescent gals, getting zippier and more beautiful by the minute, yet never tired, ever, ever, of popping a vhs tape of some of our ‘let’s take a trip for free’ movies:  hip teen favs, “passport to paris” and “what a girl wants”; classics, “charade” and “to catch a thief”; quirky, “8 women” and “the valet”…and i can hear them, their voices slightly higher, half a decade younger, earnestly talking about ‘some day’ when they see paris, london, europe…some day…for the first time.

then, turning away, i look again at this little painting.  i’m in a mercedes taxi, cause that’s what they do in france, racing past the parisian lighted treasures, tucked in tidily between two young women, my view the brilliant and majestic arc de triompe and the back of my son’s head, now a man with a trimmed beard and sparkling, all-seeing eyes…as he and the taxi driver ferry us home after a hilarious and unforgettable night all together along the seine and clambering down the steps of the eiffel tower.

and now, i’m stalling in getting my work day started, caught in this self-imposed reverie of the magic that whirls through me as i sit and stare at a silly sketch that i whipped up, gosh, probably ten years ago.  memory is one powerful sorcerer, it’s mate, imagination.  they’re my constant spirit guides, best co-pilots and sweetest bedtime story tellers.

this is my life, my own club sandwich, impossible to think of something as only being ‘one’ thing with this mind of mine, i see the layers, a game with time travel that costs nothing, and offers everything, happily swirling past, present, future, maybes, what ifs, all together tidily stacked and sandwiched, held together by those brightly colored toothpicks, i pull my chair up to the table, relishing the menu.

cliffhangers

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m wood grand central station

i say: hooray for the arts, all arts, any arts!

last night found us watching the wrap up of the ‘glee’ season and it’s senior class at mckinley high in lima, ohio.  it also pushed my cute daughter to the edge, crying out in plaintive exasperation:”these rollercoasters that our shows are putting us on!”

as a side note, we’ve suffered and wrangled our hands through the end of wisteria lane, the brutal murder of nice mike, the ghosts of all desperate housewives dead: what a zany trip down memory lane as we spied martha hoover, the evil pharmacist, rex and the whole gang of early demised fairview residents  somberly watching susan delfino drive off in her big jazzy car.

gossip girl sticks forlorn, aimless yet really beautiful serena on a train snorting cocaine next to some creepy dude, harkening back to jacqueline susann’s ‘valley of the dolls’ iconic opening and closing scenes aboard a new york metra train; blair and chuck gambling for love and money in monte carlo; dan and georgina off to rome to plot the ruin of the upper east side (working in tandem with nosy parker lola and her doppelganger, ivy)!

hart of dixie leaves ‘dr.’ rachel bilson ‘torn between two lovers’: nice bartender-country boy wade and stiff ‘he was a better actor in friday night lights’ lawyer george while poor lemon howls alone in the swamps.

parks and rec spelled victory for leslie as the new city councilwoman, though i’m really going to miss bobby rutherford…and tell me, is quincy jones’ daughter really going to move in with tom haverford?

revenge? say it ain’t so: did the white haired man really kill nolan? and since when are we feeling empathy for victoria? nice work of the writers, i’d say, to push us solidly on her slinky morticia-like side.

shonda rhimes killing off sweet little grey?  how on earth is that even fair? we still can’t talk about that at home.

it’s a lot to take, almost too much: stop the ride we have to get off!!!!  thank goodness summer is on schedule and books can calm us down with their sensible

…but back to glee.

yes, rachel weeping, shocked along with all of us, as finn sets her free to follow her dreams to new york and the bright lights of broadway.  we did not see that coming! a totally unpredictable turn of events, it alighted me on a floating raft of high emotion: sorrow and confusion, poor rachel! sweet gentle love, the entire gang gathered at the train platform to send her off!  heart pangs of love love love as finn runs alongside the train window to wave goodbye!  nail-biting worry, yet a growing sense of control and that it’s going to be okay, rachel singing on the train! poor simpering lass, it’s all happened so fast!

could there be, will there be, a turn, a lighter than air step towards that holy grail of happy endings, a feeling of optimism and euphoria?

in pure shiny hollywood this is why i love the arts, hats off to the creative genies who pull our heart strings, twist and turn them, amputate and resuscitate them all in one fell swoop: here comes that universally wonderous moment, a nod to funny girl, and her 70s contemporary clone, mtm, and all gals climbing those mountains: as rachel bounds out of the doors of grand central station in glamorous new york city, brilliantly clad in red pillbox cap and matching coat, her requisite white knee socks and some jaunty black strap dance shoes:

“I’m gonna live and live NOW!
Get what I want, I know how!
One roll for the whole shebang!
One throw that bell will go clang,
Eye on the target and wham,
One shot, one gun shot and bam!”
Hey, Rachel, here you are!

bagpipes

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engineering + math + science = heartsongs

studying structure, design, architecture and all of that jazz comes in handy when i have to draw a bagpipe.  actually, for that matter, when i have to draw anything.

my scottish friend is celebrating a birthday today.  i love being able to say that, “scottish friend”…as in, a scottish fellow who lives in scotland.

so for today’s facebook special birthday m. wood doodle, it was a compelling task…either that or the loch ness monster.

now the fact that i even know this scottish fellow is because of a pair of john’s: hughes and belushi.  a forever fan of both “ferris bueller” and “the blues brothers”, somehow the windy, gritty city of my backyard compelled this guy to impetuously travel from the glorious green highlands to a grey november weekend in chicago.  fast forward to my being in town to, of all zany things, stand in line for the casting call to my matt damon movie. (notice it’s “my” matt damon movie…).

late that night, after a giddy evening of food and spirits, i wound up, on a dare from my pal, striking up a chat with the tall, dark stranger, smack dab in the middle of the packed crowd of the zebra lounge.  stranger things have happened, and they just keep on happening, in my life, anyway.  but the moment that the rolling vowels and consonants came rolling out of his smiling mug, i was hooked.  ”you have an accent!” was my immediate reply and the start of a great conversation and even greater friendship with this doppelganger-sean connery-sort of a bloke

since he’s a “stewart”, i did a bit of research, meaning, walked over to my mudroom to find my scottish wool scarf, featuring the scottish tartan, a deeply appreciated gift, used daily this past winter to keep me warm and cozy.

my cat watched me stroll past her food dish (set near the lovely display of wine, always at the ready for unexpected guests), and noticed, with a frown, that i didn’t stop to “top off” her kibble.

back at my desk, i took a look at a few photos of bagpipes in my “eyewitness” scotland book…then settled with a pen and paper to do the odd looking thing justice: transforming a blank piece of paper into a black line, color rendered birthday bagpipe sketch.

i had no idea that there were three alternating length wooden sort of handles, each stretch of wood clustered together by a toggle…that all of these moveable arms were tied together with a braided rope, gaily tasseled at the end.  how clever is that???

the fittings remind me of detailed working drawings when, back in the day, i was drafting elevations and sections of custom designed millwork for architectural projects: everything that is built by hand has to be fitted together somehow, and i love learning the ‘how’ of it all.

so, the cutest part of this bagpipe, which just suddenly occurred to be named aptly, as it is a bag with a bunch of pipes, is the little mouthpiece.  in a reverse trumpet sort of shape, the rounded end is fitted into the wool bag with, of course, a nice round fitting, and the tapered end is the little bit that the musician blows into.

in a reverse shape appears to be the actual horn.  i could be making this up, but i just drew the identical shape, only the tapered end is fitted to the bag (beneath a lovely fringe of wool), leaving the horn-like end unencumbered.  yes, i think that is where the shrill, ages-old, unworldly bagpipe cry escapes from.

that old argument, nature or nurture, comes to mind.  but i think the wordsmiths who came up with these catchy sayings left out one important factor: add in spirit, or ancestral genes to that and i will, one hundred percent of the time, vote on the side of the ethereal inheritence that, by nature of our stone soup dna, as having the strongest vote in how our heart sings.

i’ve spent my life loving the hypnotic strains and sounds, notes and chants, tunes and ballads from the portion of my ancestry that hotbed of history in the united kingdom.  great britain, for my history has taught me that, and ireland. yes, the french part of me swoons along to edith piaf and the accordian sounds of a parisian street cafe, but deep in my lungs, blood and soul, i’ve felt a yearning connection to the other side of the channel.

the little flute thingy, is that a flute or tin whistle?  a fiddle, stomping feet, angelic sweet voiced enya, clannad, the march of the constant single drum to carry the melodic scream of a lone bagpipe, the floaty waves of voices that conjure ghosts and centuries of life, stacked up one by one, layers of tradition, jigs, tartan, green, sheep, twinkles in the eye and a solid, sleepy march from one tried and true century to the next.  simple, unfussy, digging in the soil, loving in the technicolor green grass, fable upon fable, wink with a side of smile.

years ago, i was set to meet my waiter boyfriend in london and then discover all of england, scotland and ireland on a backpacking adventure.  the maps and plans were set, the british air tickets tucked safely beside my very first passport.  before our initial parting, whereby later i’d meet him for the start of our monthlong trip, we made the fatal decision to see “room with a view”….

strike the uk, give me italy!  helena bonham carter, dame judi dench, firenze, italy, italy, italy!

yes, my life has indeed had it’s share of distractions, and i’m a bonafide impetuous elf, time and time again.

after meeting in rainy, cold london (it was january….), we set off for the south, following the sun as it showered us with a roman holiday of our own, and a lifelong love of all things italian…saving england and it’s sisters for another day.

that day has taken twenty five years to come.

so the best of all, in this morning bit of side-tracked research, is that not only is my friend having a birthday today, but that, in a matter of a couple of short, busy, summer months, my children and i will be trekking to the mysteriously beautiful land of scotland itself to buy our pal a belated stout ale, wax and visit at the pub, and enjoy a personally guided tour of his beloved country, castles and all.

and on our list?  check out a highland game with the haunting soundtrack of a gathering of bagpipes, of course!  with a side of soul-nourishing everything else.

elvis

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m wood elvis

my elvis isn’t all that schlock.  it’s not the scary bejeweled white suits with those enormous collars. it’s not those oversized 70s sunglasses.  it’s not the kitschy vegas wedding chapel.  it’s not the pork chop sideburns and platform shoes.  it’s not the guns, the pills, the dizzyingly buzzed about junk that came at the end.

no, my elvis is sublime.

he rocks around that clock, pelvis-ing in front of ed sullivan with a flip of jet black shiny hair.  yes, i know he dyed his hair, but hey, so do i.  he’s a southern boy with a maple syrupy voice.  and that’s just when he’s talking.  he’s sexy-lunging at that yellow bathing suit with matching high heels ann-margret…prancing around that vegas pool.  he’s trying his best to melt the steely, stiff everything of that over-rated nancy sinatra.  he’s making a million hearts swoon right along with shelly fabre.  he’s cliff diving in acapulco to lure ursula andres into his cabana!  go, elvis, go!

sure, i grew up watching those cheesy musicals.  the formula was etched early on.  once elvis moved through a few pretty powerful dramatic parts, that lousy colonel (if i could get my hands on that guy….) aimed his solid gold star towards the jackpot of pouring one dimensional musicals after another. the box office seemingly couldn’t get enough, (until, with a thud, it did…) and frankly, neither could i.

here’s a plot: poor boy who can sing is inadvertently mistaken for rich boy, meets girl, sings, falls in love, throw in a zany chase scene or two, kiss the girl, or get awfully close, until girl discovers true identity, then more songs, another zany chase scene, some dance moves, more singing, and then, hallelujah, land the girl.  oh, sometimes have cute kid with an accent act as his sidekick…that’ll bring in the families, too!  see elvis dressed up as a waiter, surf instructor, bullfighter, army guy, crooner, beach boy, race car driver, water ski instructor!  who cares!  keep those cameras rolling and keep those dollars rolling in, too.

i found him darling, goofy, charming, sexy, sincere, and adorable.  so much so, i raised my children watching these zany movies.  and you can be sure they each have their favorite. which then, predictably, compelled us to drive down to graceland to see it all right up and close.  this is where he lived.  this is where he died.

funny story.  driving down to memphis a few years ago, corey lost a tooth.  now, at 7, this gal owned a black guitar (“just like elvis”), and was a major force to both our trip, and our booking the “elvis suite” at the heartbreak hotel.  i mean, when in rome…

after clobbering the gift shop with all of their college savings, touring the inimitable “lisa marie” private jet (where else is avocado shag carpet so delectable?), we made our way up to the house.  the plan?  try to pry the bannister of the jungle room railing up enough to put corey’s tooth inside.  no luck.  that thing was solidly built, wouldn’t budge.  on with the tour!

tooth in pocket, we ooo-ed and aaa-ed through the gold records, costumes, round bed (!! round bed?!! naughty!), business office, knick knacks and on-site museums.  we could have gone on forever, and were told that there are about 500,000 more elvis relics in storage, waiting for a place to call home (meaning: a place to be viewed by insatiable people like us)…but the tour was ending.  our final stop?  the memorial garden, really quite lovely, with a bubbling fountain and beautifully landscaped gardens all circling elvis’ grave.  my kids were somber, the little darlings, but also eager to leave corey’s tooth in a place of importance.  and where else could that be but, well, a few feet away from that dear southern boy’s final resting place: snugly tucked into the bursting flowerbed!

now, i know this is a campy story.  and i know that the final chapter elvis presley’s life was a bit of a scary carnival, insert the sad part here if you have to.  i can’t even type it.  what i think of when i remember him is how much of an impact he made in music, in bridging styles of one sort of music into another, locking it in permanently and stamping his very own forever tattoo onto rock’n'roll.  bluesy, thrusting pelvis, love, lust, longing, heartbreak, diggin’ pretty girls.  then the technicolor fellow, dancing and cajoling and masquerading in all of those sweet, simple, yes, formula movies.  boy gets girl, sings, happy ending?  who wouldn’t love growing up to that?

so, here’s my spin.  granted, i’m not the kind of elvis fan who buys those collectible plates, or locks of his hair from questionably ethical barbers.  i’m just a girl who grew up liking him.  and sometimes, my mind wandered, and i conjured up a little theory.

you know how they say that timing is everything?

since the years that he’s died, i’ve been paying attention to well, the world.  what it used to be like, and it’s evolution.  current culture in 2011 is an entirely different beast in so many ways, and i’m not talking technology.  no, what i see are a series of steps in american behavior and fads that all came, just a bit, too late.  follow me.  it’s a simple list.

1. barbra streisand offered elvis the lead role in her remake of ‘a star is born’

2. elvis, thrilled, accepted it, certain it would revive his career

3. that lousy creep the colonel (who goes by that handle, anyway) made him turn it down

4. elvis died

ok, i’m not saying that barbra had anything to do with his death.  but what i’m seeing is that she actually could have done something to save him.  yes, we all know a person has to do this all by themselves, but come on, it’s not like his friends, doctor, girlfriend, or that foul colonel were lending a hand to….redemption.

what i think, and what i wish is this:  elvis said yes to barbra.  then he fired the colonel.  then he got to show the world what he had, and that he wasn’t going anywhere.  yes, the script could have used some work, and i don’t even want to start in on kris kristoffersen and that croaky voice…but just stay with me.

right about this time there was a big social shift: a former first lady named betty ford went public with her addiction.  she beat it, talked all about it rather than shrouding it behind a false face, and opened a rehabilitation center.  in other words, she made it cool to tell the truth, admit a weakness, and ask for help.  hello: ann-margret: book a room for your sweet elvis, stat!

now, another fad was standing to attention, the sequence is perfect.  jane fonda is kicking and dancing along with that funny weird richard simmons…headbands and sweatsuits, the accompanying cacophony of disco music: telling all of us to get up and start exercising.  it’s cool!  it’s trendy!  get in shape!

therapy?  stand in line!  try it, you’ll like it!  let’s talk about our feelings, conquer our fears, work on our issues, clear the cobwebs, wear a badge: i kicked the habit, i have control of my life, i’m healthy, strong, and ready to emote and move upward and onward.

organic food?  healthy eating?  hello????

i know, i can’t turn back the clock.  but i really think i’m right.  if the kid had had an ounce of southern gumption left in him, just an ounce, something leftover from being vultured, pandered to, manipulated, catered to, mis-managed, and just plain tired, well, i just wish he’d stayed around just long enough to hitch a ride on the get well get fit get fired up train of the late 70s.

then maybe, instead the frozen in time, end of the line elvis that adios-ed 34 years ago, we’d all watching a silver fox version, driving women into passion-crazed frenzies on the vegas strip. sure, with a little less hair, but with that love me tender plea that we all willingly would follow.

diary

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how fascinating is this?

it’s a big saturday night, 4th of july weekend, the pulse of fireworks exploding outside of my window (although, it’s the 2nd, NOT the 4th, people…).  the world is out and about, merry making and carrying on and consuming large amounts of liquor.  and why not?  it’s a big birthday.

when the u.s.a. had it’s bicentennial, (that’s 1976 for those of you who ditched american history class),  i remember being called to duty by my friend kim.  big stuff, 200 years old, and we had to go to the village hall to blow up balloons.  hopefully, not by draining our lungs, but with one of those creepy clown helium things.  that was the same year that all of the fire hydrants in town were painted to resemble the founding fathers.  as i said, it was a big deal.

now we’re toasting another birth of our version of freedom, which, as far as i can say, is a pretty fine bit of living.  granted, the stores are too big, the billboards too plentiful, cars lacking the right amount of chrome, the road rage building at an alarming rate, and politics?  lol, don’t even get me started!

but, it’s the big 4th of july weekend and in-between festive goings on, i’m also hanging around at home doing a bunch of work.  tonight finds me wrapping up my day by dealing with writing my blog.  i took a sip of courage by pouring myself a lovely glass of mouton cadet, cozied up in bed with my laptop and piping really loud music into my ears (don’t tell my kids).  sorry, but i have to drown out those crazy firework boom boom booms to focus.  as i’ve said before, writers have it tough: where does this inspiration come from?  look at me: turning to liquor and b.j. thomas to get this done.  pretty crazy.

so, before i tear off into a fascinating bit of fluff centered around the theme per the above title, i wanted to report that i’m fully aware of how cool this current way of electronic life is.  as i was beginning to type away, i remembered that i have to upload an appropriate m. wood illustration to headline this blog.  without getting up!

i dug around on my laptop for a good sketch.  came up zero.  almost uploaded a repeat drawing (not good, no excuse for that, after all, i draw for a living and that seems cheap), and almost uploaded another one of my five million architectural sketches.  i couldn’t figure out how to ‘tie’ that in to what i’m going to write about, and then remembered: omg, it’s 2011 and i have all of these neat gadgets!

i grabbed a pen, always sitting on my bedside table, whipped out a sketch, grabbed a few markers and threw in some color, and THEN, (this is so brilliant), i took a photo of it with my iphone, emailed it to myself, (didn’t catch the retro “you’ve got mail!” announcement), opened the email, downloaded the file, cleaned it up on my laptop art program, and just now, uploaded it to this blog.  without EVER leaving my cozy bed!

so, now that we’ve established the amazing bits of the hear and now, i will get to the point.

i’m going public.  not in the way that linkedin and that fb game company are…this is a much smaller poof to the stratosphere of our crazy information hungry people.  no, what i’m about to do is just a blip, but to me, really sort of amazing, exciting and terrifying.

my diary is going online.

now, this isn’t just my diary, as in, current.  at this point, let’s say that this blog is kind of a daily reportage of my fascinating life.  no, what i’m talking about is that i am going to take every single one of my diaries and transcribe them entirely onto another blog.  well, actually, i’ll probably be paying my youngest daughter (fastest typer in the family) to do the work, or at least some of them.  whoever and whichever of us is willing, it’s all going to live in the kookie world of the internet.

spare the drum rolls.  really, it’s not that big of a deal, so i don’t mean to lead you astray.

starting in 1972, right up to the here and now, the minutia of my daily life as reported earnestly in each journal!  can you even imagine the laughs?  i mean, just the bit about blowing up the balloons for the bicentennial parade is sure to have top billing from the summer between sophomore and junior year of high school.  along with a bunch of crushes on boys (nothing exciting there for the high school years: i couldn’t get a date to save my life!), fascinating details such as picking my dad up at the train station, doing chores during commercials, and intricate reportage about the health of our five dogs will all be in there.

i’ve been thinking about this for a long time.  i’m not entirely sure why i’ve kept diaries for so many years (do the math: i’m 51).  they’ve come along for the ride, from childhood bedroom (a plot twist to come was the life-changing move from one room to another, overlooking the pool!), to college dorm, back home (couldn’t get a job after college), to all four apartments, houses….i’ve lugged them all and each year the stack grew by one.

i guess they’re a big deal to me, lucky to have fabulous friends throughout my entire life, but let me tell you, the only friend who knows it all, well, is that big fat stack of diaries.  purging my angst-filled teen emotions in a ruddy nasty penmanship, launching off to college thinking i was such a know it all, those single years in the city, omg!  (that reminds me, i’ve made a note on my new blog splash page that the names will be changed to protect the innocent bystanders of my life, so no one worry or freak out.  you are safe.) and then on to marriage, motherhood, divorce, ridiculous adventures after all of that, oh, and then there’s this whole work thing.

look, my mom is an anthropologist.  i’m looking at this as a sort of historical, sociological, emotional, cultural dig.  i grew up surrounded by curiosity and studying cultures and human behavior…pretty fascinating stuff!

i think i’m the most curious of all.  after all, i’ve lived with me every single day of my life, i can’t shake myself!  but i don’t think i have a sense of my own evolution.  it’s fascinating to think that, by laboriously typing out day after day after day (except for when i skipped) for nearly 40 years of my version of my life, i can see it all in one place.

granted, there are some doozies that i don’t want to read, much less remember or acknowledge.  i’m far from perfect.  there are a few diaries, i know their covers this moment without blinking, that i’ve avoided re-reading.  painful stuff.  stupid stuff.  or embarrassingly emotive stuff.

now, we all know that i have three children.  and i’ve also said that, chances are, they all might help me type this stuff out, or at least, dictate to me while i type!  who knows, i haven’t worked out the nuts and bolts yet, and am stalled on my july launch (i love using that word) as i loaned my first diary to my old grade school pal who’s mailing it back to me from wisconsin, and it hasn’t arrived yet.  but, back to the kids.  you may think: why on earth would i want to share my mistakes with them?  why do i want them to see steps in the wrong direction, going back in time, their understanding the consequences already just by living through many of them?

well, i am an open book kind of a mom.  i mean, i use discretion and have only let them tinker in my diaries that were written at their same ages (the deal was: don’t make fun of me, and of course, how could they keep that promise?  i’m still getting teased about the rock necklace…).  i don’t have any purpose for those books.  they just sit there.  why not share the wealth of my meandering through life, and especially in the painful parts, why not let my kids see?  why not teach them to see the big huge scary pot holes, the hazard signs, the jubilant victorious moments, the vulnerability and insecurities i’ve carried with me always?  why not let them see that this is just what life is: one day after the next. some better than others, some the kind that you wish you could erase, others the best that life offers?

so, i’ve set the challenge and i’m going to do it, even if i type with my eyes closed, laughing at my total nerdy adolescence, blushing at my first enormous crushes, shuddering at each red flag that i missed. or at least, the me before.

that’s my big question i think: have i always been me?

if you promise not to tease me too mercilessly, i’m inviting you along for the ride.  we can figure it out at the same time.  oh, and be kind when you see the accompanying music mix, per year, of the soundtrack to my life.  it’s way cheesy.  i said i was a nerd….

so, coming as soon as the postman delivers #1:

http://www.rememberyourwhimsies.wordpress.com