Jarrod and I bought our house in DC five years ago after I declared I was tired of living in purgatory a/k/a Herndon, Virginia. I felt like we were just there...sitting...waiting... for something better, or God-forbid, worse to come along. I really can't imagine any place worse than Herndon, Virginia. Jarrod was working ridiculous hours at the time, so I was in charge of the house search. I looked at a few houses with our then Realtor, now remarkably good friend, Kit. Funny how we are introduced to characters who will play a major role in our lives at random. We intended to get a house, which we did, but we also had the privilege of acquiring such a fantastic friend along the way.
Kit and I walked into this house and I was immediately struck by its potential. It felt like home. I envisioned specific colors on some of the walls and pictured our books stacked randomly on our bookshelves along those walls. Brainy books for Jarrod, music and pop culture books for me. I signed the contract before Jarrod even saw the house. That might be startling to some, but that is how we work. He gave me specific criteria to be met. A place to park his car. Check. Green space in front and in back. Check. (Turns out he regrets this item on his checklist. He loathes yard work. Oops) A finished basement. Check. And I would live there too. Check. Sold.
We moved in on a typical DC sweltering summer day, and were ready to start a new chapter in our lives as homeowners. How adult. We took a few days to settle in and then made a pilgrimage to Home Depot, or home despot as Jarrod likes to call it, to look at every color of paint imaginable. I was drawn to a bold red for one wall in the living room, a soothing ocean blue for our bedroom, an earthy green for the kitchen, and a color somewhere between gray and silver for one wall in the dining room. I grabbed sample chips of each color and was excited to go home and tape my perfect selections on each wall we intended to paint. The operative word here is "intended." Five years later, the paint chips remain taped, and all of the walls are still white. We have joked about leaving the sample chips, framing them, and eventually painting around them. It's art, people.
And now, the couple who hasn't quite gotten around to painting in five years shall attempt to enter the world of home renovation. Start placing your bets now. We will get it done though. It will be a slow, inconvenient, and for me, somewhat terrifying process. But, we will get it done. The reason being this is step one in our master plan.
We have had a major shift of priorities in the past five years. Back then we considered a nice car, a home that was all ours, way too many clothes, pairs of shoes and purses to be important things in our life. And that's what they are. Things, just things. Since then, we have learned what we appreciate most is our time together, shared experiences, and travel. You cannot un-write the past. All you can do is prepare for the future and work with the cards you dealt yourself. So, now we have a house. A house that we have four years to fix up to a point so that other people will find it appealing to live here while we shove off at 35 to wander around perfectly selected parts of the globe for at least six months. Maybe a year. Hell, maybe even three years. Who knows.
All I know is that we are prepared to have holes in our walls and ceiling for long periods of time because we will not go into further debt doing this, so we will work on projects as we have the money to do them. We will consult knowledgeable family and friends who have embarked on this same journey. (consider this your warning people...you know who you are) We will learn how to operate power tools and swing sledge hammers, and have a professional step in for the difficult jobs who thankfully is willing to guide us along the way. And no, he does not charge extra for hand-holding. I did ask him. Phew.
We are committed to making this work. It will be far from easy, but the world is out there waiting and we have lots of colors to see. Wish us luck.... and lend us your power tools.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Frampton
"Should" be at The Queers show, Black Cat, but instead on our couch 1.19.2011
Peter Frampton. Some would call him a rock icon. He plays a soaring guitar. He used to have long hair. He packs arenas. He packs arenas full of.... gasp...OLD PEOPLE. But "Frampton" is different, you see. It is a new word that Jarrod and I have developed in our vast language together. Words we pick up on that stick with us amid conversation, or we might hear it on the radio or television at the perfect time, and from that point forward that word takes on a special new meaning. Our meaning. Frampton debuted while walking from our beloved 9:30 Club to our car promptly at 11:10 p.m. a few months ago after attending a really fun and solid ska show. It was a school night and I was lamenting aloud that we had just left a show EARLY! As in before it was over! Gasp! Just so we could be home and in bed by 11:30 to spare us from hating ourselves the next morning at work. How dare we! Only old people do such responsible things. Just a few years ago, we would have sucked it up, powered through and faced the consequences of our "bad" decision later. Jarrod, in his infinite wisdom turned to me and said half mockingly, "Yep. Before you know it, we will be watching Peter Frampton at Wolf Trap." I laughed at my fake youthful righteousness and we have embraced our new word ever since.
We pulled a Frampton tonight. The plan was to see The Queers, a lovely little punk band, at the Black Cat. I was pumped to go at 11:00 a.m., a little bit less excited at 2:00 p.m., and by 3:00 p.m. I was having serious doubts that I had the energy to go. Nonetheless, I professed my excitement to be going to a punk show later tonight to a co-worker while exiting my office. Maybe secretly hoping that if I heard myself tell someone else that I was going, the chances for follow-through would increase.
Jarrod was waiting. I got in the car and we recounted stories of our day. The plan was to go home, change clothes, have dinner, and then head back out later. Jarrod and I are lovers of fun and music, but we are trying to save money. We have found making small considerations, like eating at home, instead of eating out before plans later in the evening will make your money go a lot further. We have learned such knowledge through age and experience. And here we have ourselves a new use of Frampton. Are you getting it?
We struggled with the decision whether or not we were going to the show on our commute home. Or at least, we pretended to struggle. I think deep down we both knew that ultimately after the sight of our couch and flannel PJs this little game of ours would be over. The only unknown element was which one of us was going to confirm, for the record, that we are getting old. Jarrod called it. Frampton! I already had one leg in my PJ bottoms.
Jarrod determined that The Queers were not on his "Bands That He Has to Hear Before He Dies" list, or in this particular instance, "Bands That Get Us Off the Couch on a Weekday List." Sorry Queers. You did not make the cut. Maybe if it were Saturday. Sidebar--I just learned the bands on this list for Jarrod are: Goldfinger, NOFX, Bad Religion (again, we have seen them once already), and They Might Be Giants (again, we saw these guys last year--Jarrod is in tune with his inner-nerd). But tonight, our love of our couch, and occasional sense of responsibility have prevailed over our love of punk music.
My husband's decision making process is much more concise and collected than mine. Maybe it is the scientist in him. Maybe it's all of those brainy They Might Be Giants songs. He is very insightful. I am insightful too, but my brain is cluttered. I have to dig through random, poorly organized piles of information to scoop up, and actually come out with that clever idea I was looking for. Jarrod just finds it. He said, "What is the point of getting old if you never learn from being young." Ahhh. Wise he is, right? Watch out Yoda, you have a contender in infinite wisdom. His name is Jarrod Julius. Disclaimer: I am a nerd by association only. If you ask me if I am a nerd, I will deny, deny, deny. I cannot help the Star Wars reference. I am a product of my environment. Okay, moving on...
Jarrod's assessment. We would have ended up going to the show merely to prove a point to ourselves. Although not particularly in the mood for loud music, or having our personal space invaded and chests elbowed by complete strangers (We used to find this fun? Seems forever ago.) we would have sucked it up, just to say, "Ha! Look at us we are not that old!" And I am pretty sure we would have regretted being there. We are old enough to know that we should engage in certain activities and amusements because they bring us pleasure. We have nothing to prove. We are who we are. And so, here we are. On our couch in our PJs. Each of us with a beer and we are happy. Maybe a Queers' song will come up on my iPod shuffle. Frampton.
Peter Frampton. Some would call him a rock icon. He plays a soaring guitar. He used to have long hair. He packs arenas. He packs arenas full of.... gasp...OLD PEOPLE. But "Frampton" is different, you see. It is a new word that Jarrod and I have developed in our vast language together. Words we pick up on that stick with us amid conversation, or we might hear it on the radio or television at the perfect time, and from that point forward that word takes on a special new meaning. Our meaning. Frampton debuted while walking from our beloved 9:30 Club to our car promptly at 11:10 p.m. a few months ago after attending a really fun and solid ska show. It was a school night and I was lamenting aloud that we had just left a show EARLY! As in before it was over! Gasp! Just so we could be home and in bed by 11:30 to spare us from hating ourselves the next morning at work. How dare we! Only old people do such responsible things. Just a few years ago, we would have sucked it up, powered through and faced the consequences of our "bad" decision later. Jarrod, in his infinite wisdom turned to me and said half mockingly, "Yep. Before you know it, we will be watching Peter Frampton at Wolf Trap." I laughed at my fake youthful righteousness and we have embraced our new word ever since.
We pulled a Frampton tonight. The plan was to see The Queers, a lovely little punk band, at the Black Cat. I was pumped to go at 11:00 a.m., a little bit less excited at 2:00 p.m., and by 3:00 p.m. I was having serious doubts that I had the energy to go. Nonetheless, I professed my excitement to be going to a punk show later tonight to a co-worker while exiting my office. Maybe secretly hoping that if I heard myself tell someone else that I was going, the chances for follow-through would increase.
Jarrod was waiting. I got in the car and we recounted stories of our day. The plan was to go home, change clothes, have dinner, and then head back out later. Jarrod and I are lovers of fun and music, but we are trying to save money. We have found making small considerations, like eating at home, instead of eating out before plans later in the evening will make your money go a lot further. We have learned such knowledge through age and experience. And here we have ourselves a new use of Frampton. Are you getting it?
We struggled with the decision whether or not we were going to the show on our commute home. Or at least, we pretended to struggle. I think deep down we both knew that ultimately after the sight of our couch and flannel PJs this little game of ours would be over. The only unknown element was which one of us was going to confirm, for the record, that we are getting old. Jarrod called it. Frampton! I already had one leg in my PJ bottoms.
Jarrod determined that The Queers were not on his "Bands That He Has to Hear Before He Dies" list, or in this particular instance, "Bands That Get Us Off the Couch on a Weekday List." Sorry Queers. You did not make the cut. Maybe if it were Saturday. Sidebar--I just learned the bands on this list for Jarrod are: Goldfinger, NOFX, Bad Religion (again, we have seen them once already), and They Might Be Giants (again, we saw these guys last year--Jarrod is in tune with his inner-nerd). But tonight, our love of our couch, and occasional sense of responsibility have prevailed over our love of punk music.
My husband's decision making process is much more concise and collected than mine. Maybe it is the scientist in him. Maybe it's all of those brainy They Might Be Giants songs. He is very insightful. I am insightful too, but my brain is cluttered. I have to dig through random, poorly organized piles of information to scoop up, and actually come out with that clever idea I was looking for. Jarrod just finds it. He said, "What is the point of getting old if you never learn from being young." Ahhh. Wise he is, right? Watch out Yoda, you have a contender in infinite wisdom. His name is Jarrod Julius. Disclaimer: I am a nerd by association only. If you ask me if I am a nerd, I will deny, deny, deny. I cannot help the Star Wars reference. I am a product of my environment. Okay, moving on...
Jarrod's assessment. We would have ended up going to the show merely to prove a point to ourselves. Although not particularly in the mood for loud music, or having our personal space invaded and chests elbowed by complete strangers (We used to find this fun? Seems forever ago.) we would have sucked it up, just to say, "Ha! Look at us we are not that old!" And I am pretty sure we would have regretted being there. We are old enough to know that we should engage in certain activities and amusements because they bring us pleasure. We have nothing to prove. We are who we are. And so, here we are. On our couch in our PJs. Each of us with a beer and we are happy. Maybe a Queers' song will come up on my iPod shuffle. Frampton.
All Time Greatest Song
Jason Isbell 9:30 Club 1.14.2011
My ears came tonight because I heard a cover of my all time favorite song. A song that in my mind lacks nothing. It tells a perfect story, has the ultimate hook and conveys an emotion we have all dealt with at some point or another. Pure loneliness. You are unhappy and struggling, but completely aware that if you stay strong, dig in... eventually it will get better. Until then, all you can do is sit there and wait. Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding will always be my favorite song. Knowing that Redding and his cohort Steve Cropper recorded this song only days before a tragic plane crash outside of Madison Wisconsin which ended Redding's life all too soon, makes this song even more perfect. Morbid. Maybe just a little, but also very poetic. I could write pages about the personal significance of this song, but I will spare you.
I, like a lot of self proclaimed music nerds, have a weak spot for list making. The thing about my lists, though, is that they fluctuate depending on my mood during the time of inquiry. I am aware of this and am called out on it by fellow music nerds repeatedly. All time top ten greatest pop songs. . . today I feel like Radio Free Europe by REM is firmly in the seventh spot, but tomorrow it may very well shift down to number ten or up to five. I am not a machine. I am an emotional being. I cannot predict these things. I am fickle and I change my mind. So be it. Deal with it. But if you ask me today, asked me six months ago, or ask me 12 years from now what my all time favorite song is, there will be no hesitation, no waffling. Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding/Steve Cropper. Period. End of story. Case closed.
Something else I am sure about is my unwavering appreciation of Jason Isbell. Jason Isbell is an Alabama-born singer/songwriter. He used to be a member of The Drive By Truckers, a gritty Southern rock band known for weaving parables that just happen to have instruments involved about the "Real South." In DBT's case, there is an overabundance of songwriters, and Mr. Isbell, I think feeling like he was not getting a fair shake, parted ways with the band and went out on his own. For this, I am thankful. Isbell is a storyteller in the true form of the word. Lucky for us he plays a mean guitar too. His topics include how a small town struggles with the loss of a young man who felt compelled to go off to a foreign land and fight in a war, and now he is permanently wearing his "Dress Blues" or about the horrible gut-wrenching isolation new love can bring in "Goddamn Lonely Love." His material is real. It is deep. It is not about going out, drinking martinis, and taking home a girl because the time is right and you like her shoes. (There has to be a song with this subject matter that is played in a club, right?) Isbell's stories take place in dark corners of bars and in small towns. They are about hard work, tough luck, learning from mistakes and the ups and downs of life. I relate. This is my kind of music.
The show, without the encore, would have been absolutely fantastic. It would have completely filled my expectations. Thank you Jason Isbell for giving me an eargasm and saying good night with the greatest song ever. Now, I need a cigarette.
My ears came tonight because I heard a cover of my all time favorite song. A song that in my mind lacks nothing. It tells a perfect story, has the ultimate hook and conveys an emotion we have all dealt with at some point or another. Pure loneliness. You are unhappy and struggling, but completely aware that if you stay strong, dig in... eventually it will get better. Until then, all you can do is sit there and wait. Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding will always be my favorite song. Knowing that Redding and his cohort Steve Cropper recorded this song only days before a tragic plane crash outside of Madison Wisconsin which ended Redding's life all too soon, makes this song even more perfect. Morbid. Maybe just a little, but also very poetic. I could write pages about the personal significance of this song, but I will spare you.
I, like a lot of self proclaimed music nerds, have a weak spot for list making. The thing about my lists, though, is that they fluctuate depending on my mood during the time of inquiry. I am aware of this and am called out on it by fellow music nerds repeatedly. All time top ten greatest pop songs. . . today I feel like Radio Free Europe by REM is firmly in the seventh spot, but tomorrow it may very well shift down to number ten or up to five. I am not a machine. I am an emotional being. I cannot predict these things. I am fickle and I change my mind. So be it. Deal with it. But if you ask me today, asked me six months ago, or ask me 12 years from now what my all time favorite song is, there will be no hesitation, no waffling. Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding/Steve Cropper. Period. End of story. Case closed.
Something else I am sure about is my unwavering appreciation of Jason Isbell. Jason Isbell is an Alabama-born singer/songwriter. He used to be a member of The Drive By Truckers, a gritty Southern rock band known for weaving parables that just happen to have instruments involved about the "Real South." In DBT's case, there is an overabundance of songwriters, and Mr. Isbell, I think feeling like he was not getting a fair shake, parted ways with the band and went out on his own. For this, I am thankful. Isbell is a storyteller in the true form of the word. Lucky for us he plays a mean guitar too. His topics include how a small town struggles with the loss of a young man who felt compelled to go off to a foreign land and fight in a war, and now he is permanently wearing his "Dress Blues" or about the horrible gut-wrenching isolation new love can bring in "Goddamn Lonely Love." His material is real. It is deep. It is not about going out, drinking martinis, and taking home a girl because the time is right and you like her shoes. (There has to be a song with this subject matter that is played in a club, right?) Isbell's stories take place in dark corners of bars and in small towns. They are about hard work, tough luck, learning from mistakes and the ups and downs of life. I relate. This is my kind of music.
The show, without the encore, would have been absolutely fantastic. It would have completely filled my expectations. Thank you Jason Isbell for giving me an eargasm and saying good night with the greatest song ever. Now, I need a cigarette.
Do Not Drink With Violinists
Kennedy Center 1.13.2011
Classical musicians are a bunch of miscreants. I feel comfortable saying this because one of the dearest people in my life is a classical musician. Tim, Jarrod's oldest friend, is a professional violinist. He was the best man in our wedding. His dad, a Methodist preacher, performed our ceremony. While giving the best man speech it became abundantly clear to Tim that all of the embarrassing stories he was in the middle of telling were actually about him. Jarrod just happened to be there. I would love to share some of these stories with you, but Tim has a reputation to uphold because he is a civilized, put together, austere classical musician. Ha. I would like to state for the record that one of my not so proudest moments involving beer and an empty stomach was with Tim and his musician friends during a party at the University of Maryland. They were there attending an orchestral seminar. Stuffy, right? I wish I could say that I was just a dumb college kid and did not know my limits. Oh no, I had been out of college for several years. An adult. Arguably. Watch out for classical musicians. They are a dangerous bunch indeed.
So knowing what I do about classical musicians, or at least the musicians I have been exposed to, it is astounding how such a motley crew can command a room when you put them together, instruments in hand on a wooden chunk of floor raised above hundreds of uncomfortable chairs. This was my first time at the Kennedy Center. I have lived in DC for over 8 years. Sad, I know. But I am just not that type of girl, or so I had thought.
Tonight's National Symphony Orchestra performance featured a 34 year old Ukrainian conductor, Kirill Karabits and a 26 year old Armenian violinist, Sergey Khachatryan. These two travel the world and play concert halls with some of the most notable orchestras. So notable, even I have heard of them. They are not 35 yet. Raise your hand if you feel like a huge underachiever. After coping with my lack of life accomplishment compared to these two, I dove into the music.
The world of classical music and those who dwell in it are completely foreign to me. No clanking of beer bottles in the background, no constant buzz of chatter to distract you from the actual performance you paid to see, and very little interaction between the musicians and the audience. They are above us. And man, was it quiet. So quiet that I heard the familiar growling of Jarrod's stomach to my right (He told me he had a sandwich before he met up with me. Apparently it was not enough) and the snoring of the gentleman who was obviously not there on his own volition to my left.
Despite somewhat uncharted territory and feeling slightly out of place, I was able to get caught up in the music. I was most intrigued by how so many people (however many people there are in an orchestra)...a mass of musicians can play their various instruments together so quietly. One flick of Mr. overachieving-Ukrainian conductor's wrist, and they dropped to a whisper. I scanned the stage expecting to see movement from only a select group of musicians to indicate they were still playing, but I was amazed to see very few of them motionless. . . at rest.
As a classical music novice what I struggled with most was when in the hell do you get to clap? I found myself moved by something in particular and leaned over to Jarrod and asked, "Can I clap?" "No." He shushed. Three minutes later, moved again... "How about now?" I asked. "Not yet." "Crap!" Keep in mind I never claimed to be classy. At the end of the piece and not at the end of the movement (listen to me, I even picked up on the lingo) is when you get to clap. Finally! A release.
I wondered if classical music was old peoples' music. This thought was dismissed when I looked over to my left, past Mr. I Don't Want to be Here so I am Going to Sleep, and saw who I gathered was his daughter. She was no more than 12. She was at the edge of her seat, mouth agape, eyes widened, and you could tell she experienced every note. She felt the music. We exchanged glances and polite smiles and I think she too struggled with having her expressions of musical pleasure being confined to specific times. Me identifying with 12 year olds is not a rare thing. I wish her well in her classical music journey. My only piece of advice. Do not drink with violinists. Stay a safe distance away and appreciate their art.
Classical musicians are a bunch of miscreants. I feel comfortable saying this because one of the dearest people in my life is a classical musician. Tim, Jarrod's oldest friend, is a professional violinist. He was the best man in our wedding. His dad, a Methodist preacher, performed our ceremony. While giving the best man speech it became abundantly clear to Tim that all of the embarrassing stories he was in the middle of telling were actually about him. Jarrod just happened to be there. I would love to share some of these stories with you, but Tim has a reputation to uphold because he is a civilized, put together, austere classical musician. Ha. I would like to state for the record that one of my not so proudest moments involving beer and an empty stomach was with Tim and his musician friends during a party at the University of Maryland. They were there attending an orchestral seminar. Stuffy, right? I wish I could say that I was just a dumb college kid and did not know my limits. Oh no, I had been out of college for several years. An adult. Arguably. Watch out for classical musicians. They are a dangerous bunch indeed.
So knowing what I do about classical musicians, or at least the musicians I have been exposed to, it is astounding how such a motley crew can command a room when you put them together, instruments in hand on a wooden chunk of floor raised above hundreds of uncomfortable chairs. This was my first time at the Kennedy Center. I have lived in DC for over 8 years. Sad, I know. But I am just not that type of girl, or so I had thought.
Tonight's National Symphony Orchestra performance featured a 34 year old Ukrainian conductor, Kirill Karabits and a 26 year old Armenian violinist, Sergey Khachatryan. These two travel the world and play concert halls with some of the most notable orchestras. So notable, even I have heard of them. They are not 35 yet. Raise your hand if you feel like a huge underachiever. After coping with my lack of life accomplishment compared to these two, I dove into the music.
The world of classical music and those who dwell in it are completely foreign to me. No clanking of beer bottles in the background, no constant buzz of chatter to distract you from the actual performance you paid to see, and very little interaction between the musicians and the audience. They are above us. And man, was it quiet. So quiet that I heard the familiar growling of Jarrod's stomach to my right (He told me he had a sandwich before he met up with me. Apparently it was not enough) and the snoring of the gentleman who was obviously not there on his own volition to my left.
Despite somewhat uncharted territory and feeling slightly out of place, I was able to get caught up in the music. I was most intrigued by how so many people (however many people there are in an orchestra)...a mass of musicians can play their various instruments together so quietly. One flick of Mr. overachieving-Ukrainian conductor's wrist, and they dropped to a whisper. I scanned the stage expecting to see movement from only a select group of musicians to indicate they were still playing, but I was amazed to see very few of them motionless. . . at rest.
As a classical music novice what I struggled with most was when in the hell do you get to clap? I found myself moved by something in particular and leaned over to Jarrod and asked, "Can I clap?" "No." He shushed. Three minutes later, moved again... "How about now?" I asked. "Not yet." "Crap!" Keep in mind I never claimed to be classy. At the end of the piece and not at the end of the movement (listen to me, I even picked up on the lingo) is when you get to clap. Finally! A release.
I wondered if classical music was old peoples' music. This thought was dismissed when I looked over to my left, past Mr. I Don't Want to be Here so I am Going to Sleep, and saw who I gathered was his daughter. She was no more than 12. She was at the edge of her seat, mouth agape, eyes widened, and you could tell she experienced every note. She felt the music. We exchanged glances and polite smiles and I think she too struggled with having her expressions of musical pleasure being confined to specific times. Me identifying with 12 year olds is not a rare thing. I wish her well in her classical music journey. My only piece of advice. Do not drink with violinists. Stay a safe distance away and appreciate their art.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A Luddite Blogging
I have had at least five journals bestowed upon me as thoughtful gifts throughout the past few years. After receiving the latest one from my mom with a very sweet inscription inside (sweet, but calling me out for my creative laziness...moms are professionals at doing this) for my birthday last year, I decided enough was enough. It is time to dust off these cobwebs from this part of my brain and start writing again. So, why the blog you ask? Well, I have been told by a few people who do not know any better that they actually enjoy my writing. My mind does not work like most minds my age in the 21st century, though. I need an extra step. What I post here likely is in that journal from my mom in some form. There is just something about the feeling of pressing pen to paper, and it seems to make my mind work better. I have taken a ridiculous amount of time to write this simple post and I type for a living. Baby steps. If you notice a lack of posts for several days and then poof...there are five up at one time, this is why. Now, if you excuse me, I have to go switch from Side A to Side B on my cassette tape.
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