Thursday, June 18, 2009

The Poetry of Pregnancy

When I deliver a baby, my first thought is not to count fingers and toes or to check for family resemblance. Usually, I am much more selfish than that. My first thought is, Hooray! I'm not pregnant anymore! I have heard moms talk of how they love to be pregnant; how they even feel sexier than usual, or how they feel vivacious and energetic. I wish I could claim that I handle pregnancy with as much aplomb. I can't.

I feel huge, uncomfortable, overheated, and about as attractive as an over ripe pear. Mentally, I am simultaneously out of focus and prone to obsession. I could make a list of strange obsessions I have experienced while pregnant, but it would be far too telling and inexplicable. If you are acquainted with my blog, you can probably guess a few of them.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the woes of pregnancy that I forget the wonder of it. As always, I turn to literature to remind me that life is, in fact, profound and that there is nothing more profound and meaningful than its perpetuation.

I would love to compose a poem about the pregnancy experience, but I have broken the one cardinal rule of poetry composition: to write poetry, one must read poetry. I confess that I simply haven't picked up a book of poems in quite a long time and so, I must rely on what already exists.

My husband has disliked Sylvia Plath since he had to read her poem, "Daddy" in a college English course. I agree that "Daddy" is a little bitter for my tastes as well, but, when I read "Metaphors," Sylvia is my friend once again:


I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples.
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Ironically, sometimes it is the male poet who is able to see past the physicality of pregnancy and to take it to a more transcendent level. This by contemporary poet Bill Kloefkorn, State Poet of Nebraska is about as gorgeous a thing as has ever been written:


Here is the story I might have heard,
More likely dreamed: the woman
after the first trimester

required by village covenant
to compose a lullaby,
to sing it daily then

to the gathering child, only
from memory and in deliberate

the man not permitted to listen
until the infant had been delivered
and pronounced both whole and

welcome. And this ritual
I'd go to church to live with,
solace in the belief

that not so very far away
always a woman sits singing her own

to that small creation breathing
as if a delicate fish inside her,
always not so far away

a confluence of word and of music
flowing somehow into the ear
of the unborn,

there to do whatever the inexplicable does
to sustain us,
my mother meanwhile who couldn't

carry a tune in a washtub
singing as she carried the washtub
outside to empty the rinsewater,

that same tub later
filled with the well-wrung
family wash, each item on the line

moving in the breeze
like a quaint crustacean,
each movement singing.

And finally this excerpt from my favorite Dylan Thomas poem.

from Fern Hill

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden.
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On the fields of praise.

Perhaps it is time for me to consider something other than the centimeters and percentages of childbirth and to ponder and enjoy the small universe of my womb; to appreciate that kicking writhing creature whose creation like all great creations starts, "In the beginning. . ."

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

A Letter to my Dears

As you know, I am due at the end of July. I went to the doctor today and he informed me that I am at 1.5 cm and 50% effaced. (The 1.5 could be the result of 3 other deliveries or it could be that I'm actually making progress.) Whatever the case, he felt as if I might have fewer than 5 weeks. Music to my ears!

Monday, May 25, 2009

Nerd Porn

Can you guess what's wrong with this picture?

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Ten Reasons to Love Neil Gaiman (a.k.a. He was aware of my existance for a brief moment)

As stated in a previous post, I have recently discovered and have become a member of Neil Gaiman fandom.  For lack of anything else to post, I am going to list my top 10 reasons for loving Neil Gaiman.   I love Gaiman:

1) Because Tori Amos references him by name on her album "Little Earthquakes." "Little Earthquakes" was one of my favorites in high school.  If you are at all familiar with the song "Tear in Your Hand," the lyrics are as follows, "If you need me, me and Neil'll be hanging out with the dream king."  I always wondered who Neil was. . .now I know.

2) Because he has a great speaking voice- more specifically his accent. I always feel a bit embarrassed when American girls swoon over British accents because it seems so silly and superficial, however, listening to Gaiman read, is definitely worth while.  Not only is he a superb writer, he is also a superb reader.  His interpretation adds dimension and significance to his work.

3) Because Gaiman is no Bradbury:  he is not a social recluse. Nor is he a technophobe.  He doesn't seem to mind that his fans want to know what he is up to so he blogs, Twitters, Goodreads, and has a website for his children and young adult fans.  I'm sure there's other ways to cyber-stalk him.  Fill me in if you know them.  As a matter of fact he randomly selected my lame question to answer on his blog today. (The last one on his post.  Yup, that's me.)

4)  For his crazy hair.

5) Because his prose floats.  Gaiman can write and write well about any subject he chooses.  If I try to read anything less than Robertson Davies after I have read a Gaiman novel, the dialogue seems flat and the plot predictable.  (Does he really mean to do this to other authors? What about us aspiring writers?  It's so unfair.)

6) For his book jackets.  

Would I usually find a man who looks like this attractive or is it just because he's Neil?  The world may never know, but I do enjoy looking at the back cover of Anansi Boys.  Apparently, I'm not alone.

7) For his leather jacket. (Click on the wardrobe to the right once you find yourself in "The Living Room.")

8) Because he is the most contemporary of authors.  Gaiman's work does not show his age.  He lives in the here and now.  Just as he is unafraid of technology, he is also unafraid to team with other contemporary artisits and writers.  He has written Blueberry Girl for Tori Amos.  He has teamed with Terry Pratchett to write Good Omens, has toured with Amanda Palmer, and the likes of Stephin Merrit have been seen lurking around his midwestern home.  Unlike Gaiman, I will show my age and mention that I didn't know who half these people were until I read his blog.

9) Because of his generosity to his fans.  Did I mention that he reads the ENTIRE Graveyard Book online?  Yes, I believe I have, but I will mention it again because I think it is phenomenal that one can listen to this year's Newbery award winner for free.  Another of my favorite Gaiman freebies is his short story "Chivalry."  There are also more freebies available.  Send me a comment as you discover them.  Did I mention he chose my question about this on his blog?

10) Because of his absolute versatility.  Gaiman is the first author whose works I can read one after another and never get bored or tired of his style.  His books are so entirely different from each other, the only prediction I can make upon opening a new volume is that it will be interesting, intelligent, and well-written.  Beyond that, I can't even tell you if I will love it.  I may notlike it at all, but I can appreciate the level of skill put into each piece.  A word of advice:  do not write Gaiman off if you don't love him at your first reading.  Put it down and try something else. One work does not indicate the merits of another.

Also, along the lines of versatility.  Gaiman has written (successfully) picture books, graphic novels, short stories, poetry, novels, screen plays, and a number of journalistic pieces.  Pretty impressive.

Thursday, March 26, 2009


Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droughte of March hath
perced to the roote
And bathed
every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendered
is they flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his
sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt
and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the
yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe
cours yronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght
with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in
hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon
on pilgrimages. . .
                                     Geoffery Chaucer- The Canterbury Tales

Like Chaucer's pilgrims of old, my family and I harkened to the call of spring and took some time off to travel.  Chaucer is right; spring is a great time to leave home and see the countryside. Unfortunately, I did not have the pleasure of traveling with the loquacious Wife of Bath, the jolly cook, or the creative nun's priest, but like Chaucer's pilgrims, there was good company and a lot of  great stoytelling. 

The pilgrimage is as archetypical to religion as the snake and the tree, the flood, or the apocalypse.  The Buddists travel to Kapilavastu to see the Buddah's birthplace.  Jews and Christians alike travel to Israel to see where prophets strode.  Many still travel to Greece to make their winding way to Delphi. 

Unlike the pilgrims of old or the steadfast Tibetan monks, my family and I boarded a plane.  The location was not particularly exotic: it was no Thebes, Lhasa, or Jerusalem.  In fact, it is a little known place except to members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons.)  We spent our spring break in Missouri and Illinois to visit sites only as ancient as the 1840's.

Like Chaucer's pilgrims who travled to visit the resting place of the martyr
Sir Thomas a' Becket, we travled to sites related to the founding prophet of our religion and martyr, Joseph Smith.  We saw the jail in Liberty, Missouri where Smith and seven of his follwers were held captive for five brutal winter months and where Smith received some of his most hopeful revelation that has now been canonized in modern scripture.  We traveled to (and spent most of our time in) Nauvoo, Illinois built on the banks of the Mississippi River by early Mormon settlers: a testament to their faith and work ethic.  There, we saw the homes and tombs of the martyred prophet and his brother, Hyrum Smith.  One brisk morning, we traveled to Carthage, Illinois to visit the Carthage Jail (ironically a much more hospitable place than Liberty) where Joseph and Hyrum Smith were shot and killed by an senseless mob (the door still bears the bullet holes from that day.)

Perhaps my family and I did not have to walk to Mecca and suffer en route (does a turbulent flight count?),  but the purpose of our pilgrimage was much the same for us as it has been for pilgrims throughout time:  
to make it real; to explore and examine and reaffirm the roots of our belief. During my time in Illinois, I was able to walk where my ancestors once walked and to see that my life, like theirs, is only one part of a greater work.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Penelope at the Loom

Today she will entwine red
the color of sunrise.
She pulls over and through vertical
Threads- packed hard down with the 
Shuttle leaving tight neat knots.

This is how she always spends her days
She thinks of her husband gone twenty years
Their infant son now a man.  How bitterly
Those hours spent arranged in colored weave
that shows no time, like the shore
licked nightly clean by tide.  She craves
Odysseus to float to her front door
heralded by seagull cries- a piece of driftwood
dropped, joyously, at her feet.

A freshness in the air and she recalls last night's 
buffet of rain that crushed out suitors' revels-
left olive leaves strewn over hard packed ground.
All summer gone in those leaves
all sundrench all dew.  Gaia giving
then destroying
what took eternity to grow.

Her days weave nights and nights unravel days
The tight weft of hours built up and loosed
Ceaselessly storing moments like coins.
Dawn's rosy finger streak the dark

Light has streaked her hair
By the rythm of some loom.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Oh, Spare Me! (A VBAC post)

I’ve always prided myself on being a bit of a skeptic.  It’s not that I don’t believe in the supernatural, for instance. It’s just that I don’t think ghosts or aliens have much personal interaction with the inhabitants of planet earth.  I approach social causes in a similar frame of mind.  It seems to me that the greatest interest of most charities happens to be the kind accumulating in my bank account and how to get me to proffer it up for their “good causes.”  Before I sound, completely selfish and curmudgeonly, it’s not that I don’t support social causes and charities; it’s just that I want to know that my money is actually being used for good and is not just contributing to some administrator’s BMW fund.

Of course, I’m not anti-woman or anti-minority, but I do feel as if worthy causes get exploited to pull at the heartstrings of a sympathetic, gullible public.  The inverse is also true; sometimes causes I feel most strongly about seem to slip by with very little notice. 

I also submit that nothing stirs the ethical pot like reproductive issues.  For instance, consider the years of controversy over abortion, and, more recently, the hotly-debated topics of stem-cell research and cloning.  Why else the fascination with Octomom: hubbub over a woman with a lot of kids, and the public eager to stand as ethical judge? (Not that I support or sympathize, it’s just that there are bigger fish to fry.)

What reproductive issue, you may ask, could be more  important than a mother who has voluntarily sentenced herself to raising 8+ teenagers all at the same time ? My answer: VBAC's.  Ha!  Chances are you haven’t heard of them even as they are increasingly endangered and drawing close to extinction.  VBAC is the acronym for “Vaginal Birth after Caesarean.” (I know, bleck!  That’s why we call them VBAC’s.)

Currently, nearly one third of babies are delivered in the U.S. via Caesarean even though, according to the World Health Organization no more than 15% of babies should ever have to be delivered c-section.  The results of the overuse of this operation: increase of pre-term infants, increase in infant and maternal mortality rate, much longer maternal recovery time, baby is born drugged and groggy, mom is drugged and groggy and thus unable to give baby optimal care directly after delivery, and (my personal major gripe) c-sections often screw up the first, crucial moments when breastfeeding needs to be established.

On a more personal level, many hospitals forever sentence mothers to c-section:  my local hospital maintains the policy of once a c-section, always a c-section.  So as to avoid unnecessary abdominal surgery, I have had to resort to delivering my babies out of town in hospitals that are more willing to work with VBAC moms and now, even those hospitals are raising a wary eyebrow at my request.

So, why are healthcare professionals unwilling to let some mothers walk into their clinics and simply give birth?  They always claim the risk of placental accreta otherwise known as placental hemorrhaging.  VBAC deliveries, as all with all deliveries, present a certain risk that the placenta will rupture.  The increased risk of placental hemorrhage during a VBAC delivery: .5%.

The truth is that doctors and patients alike are attracted to the seeming ease of the c-section.  They love the idea of being able to schedule a delivery, but overlook the amount of risk involved by interfering with birth in its natural course.

Due to the increasing scarcity of VBAC friendly hospitals, with this delivery (which will be my third successful VBAC), I have been told that if I want to avoid the knife, I may have to schedule my surgery, stand-up the surgical team, allow myself to go into voluntary labor and get far enough along before I reach the hospital that the doctors will have no choice but to let me deliver the baby.

Am I intrepid enough to take on the hospital?  My pleasure!  Some causes are worth fighting for and I believe in a woman’s right to forgo unnecessary major surgery.  Of course, my definition of hell is a place where I am tied down and slashed open against my will; and where toddlers forever smear apple sauce across the kitchen floor that I am doomed to mop eternally (but that’s a different post.)

What can actually be done:

*For anyone who may read this and is interested in fighting the beast, the best approach is 

1-  Avoid ever getting a c-section.  How?  Pregnant moms should not let their obstetricians induce labor unless absolutely necessary (i.e. major risk is posed to mother or neonate.)  

2- If you are in the same boat as I am in and have already had a c-section and want to VBAC, I recommend the following:

a) Do not let your doctor discourage you or tell you that you are unable to VBAC without proving it first or presenting you with a darn good reason why you can't.

b) Link up with ICAN (International Caesarean Awareness Network).  They are a wonderful support and have a bevy of good information and studies that support VBAC's.

c) Try to find a doctor or birthing facility that will support your plan to VBAC.  This is often easier said than done.

d) Have a plan before you actually go into labor.  (Especially if you are VBACing for the first time.)

e) Talk to mothers who have VBACed.  It really does help.


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Precisely Pregnant

* My disclaimer:  if, dear reader, the following post applies to you, please bear with me as I am somewhat of a grammar martinet. What I am suggesting is that the fault may lie more with me and less with you.  Please understand that I love you and have not judged character based on the following.  Therefore, at the risk of being less popular than I already am, I proceed.

I have never been one for euphemisms.  I like words, so I see no need to pad the actual meaning of something with a softer, less-precise substitution.  I like the power of words, therefore,  I even have a hard time with phrases like "passed away."  "Passed away"  is so vague, so transitory sounding.  At the risk of seeming insensitive, I prefer the precision of "died."  You know, the Wallace Steven's "Emporer of Ice-cream"  approach?  "Let the lamp affix its beam. . ."   What is IS and really no words can soften the blow or change the facts, so why not say it as it is?  I feel that my preference is a practical one and helps facilitate clear communication (however, I am also one who feels that the rules of proper grammar are for disambiguation and not solely to inflict torture on composition students. That's just an added bonus.)

There was once a time when the public at large felt that "pregnancy"  was too strong a term.  It was just so suggestive, so adult and thus, all of the euphemisms for pregnancy came to be. Proper women were not "pregnant," they were "PG" or "expecting" or "in a family way"  and babies were either found in the cabbage patch or delivered by the stork.  It's funny that people were ever squemish discussing what is not only natural and obvious, but also essential to the propogation of the human race. So, why the taboo?  

Thankfully, it seems we have gotten over ourselves and are no longer embarrassed to admit that humans reproduce sexually, however, the euphemisms still exist.  With the advent of political correctness, the world, post-feminist movement, still resorts to the old euphemisms with their old puritanical undertones, but has given them a new face.  Why else do modern day couples announce the forth-coming members of their families with the phrase, "we're pregnant?"  

The declaration of  "we're pregnant" baffles me.  It is impossible that both a woman and her husband are pregnant.  As much as I would love to share child bearing duties with my husband, such will never be.  "We're pregnant" is biologically an incorrect phrase therefore, it is also grammatically incorrect (in the same sense that it is grammatically incorrect to say that a person is "quite pregnant" or "quite dead."  Either s/he is or is not.  It is not correct to state absolutes in qualified ways.)

I also find that the phrase diminishes my (the woman's) role in pregnancy.  I am the one who deserves the credit for carrying the child for 40 weeks, therefore, I get to claim pregnancy status for myself.  I get to be the one who can, unabashedly, look a person in the eye and say, "I am pregnant."  What is so hard about that for a married woman who has obviously procreated on 3 previous occassions?

I agree that in the age of paternal ambiguities, it is nice to acknowledge my husband for his small though crucial role in the conception and his vital and ongoing role as father, so I might add something to the effect of, "and my husband and I are very excited to be expecting our fourth." However, until the day Brett dons pants bearing a tag illuminated with the words " adjustable maternity panel," I reserve the honor of being pregnant for myself.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Love for Less than $30.00: My Favorite Collectible

My first regular job was cashiering at a thrift store. There were many aspects to that job I actually liked. Literally, there was never a dull day. I worked with learning disabled people who I found to be surprisingly normal and in many ways more likable and interesting than their "fully functioning" counterparts. The clientele were a dynamic flow of shoppers ranging from collectors, to conniseurs, to bargain shoppers. In some ways, working in a thrift store is more rewarding than regular retail. It is a more laid back environment free of the commercialism and snootiness of other retail businesses. However,  despite my love for the thrift store workers and clientele, the greatest perk had to be that I got first pick of what came out on the floor.

If you think about the junk that fills a thrift store as carrion, then I was top vulture. Amongst my best finds were an 18 karat gold class ring dated 1949, and an authentic antique cameo. However, thrift store shopping, like any hobby can become addictive and the more one surrounds oneself with thrift store rummage deals, the more kitsch seems like invaluable treasure andthe more glass beads look like pearls. In short, as the months passed and as I carried home my "irresistable finds," the more my room took on the appearance of multi-family garage sale.

Thankfully, the thrift store job only lasted a year and it only took a couple of months of detox for me to realize that my room wasn't bohemian chic like I hoped, it was more like my great-grandmother's spare bedroom.  And so little by little, I pared down my "collectibles."  I decided that I probably wasn't that into Asian souveniers and that the hand sewn pink flowered bed spread was doing nothing to establish my reputation as a modern career woman.  And little by little, I "returned" the treasures from whence they came.  I even got gutsy enough to purge my shelves  of a few of the books I had amassed (Twelve Criticisms on Goethe's Faust- not even on my most erudite days. And Deutsche Gedicht?  Who was I trying to kid?)

I had to admit that perhaps I had a wee bit of a tendency (and if you know my family you know that I come by it honestly.)  And so I decided that unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life talking around the (white) elephant in the room, I should probably try to curb my desire to collect.  Though instead of abandoning my tendencies wholesale, I deemed it best to choose a single collectible, my one exception to my mantra that open space was more valuable than clutter. It would have to be good. I wanted something reflective of my personality, something easy to maintain, inexpensive, and easy to store.  I found my ideal collectible in pop-up books.

For those who may not be aware, pop-up books have come a long way since our childhood days. Mainly because of pioneers in paper-engineering, Matthew Reinhart and Robert Sabuda, pop-ups have transformed from child's play to vertical works of mutable sculpture.  In addition to scenes that stand up over a foot off the page, the new pop-ups also feature movable parts (no lever reqired) as well as  flocked and metallic papers.  There is one that has, as its grand finale, light up weapons (Reinhart's Star Wars.) 

In my personal (small though growing) collection, my favorites are Reinhart's The Jungle Book and  Greenburg and Sabuda's The Pop-up Book of Nightmares.  My most unusual piece to date is a pop-up adaptation of Stephen King's The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (how such a gem made it to the Border's $3.99 clearance shelf is beyond me.)

So, in pop-up books I have found a way to sate my inner pack rat, my inner child, and my inner adult sophisticate simultaneously and all for under $29.99.  Now if Neil Gaiman would release a pop-up Coraline even my inner high school Goth might (for once) be satisfied.

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

My Inner HS Goth meets Neil Gaiman

I love the website  If you haven't discovered it, please visit, set up an account, and add yourself to my friends list.

If you know me, you know that my tastes lean a bit toward the well. . .macabre.  It isn't because I have an image to maintain or because I'm depressed.  It's just part of me.  I joke that I have the heart of a HS goth girl.  Admittedly, I did have leanings in that direction during my high school years, but I was never hard core:  no red-blooded Goth would have ever welcomed me into her coven.  I did: wear a lot of black clothing, listen to alternative music, and hang out in the lower, darker levels of dance clubs for under-aged kids.  I occassionally though seldom: wore black cosmetics, powdered my face white, wore a black cloak (though I blush to admit it.)  I never: owned a Marilyn Manson CD, dyed my hair black, dated a guy who more black lipstick than I did, purposely cut myself,  or considered getting a vampire-bite tattoo.

I am joyous to say I grew out of that stage a long time ago.  I re-introduced color to my wardrobe when I left home for college.  I have since traded my Doc Martens for high-heeled boots.  My religion defines my character now much more than my music.  However, there is a part of me that can't totally give up on the macabre,  try as I might.

So what of my former HS bad Goth self remains?  I will always love Tim Burton movies.  I will never stop listening to Oingo Boingo or The Beautiful South (though, thankfully, my tastes have matured and  diversified.)  I will always love Edward Gorey books.  I think the Goth girl in me will always be attracted to Edward Cullen and Criss Angel (No, my husband is nothing like them. Yes, I find him attractive, too).  I really enjoy hanging out in old graveyards, the older the better.

This would be my segue for discussion of Neil Gaiman's  The Graveyard Book which I recently reviewed on Goodreads and which has high macabre appeal.  For those of you who are not (yet) my friend on Goodreads, here is my review:

I am so sad that I only recently discovered Neil Gaiman.  There is no doubt that between the release of the movie, "Coraline," and the recent bestowal of the Newberry on the novel The Graveyard Book, Gaiman is at the peak of his popularity.  It is only because of his recent acclaim that I have heard of Gaiman at all.  He is the sort of author I would love to be able to say, "Oh, I've been a huge fan for years.  I started reading his books before anyone else had even heard of him." Unfortuately, I have no right to that claim, but I am glad I found his books even if I had to wait this long.

The Graveyard Book is essentially and unabashedly a retelling of Kipling's A Jungle Book.  Bod, an ambitious infant, happens into a historical graveyard on the night he is orphaned.  Fortunately, he is taken in by the some of the graveyard's disembodied though kindly inhabitants.  There, he is protected, raised, and educated.  Ghosts, witches, and other "fearful" creatures are Bod's family and comrades. Needless to say, Bod grows up with an entirely different perception of dark and fear than most people.

The Graveyard Book is a coming of age story that is organized into seperate though intertwining vingettes; each self contained, but building toward the climax.

Gaiman has an infallible ear for language and dialogue.  He also pays homage to his literary predecessors.  Besides references to Kipling, there are elements of The Odyssey and The Hobbit. Even though this book is clearly in the fantasy genre, anyone with an appreciation for interesting characters, a good story, and good storytelling will enjoy The Graveyard Book.

If, like me, you have only recently heard of Gaiman, I highly recommend the following websites:

Where I made this flower:


And this picture of myself:

Might I also recommend Gaiman's official website:

If you are too much of a cheapskate to buy The Graveyard Book while it is still hardcover, you can listen to the ENTIRE novel read by Gaiman himself from the website listed above.  How's that for generous?  My inner high school Goth girl is purring contentedly.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

To My Faithful Followers

Thank you! Thank you for still subscribing even though I have flaked out on the blogging world. Between 3 part-time jobs, being a stay-at-home mom, church responsibilities (for those of you who are LDS think primary president), and being 14 weeks pregnant, I'm lagging behind on my blogging duties.  I need the blog.  I love the blog, but in the wake of all else it is getting severly neglected.    I will post sporatically, but no promises as to when or why or what unprecicatable pregnancy mood swing might unhinge me altogether and inspire a mass venting blog holocaust.  

I do have ideas (and who can resist a post with Coraline being released in just a couple short weeks?) I apologize for my flakiness and would refer you, in the meantime, to my favorite blogs.

You just can't like them better than you do me.  You already do?  Oh, man!

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Musical Evolution

There is a risk in publishing any post of this nature: 1) It shows my age 2) It displays how much my tastes have NOT kept up with the times. But, it was fun to put together and I need to post something, so here it is the much-anticipated, long-overdue, next post:

I have selected seven categories and have chosen songs for each according to the period in my life with which they correspond. I know I am not making sense right now, but read on. You'll get the idea.

Favorite Love Song

Jr. High: "Endless Summer Nights"- Richard Marx

High School: "Nervously"- The Pet Shop Boys

College: "Because the Night"- 10,00 Maniacs

Now : "Not My Slave"- Oingo Boingo

Favorite Break-Up Song

Jr. High: "Blame it on the Rain"- Milli Vanilli (Actually, I'm lying, but I'll put that for lack of anything better)

High School: "Radio Song"- R.E.M.

College: "Fare Thee Well"- Indigo Girls

Now: "Hallelujah"- Rufus Wainwright

Favorite Slow Dance

Jr. High: "Forever Young"- Alphaville

High School: "Somebody"- Depeche Mode

College: "Crash Into Me"- Dave Matthews Band

Now: "You Don't Know Me"- Michael Buble

Favorite Cover Song

Jr. High: "I Think We're Alone Now"- Tiffany

High School: "Always on my Mind"- Pet Shop Boys

College: "Voulez Vous"- Erasure

Now: "A Song for You"- Ewan McGregor when I'm watching "Moulin Rouge"

Favorite Song from the Runt Genre

Jr. High-

High School: "Kiss Off" - The Violent Femmes

College: "Fingertips"- They Might be Giants

Now: "The Seven Days of the Week"- They Might be Giants

Favorite Female Liberation Song

Jr. High: "Girls Just Want to Have Fun"- Cyndi Lauper

High School: "Leather"- Tori Amos

College: "Invisible"- Alison Moyet/ Yaz

Now: "Landslide"- Fleetwood Mac

Favorite Song to Belt in the Car

Jr. High: Who's driving?

High School: "Love Shack"- The B-52's

College: "So Much to Say"- Dave Matthews Band

Now: "Part of Your World"- The Little Mermaid

Hope that brings back memories. Please share some of your own.