Burl Ives and Johnny Cash sing “Goober Peas”, circa 1970. As Burl explains, this is one of the happy songs that came out of the Civil War period. I’m thinking, “Dang – Johnny looks GOOD!”, and then, “BURL! I feel all CHRISTMAS-Y now!” and finally, “Things are grim when you gotta sing about peanuts to feel happy.”
Friday is jeans day around here. Today, I am wearing my least favorite jeans – my back-up jeans, if you will – one of only 2 pair of jeans I own. That fit. At all. And these? Fitting not so well. In honor of the hurt I’m putting on myself today, I give you this. No need to thank me. Your gaping maws are thanks enough. (And thanks to Georgia, who turned me on to this. We need to get our rolls together soon and do some high kicks, honeybunch.)
Sometimes referred to as the fourth Beastie Boy, Mark Ramos-Nishita aka Money Mark is the driving force behind many a Beastie album. Most notably (I think) his sound influenced Hello Nasty (“Intergalactic”). Good gravy, mind-blowing talent.
P.S. If you were at all curious if there was a method to my madness of the songs I selected this morning? The answer is yes. Or, no. I just picked the first four songs that played (on shuffle) on iTunes.
The quality of the video isn’t so hot (I give you an “E” for effort though!). But suffice it to say, Slobberbone rocked our faces off: “Haze of Drink” from their album Crow Pot Pie. (NSFW)
What do you think “Sheep Go To Heaven” is really about?
Good morning, Easy Company! The Friday Music Buffet is up and open for business!
I wanted to share a version of this song from the CMT series Crossroads of DRA singing this lovely tune with the Sir Elton John (in two takes). But Viacom put the kibosh on that. Suck it, Viacom. You heard me. (Unless you want to advertise on Swiss Army Wives, then by all means, you do not suck it. You should call us! Kisses!)
Instead here’s the video with a distracting Adam Duritz playing piano. “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah.” Still yummy.
As an update to yesterday’s post that included news of my broken-down washing machine, my good lookin’ husband came home early yesterday and FIXED IT. Yep, you read that right. My good lookin’ husband can FIX STUFF. Apparently it was the coupling AGAIN. Something I have apparently broken before and he’s fixed previously. Last time it was difficult to get the thingamajig that holds the coupling back in. This time, not so much.
Matt: “I’m a little worried that went in too easily.”
Me: “Why?”
Matt: “Because I tapped it back in.”
Me: “You tapped that?”
Matt: “Yes, I tapped that.” (hangs head)
Me: “Blow it up.”
(fist bumps)
“A two-year old is kind of like having a blender, but you don’t have a top for it.”
- Jerry Seinfeld
Yup. That covers it.
It’s 8:00 a.m. I’ve been up for 3 hours. It’s a Saturday.
I’m weaving through the house like a running back on a mission to the end zone: making 4 breakfasts (all want different cereals, some want a side of fruit, and crap, we’re out of Nutella), brewing a second pot of coffee, locating softball pants (still in the dryer – doh!), soccer jerseys, matching socks, pulling said laundry out of dryer, finding a spot not already occupied by detritus to dump laundry, laying out laundry so that I’m not forced to run that load of clothes through the cycle yet again (because I forgot about them twice already), tossing what I hope is mostly whites into the washer (a pox on you, beastly red hand towel), applying mascara to my left eye, reminding all the rabble to please brush all their teeth, taking the trash to the garage (2nd bag in 12 hours), running a flat iron through my hair (works better if you turn it on, Kelly), logging on to work to check my database so that I can answer outside counsel’s 11:30 p.m.-on-a-Friday-night email (get a life, buddy), scooping up dirty jammies and towels, locating missing contacts, shoes, fav earrings, excavating the freezer to find the pork loin that I know I bought 2 weeks ago so that we can have dinner that isn’t delivered to us by a moody teenager in a 1979 Toyota Corolla, realizing the only veggie I have is a 6-ounce can of low-sodium peas, and suddenly, the idea of “balance” occurs to me.
Balance. Hm. Balance.
Finding balance between your work life and your home life. Achieving balance between work and play. Striving for the perfect balance of rest, exercise, up time, down time. Working toward the goal of balance of time spent with the kids, time spent with you spouse, and time spent alone. Balancing your needs with the needs of your employer. Balancing your needs with the needs of your family. Balance. BALANCE.
Maybe I should quit my job. No, that won’t work. We have to buy food and pay the mortgage. Maybe I should walk out of the office at 2:00 p.m. each day, and tell my supervisor that I’m perfecting work/home balance. No. That won’t work either. He’ll hand me a cardboard box, and then we’re back to the whole buy-food-pay-mortgage thing. How about giving up laundry? If I keep my job, then we can just buy new clothes. Nah. I hate shopping. Hm. I’ve already given up cleaning the house, so that’s off the table. Oh, I’ve got it! We could sell one of the kids! I’d have to run it by the hubby first, of course.
“Husband! What say you? Sav strong like bull, Cam possess much wisdom, Tristan run like wind, Mad small but mighty. Choose wisely, Husband. The tribe members who remain in the village will care for us when we are long in the tooth. Don’t eff this up.”
Oh, never mind. The economy sucks. No one has extra cash for a kid, and frankly, the whole idea reeks of hurt feelings. Kids are so sensitive.
If balance was a person instead of an idea, and she was standing in front of me right now, I’d wait until she looked down and shook her perfectly coiffed head at me in disgust, and then I’d sucker punch the shit out of her.
Is it possible that I am the only one who is sick to death of hearing about this so-called achievable balance that I’ve observed only in women (and men) who do not work outside the home, but do have nannies, housekeepers, laundresses, personal assistants, babysitters, gardeners, private tutors, personal trainers, and vacation homes? Am I the only one who thinks this is a crock of doo-doo, and that time spent in its pursuit results in nothing but feeling like a big, fat domestic and professional loser?
No, I’m not. I stumbled upon this, and the heavens opened, and short, chubby angels sang sweet songs in Latin, and a feeling of validation rippled through me with the power and speed of a virulent stomach bug. From Marcus Buckingham’s article, “What The Happiest and Most Successful Women Do Differently”:
When someone tells you to try to have greater balance in your life, your immediate and appropriate reaction is a spasm of disbelief. “Balance?” you ask yourself. “How does that work? For every extra hour at work find another hour at home? For every extra kid at home, reduce my workload by exactly the amount my new child requires? For every school play I should attend, cut out a presentation on the road? For everything I say yes to, say no to something else? Is that it?”
Not according to the people we interviewed. They didn’t talk about balance much at all. They seemed to realize that not only was a perfect equilibrium nigh on impossible to achieve, but also that even if they did manage to achieve it, it wouldn’t necessarily fulfill them anyway–when you are balanced, you are stationary, holding your breath, trying not to let any sudden twitch or jerk pull you too far one way or the other. You are at a standstill. Balance is the wrong life goal.
Instead, do as these women did, and strive for imbalance. Pinpoint the strong-moments in each aspect of your life and then gradually target or tilt your life toward them. This means being as deliberate as you can about making them happen. It means investigating them when they do happen, looking at them from new perspectives, and celebrating them. Above all, it means giving them the power of your attention. Read more…
Let’s read that part up there again. “Balance is the wrong goal in life.” Okay, one more time. “Balance is the wrong goal in life.” Doesn’t that sound bee-you-tee-ful? Doesn’t that sound sane and do-able and FREEING??
So, what say YOU, Easy Company? Is this a bullseye? What’s your experience with trying to create balance? If you’re ahead of the curve, when did you give up the goal of balance and try something else? Are you in the midst of the shift now, and if so, how’s it working out for you?
I, for one, am so done with trying not to totter off the totter board, so I’m chunking the damn thing in the trash (oh, crud – forgot to put the trash out this morning!), and I’m going to immerse myself in the beauty of my entirely unbalanced life.
Today is shaping up to be an errand intensive day. And, the running of the errands, not unlike the running of the bulls, can be a harrowing, white-knuckle experience with a toddler in tow (I generally dress him in red so I can find him easily whenever he has decided he should RUN DOWN THAT AISLE RIGHT NOW THIS VERY SECOND, “I’ll go check, mommy!”). I usually try to save up my errands for Saturday mornings, and leave the boy-child with my good lookin’ husband for a few hours and knock things out with a Starbucks in one hand and a list in the other. I toodle and take my time, while getting it all done, go home and have lunch and enjoy the rest of the day with them. That plan is blown this week, because my good lookin’ husband will once again be spending his Saturday morning fixing the damn washing machine. Good times, folks. Good times.
Now, like any good Texas girl, I subscribe to the “fake it ’til you make it” school of thought, that even if you are about to rend your clothes and pluck your own eyeballs out in frustration, you do not take it out on sales people, check-out clerks, or other humans, in general. You suck it up, and try not to make their day as bad as your own.
When I’m feeling particularly surly, bordering on churlish, like, oh, just prior to my ladies’ time, ahem, I remind myself of how things could go if I just finally flipped out. Exhibits A-Z:
THIS would happen TO ME. So, consider this a PSA or PSAWA (Public Swiss Army Wives Announcement) next time you’re this close to losing your shit on a(n) (alleged) line-cutter or the random uncouth, it takes three weeks for a broken nose to heal.
P.S. If you haven’t seen Friends with Money, WATCH IT! NOW!
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