Bad Hair Experience

The last time I went to Elizabeth, my hair person, she cut and dyed my hair back to brown from the blonde that it had been for two months. Michael didn’t like my hair blonde; the fact that he kept calling it “yellow” made that point pretty clear. So, I went back to brown, but there were still a few light streaks. I told Elizabeth that I would be dying it myself the next time, and she said “make sure you don’t wait too long”. I wondered at the time what the warning meant, and exactly how long “too long” was, but I didn’t question her vagueness at the time. I wish I had.

Over the ensuing weeks the thought went through my mind how long too long was, but I don’t like the messiness of dying my hair, and even though I was mildly curious about her warning, I didn’t ask, and didn’t dye my hair.

On Friday past, I decided it was time. Since I’ve done this a few times now, I know how to do it and didn’t feel any obligation to re-read the instructions, except to remind myself of the time needed to complete the task. Unfortunately, I did forget one key part of the instructions, which was to dry my hair before applying the dye. Dye bottle in hand, I immediately started applying the dye to wet hair. Medium brown, the box stated. When my hair started going black almost instantly, I remembered that I had missed a step. That, along with the fact that the dye was running down the sides of my face, sent me scrambling for the instructions, and then for the phone to dial 1-800-ISCREWEDUPAGAIN.

Just as I had hoped, there was an 800 number on the instructions for such calameties. I dialed the number, hands shaking so badly I had to dial twice before I got it right. Couple shaking hands with poor eyesight and knowing I was getting dye all over the phone too. When they say permanent, they were not joking.

Ring, ring, ring.

Recorded Voice of someone that was clearly not having a hair emergency. “Welcome to the Clairol Hotline. Please listen carefully before selecting one of the three following options”

Me: I take a deep breath. Begging a recorded voice will not help me.

Non-Hair Emergency person: “Press “ONE” if you are a professional hair stylist”

Me: I consider pressing one. After all, who do I know that gets more hair comments (most not complimentary), owns more hair product, or changes their hair color more often then me? I wait for the next option.

Relaxed Clairol person, clearly with no hair issues: “Press TWO or say TWO if you are a consumer and would like to continue in English” Gratefully I say TWO quite loudly. Let there be no mistake on this, I think.

French speaking and relaxed Clairol person “…(I dunno what she said but I cannot believe my bad luck, and I can feel the dye running down my cheeks. The face ones.

Me: I push a few more buttons, desperately. The French continues. I hang up. I call back, I’m reminded of the movie The Pink Panther where Steve Martin is trying to correct his heavy French accent with the help of a speech coach. Perhaps how I say “Two” in English should like “Trois”. That would explain a lot.

So, yes, I call back. This time when I’m prompted, I, foolishly, say TWO a little louder. Guess what happened? Indeed, I was reconnected with the French speaking and extremely relaxed sounding Clairol person that I could not understand because of my lack. I am totally to blame. At this point, I’m approaching desperation.

I call back a third time. It’s a weekday during business hours so I feel safe in believing that I will be connected, should I press the right button combination, with a real live person who can help me.

Ring, ring, ring….This time I waste no time saying anything, I press TWO. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…you know.

To my delight, upon pressing the number TWO the phone rings again as if I’m to be connected with a live body that can hear the panic in my voice and help me…the dye is now running down my neck. Also, I had a look at my ears before I went to the phone – they’re both black. Oh my.

To my horror on comes another recording. A relaxed voice with a strong southern accent comes on: “Our offices are closed today due to extreme weather conditions. If this is a medical emergency please call 1-513-xxx-xxxx.”

Needless to say, I’m shocked. I hang up slowly. Feeling fearful, I go to the shower and rinse the dye out of my hair. I scrub soap on my face, but I already know that won’t work. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Upstairs I remove the towel and do damage control. Black hair, brown in a few spots, but mostly black. Think Mrs. Adams Family black. My ears are black, I have black residue outlining the entire hairline, roughly an inch the whole way around, and some streaks down the cheeks. Not good. After dying my hair and trying to scrub the dye off my face, I try to cover it with makeup. I wonder how much I would have to use to cover this mess. I put on a lot; it’s still visible. I make a decision then not to leave the house for a few days, or I get the stains off, whichever comes first.

Then I remember the handy dandy stain remover book I bought for five bucks. I bet that will tell me how to get dye removed from skin. I’m ready to use Vim at this point…I have nothing to lose.

Unfortunately the book does not mention removing dye from the skin and only mentioned hair dye briefly. Paraphrased, it said that if a person gets hair dye on anything, either get used to it or throw it away. Hmmmm…this is not what I want to hear. Sigh…I flip through a few pages in a desolate way, hoping that some inspiration will appear….then, Voila!!! I see the answer. Hairspray.

Granted the book was talking about using hairspray on something else, but I thought what the heck…I’ll try that before the Vim. I sprayed some on a towel and rubbed at my left ear…the stain started to lift. I had three different types right in front of me, so I tried all three. The least expensive worked the best, but the good news, and I’m sure you share my relief, is that the hairspray removed all of the dye stains and I was able to leave the house and not have to turn into a recluse.

I was mentioning this to Michael later that day…I asked him had he heard about any extreme weather conditions in William of the Mountain country and then I shared with him my suspicion that there was a plot out there to keep me from getting the help I needed from my hair emergency. He said “yes, Clairol has a plot for all the stupid people that won’t read the instructions….they’re all laughing at you right now.” Whatever. I’m just really grateful I don’t have green hair. And Elizabeth, can you not be so vague next time?

Thought for today: Don’t let a little wind keep you from going to work…
Helen

Studio 16 and Other Stuff

We’re driving home from visiting Aunt Faye and Uncle Jack at their cozy home near Grand Lake. The temperature was perfect, as was the lack of mosquitoes and the stew we had for supper. I love visiting Faye and Jack – they are down to earth, welcoming and easy to be around. Michael and I are making an effort, a real effort to spend some time visiting people. Life, it seems, is far too short.

Just as we were exiting their road and starting out on the main highway, which once was the Trans Canada Highway, at Sheffield, Michael reminded me that he had put his laptop in the back seat for me, in case I felt the urge to blog. I said I didn’t really much feel like it, but I was reminded that I had so much to write about. Such as? Oh yes, all the events taking place lately at Studio 16. How could I forget?

Right now the car is stopped along the highway in Maugerville (route 105). We saw a sign indicating the Ch Church Rd is coming up. We have stopped to take a picture of the sign. What is so remarkable about that particular sign, you might ask? Well you should. Michael has a cousin, Gary, that thought for many years that the Ch at the beginning of every road sign meant “church.” Gary, like the rest of us, was born and raised in bilingual New Brunswick, but somehow he missed the fact that “ch” stands for “chemin” (road en Francais) and has always thought it stood for “Church.” Because of that, we thought it funny that Gary would say this particular signs says “Church Church Rd”. Never mind. Perhaps it’s one of those things that you have to be there to understand. Oh, and don’t miss the fact that we’re taking a picture of a road sign…

For those of you that don’t know, my dad passed away on August 8th. I miss him terribly and as I said when mom died on May 25th, 2007, the fact that people miss you after you’re gone is perhaps the best legacy that a person can leave. I would like to take this opportunity to thank our many dear friends in the Bluegrass community. We are deeply blessed with true and real friends.

Back to the blog – Studio 16. Little did I know, many years ago when we married, that I would someday be married to a recording studio engineer, and constantly having celebrities in my home, and most impressive of all, having to listen to take after take of the same song. I’ll call it a song for lack of a better word. Yes, I’m rolling my eyes.

First, it was the fish song. Michael’s brother Steven wrote a song about a fish – a muskie, to be exact. Someone please shoot me in the head if I have to listen to that one again. Like, man! Oh, and I loved how Steve was at our house and Mike the recording studio engineer kept saying “your timing is off, do it again.” It didn’t take me long to figure out where I’ve heard that before. I hear it every single time I go near any musical instrument, regardless of whether it has strings. Even with the triangle, I struggle with timing. It should be noted that when Michael said “your timing is out, do it again,” Steve would rebel, to the point where I imagined that they sounded like that when they were 10 and 13. And in between the hollering, I had to listen to the song. I don’t need to wonder why people take valium.

We moved from the fish song to Southern Flavour, which is supposed to be a Bluegrass song. I’m thinking it sounds like something from Cape Breton, but Michael assures me that it’s Bluegrass. I don’t think it has a Bluegrass arrangement, but the recording studio engineer / Bluegrass music committee member tells me different. Mark me as not impressed.

So, right off the go there’s a problem in that I don’t really like the song, and I’m ticked because I hear it in my sleep and in my head and I want it to go away, and then he starts dissecting it. First, the bass track. Then 492 takes with Kenny the mandolin player. Kenny wasn’t liking the recording studio engineer too much at the end either, I bet. Then, the fiddle track. Somehow Michael lured Matt Hayes up to our house with the promise of a tuna sandwich. I was told that day’s fun consisted of 30 takes. What I find absolutely remarkable is that they all literally sound the same to me. Not that I would know. I vacated. I’d like to tell you that I was thrown out, but that is not the case. After I made the tuna sandwiches, I exited, stage left; call it survival instincts.

First I went to a craft store for a short visit. I love the stuff in that store but I had the sensation that it was probably too expensive for me to breathe in there. Usually I end up just buying a candle, but even that was more than I wanted to spend. Next I went to Fabricville, which is lovely. So many colors, so much material, so little time. I spent an hour and a half in there – pure luxury. It’s probably the only store I’ve ever been in where I just wanted to throw myself on the piles of fabric and roll through the aisles. The colors and patterns and textures are so appealing to my senses. Then I went to the Baptist Bookroom (I didn’t know they moved!), then to Wal-Mart. This morning I heard Michael say in a loudish voice “You bought another pair of shoes?!?!” Place the emphasis on *another*. I didn’t answer him, but I’m fairly certain when he reads this blog, he’ll know I heard. A smart woman would be hitting the backspace key right now, but not me. I also bought 10 spools of black thread for making more quilts, and two flower pots for splitting up the beautiful plant that the Bluegrass Friends sent when Dad died. Thank you very much for sending it. My sister Heather wanted to take it home with her, but I talked her into letting me keep it and I promised I would split it in two. She said ok, hesitantly, and then asked if I still had a problem with keeping plants alive. Har har har. Very funny.

Then, I had to go back home. Matt was still smiling. I can feel your pain, Matt. I smile through it all too. Oh, I forgot…in between the mandolin track and the fiddle track, Tom came up to have his banjo fixed. He said it was making funny noises since he had replaced the strings. I hate to tell you this Tom, but it’s a banjo. It’s always going to sound funny.

My buddy Mike (friend Mike not husband Mike) was telling me that he saw half a dozen banjos at the Sussex flea market. I asked Michael (husband Mike not friend Mike) if he wanted to go up to Sussex and check them out – maybe one of them was a pre-war whoosit whatever. He said that there’d be no way they would still be there. I love it when he feeds me ammunition for the Gotcha Gun. I said “no one bought those things – in fact there are probably three more there with them!” Jeepers. Seems so obvious to me.

I’m feeling so much better. Nothing like a good blog to get the adrenaline flowing.

I’m really looking forward to Thomas Point. Michael keeps saying that we’re not going, but I know we are – that’s what I bought the new shoes for.

Happy day, everyone!
Helen

Saturday Afternoon Bloggishness...

I slept in kind of late this morning...my body was achy and it was saying "get out of bed" but I couldn't get my eyes to stay open. Rather a conflict, but eventually, I did crawl out of bed.

Michael and I are going to a family reunion this afternoon, at some point, at my Aunt Freda's house in Norton. This is a reunion of my mother's side of the family, brought about because cousin Pat and her husband Gerry are here from Saskatchewan. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, but I must admit I am missing my mother acutely today as she will not be there. Ahhh...here I am again, back to accepting the things I cannot change. It will be lovely to see all the cousins again - we don't seem to get together too often, anymore.

Something scary happened at our house one morning this week - we were getting ready for work and listening to bluegrass music on the stereo in the living room. The CD was Dr. Ralph Stanley playing a duet with a bunch of different people, and Michael asked me if I noticed anything different about how the banjo sounded. "Yes", I said "It's being played in the Ralph Stanley style and sounds quite different from the Scruggs style". Michael was quite impressed that I could tell the difference. He was not the only one that was impressed.

Actually, the thought has occured to me a couple times that this shift in my thinking cannot be a good thing. Is it possible that I'm starting to like Bluegrass music? Is it reasonable to think that I, of all people, could actually notice the nuances in something as complicated as how one banjo style differs from another? Nawwwwwww...isn't possible.

How relieved was I, while we were driving home from the Fredericton hospital one night this week, when Michael told me that Montgomery Bell was Cluck Old Hen and I believed him? I was happy when his eyes rolled upward. Pardon my grammar, but I still don't got it. Yay! I will admit that I am still happy to be supportive in all things for Michael, and most especially all things musical, still happy to be surrounded by those that understand and do "got it", and happy that I can be a good sport and play the triangle in front of people.

Speaking of the triangle, we were at Mama Floyd's house last night having a visit when Michael's sister Tracey and her new husband Justin dropped in. They are home for a bit from Alberta. We had a stimulating conversation and it was nice to see them again. Miss you guys! Tracey was astounded when I said there is a video of my triangular debut while playing Petticoat Junction with the boys, and she even made me say 'honest'. Later we realized she thought it was on YouTube, but fortunately, it's not. Too much for the world to handle, I'm thinking. There was some good-natured digs about how much talent does it take to play the triangle, anyway? Well, I have to agree. Not much. I guess that's why I'm the one playing it :)

I'm supposed to be dusting and vacuuming and then getting ready to go to Norton, so I'll end this blog on this:

The things that matter the most in life are not things.

Bye for now...
Helen

Been a Long Time Coming…

It was pointed out to me last night, a couple times, that I have not blogged in a while. Since May 15th, to be precise. And we do seem to be all about being precise, some of us. Anyway, it’s not that I’ve not had anything to blog about; simply more that time does fly. Hardly seems possible that I had that first triangle lesson and the jam at our house that started it all (for me) two whole months ago. A lot has transpired since that eventful night.

Let me see…where to start. I think I will start at the end, actually. Last night Michael and I had the very great pleasure of having friends to our home for a summer party in our lovely back-yard. I say ‘lovely’ when referring to our back yard because I am quite delighted with it. Michael has put a huge amount of energy into taking what was an over-grown, rocky, miserable mess and turned it into a very pretty retreat. With help from our good friend Kenny, he built a deck last summer, and the idea of sitting on the deck on our swing and listening to the birds and squirrels fills me with peace and contentment. We were both very excited at the prospect of having our good friends for this party and delighted that so many could come.

Michael’s brother Steven arrived just in time to do some cooking, allowing Michael to continue banging away on the Bass Fiddle. I fully expected some neighbours to stop over, but no one showed up. No doubt they were scared away by all those William of the Mountains (aka hillbillies) smack dab in the middle of Pine Avenue.

I was remarking to Steven, as I was looking at our good friends, that other than he and our daughter, Mallory, Michael and I didn’t know the rest of the people two years ago. We truly are blessed in our friends. Thanks for coming up to the house, everyone.

Two months… seems like a long time… On June 2nd we started up the Monday night Bluegrass Jams again. There had been an eleven month hiatus, but the time had come to resume. There was a good turn out that night, and Michael had organized a huge birthday cake in honour of my birthday the next day. That was very nice, I thought. I personally had a lot of fun that night since I made my Triangular debut on stage. I would like to point out that along with playing the triangle in non-perfect time, I was also burdened with the responsibility of Harvey’s train whistle. Rather a lot of musical stress, I thought, for someone that had not played anything in public prior to that night. I use the term ‘played’ loosely. The amount of talent required was virtually nil. Mostly I just needed some air in my lungs, the ability to open my mouth (never a problem), and the memory of which end of the triangle stick thing to hold on to. Actually, I’m fairly certain the sound coming off that hunk of metal would be the same no matter which end of the stick I used. But again, we’re all about precision. I was stressed out by trying to remember to blow or ding at the appropriate time, and which instrument should be stuck in my armpit.

The entire experience was rather humiliating, along with being fun. I’m not sure it’s something I can put on my resume, unless I am looking for a job where I act like a fool. Becky recorded the session, and a CD of me making a fool out of myself in non-perfect time, complete with Lola’s booming laugh in the background, can be purchased for a mere $10.00. Or, I can lend you my copy for free. You will note that each time I put the train whistle in my mouth, and my cheeks puffed out in readiness, the laughing hit a new high.

Ed had told me a while ago that when musicians are getting ready for a song to close, they lift one leg. I thought he was joking but I have seen Ed and Harvey both lifting a leg while they were on stage at the jam, and since it looks so silly I couldn’t imagine them doing it just to string me along. Last night several of the girls stuck one leg up in the air when it was approaching midnight, signifying that they wanted to go home, and yet, the music continued on. One over-tired woman even stuck both into the air, and still, the music played on. I think I have it figured out – if the man lifts a leg, the song will stop. The women – nothing. Well, a laugh maybe. I don’t get that.

I am typing this blog on the way to and from Fredericton as my Dad is back in the hospital. Michael brought along his laptop and left me with absolutely no excuse not to put my thoughts on paper; scant though they may be. I’m at the point now that I’m struggling to recall what else has happened in this past couple months. As soon as I close this blog off I’m going to yet again launch into the pros for Michael going to the Thomas Point Beach Bluegrass Festival over the long weekend in September. I find it difficult to type and nag at the same time.

I hope you’re all having a blessed and peaceful summer. One thing that helps me is this prayer:

“God, if I can’t have what I want, please let me want what I have.”

Helen

Note Click on images to see larger size.

Triangle Lesson # 1

Michael opened the conversation today saying “The triangle is to be taken seriously.” He then proceeded to tell me that I need a triangle lesson. Oh, great - a triangle lesson.
He said that I needed to learn to not be randomly banging on the triangle in Harvey’s left ear, most especially while Harvey is trying to play another song. You mean I didn't add anything to Harvey’s song? Random? I would like to point out that my intention was to create a lovely sound effect in keeping with what Harvey was playing (which sounded like Cluck Old Hen, by the way).

Michael also said that my timing is off. Triangle timing is important, he said. My timing is off? I’ve heard this somewhere before… Oh yes, the bass. Bass lessons 1 through 3. The fact that my timing is off is not news to me. Had my timing been good, I would have married Bernie Curran, the person I met while in high school that introduced me to Supertramp and AC/DC.

Finally, Michael said that my tone is not good. This is not news either. I’ve been accused of having bad tone for many years, probably since early childhood. I recall my mother saying “don’t use that tone with me, young lady.” Many times Michael has said he did not like my tone, and oddly enough, I know I did not have a triangle in my hand. Now I’m wondering what it was he was referring to. Hmmmm… Oh! Maybe he is referring to the cellulite that is accumulating on the southern hemisphere of my body, creating a drastically poor tone situation.

Or, could he have been referring to my tone in that each time I ‘played’ the triangle during last night’s jam, as a special effect in the song Petticoat Junction, everyone laughed. The triangle was supposed to make a gentle ding, ding, ding sound, reminding one of a dinner bell. Harvey pointed out once…twice…that the sound I was making put him more in mind of a nagging wife, frustrated to the point of distraction, and making it clear that if she had to hold dinner one more second, there was going to be heck to pay.

I hit the thing once and Leola nearly jumped out of her skin. Imagine being startled by noise in a room where a banjo, mandolin, bass, and guitar are hard at work, together. I hit the triangle once, and she jumps. Makes no sense to me at all.

Before I forget to mention this, we had a lovely surprise party last night at our house to mark Michael’s birthday. We had sugar, good friends, and good music. We are so blessed to have such good friends. Thanks for coming, everyone.

Michael, my dear, I think I’m going to pass on the triangle lesson. Sweet of you to offer, really. I’ll be bringing my big ole cow bell to the next jam I go to. You just think I was dissonant, jarring, and cacophonous. You just think my tone is bad and my timing off. I’ll show you the champion way to poor tone and incredibly bad timing, not to mention poor cow bell etiquette.

Thought for today: The journey that happens while we are trying to be perfect is called life. Don’t miss it in the looking for perfection.

I Don't Understand....

I keep feeding the banjo player and he keeps playing. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong...

Music Committee? Why was I not Invited??

Apparently a Music Committee is being formed to determine whether songs fit into the Bluegrass category and therefore are able to be played at the Bluegrass Friends Jam Sessions. If you want more info about the jams, please see www.bluegrassfriends.com

I don't understand why I have not been asked to be on this committee. I find this to be rather disturbing. I spoke to Michael about it yesterday, but without luck in changing his mind. Here's how that conversation played out...

We were in the office - I think he locked the door, but that was not necessary. Michael wanted me to help him word a paragraph in his message on the Bluegrass Friends website about a music committee being formed. Over the course of helping with the wording I had an opportunity to ask some questions.

Helen: You're starting a committee? I'll be the chairperson.
Michael: Ahhhh....no, you won't.
Helen: How come?
Michael: (thinking.....turning back to the computer...) help me with this paragraph...
Helen: (playing possum and letting that go...) yes, dear.

After many minutes we finish the three sentence paragraph to both our satisfaction. Phew!

Helen: I am wondering what the point is in having a loaded committee.
Michael: It's not loaded.
Helen: (insisting) Yes, it is. Every single person agrees with you. That makes it loaded.
Michael: It's not loaded. We all have different perspectives.
Helen: Surely you can see how having me on the committee will be a positive thing.
Michael: You cannot be on the committee. People would think you were voting with me because we're married, and it would end up swaying the vote.
Helen: Anyone that knows me knows I would never vote the same you way did. Purely out of principle, I wouldn't. I want to be the chairperson.
Michael: You're not on the committee, so you can't be the chair.
Helen: At least let me be on the committee.
Michael: No.
Helen: I want to be on the committee.
Michael: No.

(In an effort to distract me, Michael demonstrates for me the web interface he has created so that he can provide the committee members with the music that they are to review in 30 second clips, and a template whereby they can rate the clip as to whether it falls in the Bluegrass category.)

Helen: Why did you tick "Down the Road About a Mile or Two" as not Bluegrass. Even I know that one is Bluegrass.
Michael: That version of it isn't Bluegrass.
Helen: Yes, it is. It's a bluegrass song.
Michael: That version isn't bluegrass.
Helen: Why? (Now I'm confused)
Michael: Because of the way it's being sung.
Helen: (Ahhh HA! I think...) You said before that it had nothing to do with the artist!!!
Michael: (Deep sigh...) It doesn't have anything to do with the artist, it has to do with the arrangement.
Helen: I want to be on the committee.
Michael: No.
Helen: Please?
Michael: No.
Helen: Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze?
Michael: No.
Helen: (Insert something whispered about what we can do with the door locked...)
Michael...hesitating...looking at the locked door....... No.

Hmmmm...this is not going as I planned. Drat. :(

Helen: I want to be on the committee.
Michael: (no answer...still looking at the door)
Helen: (petulantly) You know what? I wouldn't be on that committee if you begged me. Oh, and another thing, those committee members can keep you warm at night.
Michael: (no response)
Helen: I want to be on the committee.
Michael: No.
Helen: What do you feel like having for supper?

This is a typical example of how most situations play out at our house. Michael is unwavering when he makes up his mind about something, and clearly is not in the least bit concerned about who will be keeping him warm at night.

Thought for the day: Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

Hope your day is filled with blessings and not resentment.
Helen

Bass Lesson # 4

You've heard the saying "the road to he$$ is paved with good intentions" ? Well, last night I had every good intention of having another bass lesson, and it didn't happen. As I lay in bed last night, draped in guilt and remorse and wondering Why? Why? Why? do I not follow through with these intentions...(insert gasping sob here)...it came to me...here's why...

I left work a little early as Hunter needed to be driven to work. I picked him up in front of the gym as it seems to be the only landmark in uptown Saint John that he knows how to describe. It's all relative according to where the gym is. Where is the city market? Across from the gym. Where does Dad work? Ten blocks from the gym. Which Tim Hortons are you going to be at? The one around the corner from the gym and up the street a bit. Where does Mom work? Shrug...over there. No where near the gym.

Anyway, I loaded Hunter and his bookbag into the car (the contents of said bookbag are closely guarded and top secret). I never see homework coming out of it, the last report card is missing in action, but every day I do see a packed lunch go into the book bag. Occasionally an apple that has seen better days does emerge. I wish the report card would come out.

Oh yes, back to the reason...excuse...reason. I took Hunter to work and then stopped for a second at my favourite consignment store. I buy all my clothes there - it's too much fun getting cool stuff for next to nothing. The store was closed, so I headed home. Got home, unloaded the car except for the bookbag, put stuff away and started thinking about dinner. Was doing laundry when Michael ventured into the laundry room (I noticed he was looking around in complete bewilderment...where am I? read the look on his face) and asked if I were going out. I said I wasn't, and Michael said he was going to Clay's house after dinner.

At this point the thought of having a bass lesson has not yet entered my mind.

I continued with the laundry, made dinner, and cleared away the messy kitchen. Michael had left for Clay's house already. The phone rang; it was Esther from Moncton. We had not spoken before but we immediately connected as we share a passion for bluegrass - she is passionate about being involved in it and I am passionate about getting away from it. But, still.

We chatted for a bit and it was during the conversation that it occurred to me that I should give myself a bass lesson while Michael is out. Something Esther said may have triggered that thought, I'm not sure. Could have been "are you nuts letting your husband try to teach you anything?" or words to that effect. I'm paraphrasing. So, I thought I could give myself a lesson.

This is how the rest of the evening played out.

• Chatted with Esther and solved the problems of the bluegrass world and the rude people - nice talking with you Esther.
• Finished cleaning the kitchen - I noticed I was moving more slowly now... just making sure I do a good job, I think. I'm humming Polly Wolly Doodle. I turn the stereo in the kitchen on to Britney Spears.
• More laundry. It's just endless, that task.
• Those bathrooms need some serious elbow grease. I load up every can of spray anything and start cleaning. Marshall runs through my mind. I washed the floors too.
• Checked my email. Answered several and then started doing some electronic filing. Gotta keep that stuff caught up.
• More laundry. I'm thinking about Murphy. She sure does love that bass.
• Mallory is lying on the couch, watching TV. I crawl up on top of her and make her squeal like a stuck pig. I don't see the problem - I only outweigh her by 45 lbs or so. Jeepers.
• I get comfy on the couch with Mallory and we watch The Hills. I totally don't get that show, and I really don't get why they have The Hills After Show. What the heck? People with microphones sitting around a table discussing the lamest show ever. Like, why did Heidi try to weasel her way back into Audrina's life - was it really to tick Lauren off?

At this point it's getting late; I have to admit that the acting in The Hills makes Murphy and Marshall shine with Oscar like qualities. Never have they looked so good. Unfortunately, it's really late now, and I'm sleepy. Maybe tomorrow. Michael, are you going out again soon?

I laughed so hard I cried...

We bought a new car tonight. It's quite pretty - I recommend going to see Wayne at Centennial if you are in the market for a car - he is top notch. After the sale was complete he spent considerable time showing us all the bells and whistles, and the piece de resistance, the OnStar feature.

We dialed into the OnStar system and a helpful person came on the line and started asking Michael a bunch of questions. Phone number, address, etc, etc, etc., to confirm he was who he said he was. Anyway, in her file for us she had an email address that Michael had quoted earlier in the day, and the OnStar woman said she was going to repeat it back to him phonetically. Remember that commercial "Hooked on Phonics worked for me !!" ? I was reminded of that commercial as OnStar woman started repeating Michael's incredibly long email address.

OnStar Woman: Ok, I'm going to read your email address back to you, then I'll ask you to confirm it.

M as in Michael
I as in India

Helen: I start laughing here. I said "you gave her the long address, didn't you?"

C as in Cat
H as in Hoolahoop
A as in Aardvark
E as in Euthanasia
L as in Lunatic
dot (insert deep breath)
F as in Foxtrot
L as in Lunatic
O as in Oxymoron
Y as in Yiddish
D as in Dogmatic
@
B as in Bravo
L as in Lunatic

Helen: I'm crying now. I have tears running down my face. Michael, Mallory and Hunter are laughing too, along with Wayne the car salesmen. OnStar woman trudges forward.

OnStar woman:
U as in Unicorn
E as in Euthanasia
G as in Grotesque
R as in Rabid
A as in Aardvark
S as in Samsonite
S as in Samsonite
F as in Foxtrot

Helen: I'm in convulsions at this point. It is just never going to end. You need to know that I have been telling Michael for years that his choice in email address's is massive, daunting, and just plain old cumbersome. Case in point, says Onstar Woman.

OnStar woman:
R as in Rabid
I as in India
E as in Euthanasia
N as in Nancy
D as in Dogmatic
S as in Samsonite
dot
COM !!

OnStar woman breathes a huge sigh of relief. I'm wiping at my eyes and trying to not look like a complete idiot in front of Wayne, but I think I'm too far gone.

OnStar woman: "Any questions?" she asked with a smile in her voice.

Helen (gasping) "Yes. Can you repeat that?"

Perhaps you had to be there; I don't know. I sure am glad I was :))

Helen
p.s. Have a blessed and happy day, unless you are planning differently :)

Random Thoughts of Appreciation

Ed and Becky, thank you so much again for your help last evening. I can't tell you the weight that has been lifted from my shoulders and I'm reminded yet again of what lovely friends you both are to Michael and me.

I'm off to Albany, New York this weekend for a meeting. I'm looking forward to the weekend as I will see a bunch of people that I don't have opportunity to see often, and to do a bit of service that will help me stay sane. (Yes, I do realize SANE is a relative term, but take it for what it's worth, ok?) I'm not so much looking forward to the traveling as the drive is approximately 12 hours each way...lots of pee breaks...why do women say "pee break"? you may well be asking yourself...and I'm traveling solo.

Becky suggested last night that I will be able to enjoy a good amount of bluegrass music on the drive. That isn't likely to happen, but I will take some of the sappier Alison Krauss tunes with me - I do love her sappy stuff - and I'll leave everything home that even remotely sounds like Cluck Old Hen. In my experience that covers everything else under the category Bluegrass. I'm expanding that category by including Dylan and Haggard, just on the off chance they grassed something up. There can be no errors on this, in my mind. I wonder where I put that Eagles CD?
Michael and I enjoyed a fun evening of music, food and fellowship at Larry and Carlotta's home. The company was great and we did some laughing and jamming, and supper was yummy. Thanks so much, Larry and Carlotta, for including us. It was really nice, too, to meet Clay's wife and see some of the rest of the gang again. Thanks again!

Kenny and Michael did a nice job on I Corinthians that day when they were pretending we have a recording studio at our house. As I was running the washer and dryer, and banging around pots and pans the thought crossed my mind that those sounds would be new to that particularly stellar piece of music. I enjoyed the listening - Kenny and Michael, great job!

I had best get busy again so that I have lots of time later for packing every piece of clothing I own, along with all of my hair stuff. First rule of being Helen: Never travel light.

Bye now and take care,
Helen

Bass Lesson # 3

I had my third bass lesson last night – from my memory was forced all the memories that I had found funny about Bass Lesson # 2. So much so, that I can't write about the second lesson. I’ve had to skip to the third.

I do recall about lesson 2 that it took a little while for me to become agitated. I remember that we were locked in the office again, that our 18 year old son was outside the office door demanding to know what it was that we were doing in the office that required a locked door (are you sure you really want to know, Hunter???), and I recall Michael saying that my timing was incredibly bad and when I asked if I could play along to Polly Wally Doodle, he said I wasn’t ready for that song. A crushing blow.

Lesson # 3 started out badly for a couple reasons:
a) I didn’t feel like having a bass lesson
b) It was too soon after Lesson # 2…it had only been a couple weeks, after all
c) I didn’t feel like having a bass lesson. See point (b).

We started out with the Murphy and Marshall DVD. I was reminded again of Murphy’s enthusiasm and secretly wished I felt even a teeny bit of it. I could relate to Marshall completely – he totally looks like he wants to smack Murphy, especially after the 39th time she says “Ready Marshall?!?!?” Actually, now that I think about it, she doesn’t say that 39 times, I was just forced to watch it 39 times. No wonder I felt agitated.

The term “force” is subjective, of course. No one was holding me at gunpoint, no one was threatening to hurt me physically, emotionally, or in any other fashion. I did, however, have a vivid flashback of childhood and being “forced” to weed the bazillion acres of strawberries in my parent’s back yard in the blazing, cruel sun, without water, hat or sunscreen.

Things were going along semi-fine with me trying to emulate Marshall’s finesse on the bass, and trying to ignore Murphy’s hollering. Stupidly I thought I could sort it out just by watching Marshall’s fingers, but it didn’t take long for me to remember that I can’t tell my left hand from my right, and I certainly can’t sort out his left hand / my right hand, and his right hand / my left hand…far too complicated. In spite of all this chaos in my head, Michael unwittingly launched into a side lesson on music theory. On one of his hands…don’t ask me which one…he started with the reformed alphabet again, only more of it than the first lesson. A lot more. “For a C note (I think he said ‘note’) it goes C D E F G A B C. For a D note it goes D E F G A B C D. For a E note it goes E F G A B C D E” All I could think, once again, was “ABC The Goldfish” that dad used to play when I was little. Michael kept asking if I understood – I was reluctant to answer because either way I was in trouble. In saying “yes” I would be lying and in saying “no” he would start over. What to do!!!

After a time on the theory, I was instructed to go back to the DVD. I think the song was Bluegrass Cabin Home and it was put on repeat mode on the machine. Endlessly. As in over and over, ad infinitum. Over and over Michael said my timing was off…he’s been very kind and patient, but the truth still stings no matter how kindly it is put. I must remember that next time I am determining to tell someone the truth about themselves. Perhaps it’s better to focus on myself. Anyway, over and over and over we ran through the song. At one point I felt kind of bad for poor Marshall – his timing was completely off…he was totally out of sync with me. Michael assured me that Marshall was not the problem. The worst of it was this: even when I thought I did great with the timing, it was not so great. Even when I thought I had that stupid C note right, I didn’t. We even marked a pencil mark on the bass so that I could find the fret to do the C note and I still couldn’t find it.

Did I mention that I didn’t feel like having a bass lesson? This particular one will go down as a catastrophe. And just as a final nail in that coffin, Michael said today that all I had done was complain, for an entire hour, he said. He also pointed out that if I didn’t persevere, I wouldn’t get anywhere with it, and as a final blow, he said “Practice makes improved”. I’ve heard that somewhere before…oh yes, I’ve been saying that for years. Gotta love it when you have to eat your own words.

On a final note (pardon the pun) remember, we are not punished for our sins, we are punished by our sins.

Have a happy and blessed day…
Helen

Passports and Mystery Math…

Mallory and I were returning some stuff the other day and as we were leaving I saw that there was no one at all in the photo shop near the store entrance. I’ve been procrastinating about getting my passport; part of my delay being that I have to arrange to get a photo taken, and this small task seems insurmountable in this world of too many things to do with not enough time and one car.

So, seeing an opportunity, I seized it (my mother didn’t raise any stupid children) and went into the photo shop, dragging Mallory behind me. She muttered something about ‘starving to death’ but I was a woman on a mission and the details of life were pushed to the back of my mind.

The time when we entered the shop was 6:20PM. I walked up the counter and asked the price for getting passport photos done, along with the amount of time that it usually takes to complete. The woman told me the price and said ‘I only do them until 6:30’. Ahhhhh….ok, I thought. Let’s go. Her response made no sense to me then, but over the next little bit it started to click in.

She directed me over to the mirror. Foolishly, I thought it was so I could make sure I looked stunning. She had other ideas – ‘here’s some powder’ she said. ‘You have to wipe all that shine off your face…there’s not allowed to be any shine in the picture.’

Oh. Shine. I was dismayed by how much powder I had to apply before Psycho
PhotoShop Woman told me I was in the clear. Mallory, of course, was over in the row of chairs splitting a gut. She announced that my nose looked fake. Great! Who cares? so long as the fake nose has no shine.

Finally we got down to taking the picture. I was all smiles with my fake nose intact…’no smiling’, she said. “They don’t like smiles’. Okie dokie. No smiles, no shine, and a fake nose.

The picture, finally, came out of the little machine. I was, needless to say, relieved. It was pushing 6:30 and the Psycho PhotoShop Woman had made it pretty clear all the way along that she only did this until 6:30. Then, horror of horrors, she pulled the picture out of the little machine and said ‘oh no, this one isn’t any good’. ‘Look at your hair – it’s throwing shadows…shadows aren’t allowed’. Mallory reminded me that ‘your hair is always an issue’. Yes, I know. Really I do.

So, back to the chair, fake nose in place and no smiling. I remove my coat thinking that the collar might be making the light bounce off my hair. Psycho Photo Shop Woman thought that was a great idea. She spends precious minutes looking into the camera at me, with a concerned look on her face, then she put the camera down, and started pressing on the sides of her head like she was experiencing a great deal of pain.

“Could you maybe push in the sides of your hair like this?” she said, and continued to demonstrate. “Maybe if you pull it down some too it won’t be so much in the way”. Oh my good grief. Had I not already paid, I’m pretty sure I would have left. But, I did need the photo, and I had paid, so I started mashing my hair down, and pushing in on the sides of my head as though I was having a hemorrhage or had won the lotto. Mallory is laughing silently…I just want to go home.

At long last, an acceptable picture… no smiles, no shine, no shadows, and mashed down hair… and, apparently, acceptable to the government of Canada. All I know is this: it wants to be. I didn’t look like an alien when I arrived but Psycho Photo Shop Woman made sure that mission was accomplished. I’ll be embarrassed to show the picture at the border, if I ever do follow through on the passport process.

I was going to write something about my second bass lesson – hence the name Mystery Math, but this is getting long so I’ll write that one soon.

Stay tuned… and remember, if you can’t have what you want, then want what you have.

Helen

Vamping on the Boom

Or maybe it's NOT vamping on the boom. I dunno...

I'm starting to think that being involved in music, or perhaps just Bluegrass Music, requires learning a new language. Each word viewed by itself is understandable, but some of the sentence combinations are indecipherable. To me, at least. I have the feeling that you're all speaking in a fashion that feels totally comfortable and I'm on the fringe.

Michael and I drove up to Fredericton last night to visit my father, Ken, as he in the hospital for a couple days. (Doing much better now, by the way.) A couple days ago I had tried to view the Bluegrass site and was not able to enter the blogs, but could see the title of Michael's latest one on the Bluegrass Friends site page. I emailed him, asking "What's a hag?" The explanation started as we were pulling out of our driveway, paused as we stopped for gas at the ESSO in Grand-Bay (the gas is a whole penny cheaper there!!) and resumed until we parked at the DECH. Was it Peppermint Pattie or Lucy that used to say "All I hear when you talk is Wah, Wah, Wah"? I would like to make an addition to that: After a wah, wah, while, during bluegrass related discussions, all I hear is Wah, Wah, Wah.

I referred once during the discussion to my glossary of terms for all things Bluegrass for a definition. Seems rather simple to me: does it have a banjo? do any women die in any of the songs? does Bob Dylan sing? If you are interested in reviewing the glossary, which only represent my opinion, please visit: http://bluegrasswidow.blogspot.com/2007/07/glossary-of-terms-bluegrass.html.

After sifting through the mire of bluegrass wah wah wah, I came to this conclusion: Michael isn't saying it's not good music; he's only saying that in his opinion, it isn’t able to be categorized with bluegrass music. Thank God we all have the opportunity to voice an opinion. Some of us do take up rather a lot of real estate in expressing it, to be certain.
Remember, take what you like and leave the rest for someone else.

Opinions in some cases provide clarity; in others, not so much. For instance, I find the vamping / boom thing to be rather confusing at this point, and I'm also confused about other things, such as why we couldn't just buy an electric bass, as it would be far less intrusive in the living room.

[Insert big smile here] I think everyone should have a blog. It's a wonderful opportunity to express oneself and if the person reading it is thinking wah, wah, wah, they can just make it go away. Poof !!

While reading this bit of brilliance that Aesop wrote, Michael came to mind: “It is easy to be brave from a safe distance.” Some of us have lots of say, but when it comes to putting our name on what we say, the anonymous road is taken. There is no lack in integrity in you, Michael. I’m proud of you.

Have a happy day…
Helen

My dear Mother used to say...

My dear Mother used to say...

“If you can't be kind, be vague.”

Bass Lesson # 2 included watching a really enthusiastic woman named Murphy accompanying a less enthusiastic man named Marshall on the bass. No, I said that wrong. Murphy was on the guitar; Marshall was on the bass.

I found Murphy to be extremely entertaining in her enthusiasm. Had she been delivering a baby I’m sure she would not have put more energy, vigor, and liveliness into her presence. Instead of screaming “G” into the camera, she would have screamed “PUSH !!” It’s clear that Murphy is of the belief that whatever you’re doing, do it as well as you can. I think that’s an awesome attitude.

The song Polly Wolly Doodle has become dear to me. Finally I understand what Michael talks about when he says he can't sleep for a tune being stuck in his head. I wish it were a different tune, but I guess it will do. One thing I find confusing is the boom-a-chucka concept. Or is it boom-a-chicka. Well, whatever. I’m supposed to play only on the boom and not on the chicka or the chucka. Somehow I’m supposed to keep that straight while getting my ding to line up with the tick. How about this: Boom Ding Tick-a-Chicka? That has quite a beat. I think I like it. Ok, enough about music. The more I write the more you know how little I know. And I already knew it, so now we’re all up to speed.

I’m taking a poll on how the men feel about Valentine’s Day. Is it:

1. A necessary evil?
2. A way to earn points?
3. To be avoided regardless of the points loss or hard feelings?
4. A beautiful opportunity to tell the one you love just how much?
   

I’ll let you all know how mine went. Yes, dear, that can be considered a threat.

I think I need a vacation. A couple people at work have come back recently from cruises…I’m not much into sitting in the sun, drinking copiously, or eating randomly and in huge quantities, but still, a cruise sounds good. One guy mentioned all the shops in one of the ports that sell diamonds for next to nothing. Have I ever mentioned that I like shiny stuff? And Valentine’s Day IS coming….hmmmmm….one of these days I’m going to get a hubcap if I’m not careful. But going away, or at least being away does sound very appealing. Must give that thought some more consideration.

Remember, willingness without action is fantasy.

Have a marvelous day!
Helen

Done Before I Started…

Regarding the title of the last blog “Two Scoops of Raisins”…if you feel the need to understand what that means, ask Clay or Michael. I have no clue, even though it’s been explained to me three times. I was sitting in the room when they did it, and I totally missed the joke. Anyway, it all sounds the same to me.

I want to say again how much I enjoyed my weekend with Ed and Becky. It was a lot of fun, in spite of the noise.

Well, I had my first bass lesson last night. I dislike reporting that by my estimation, it didn’t go well. The more Michael talked, the more I got confused. There is only one thing I’m sure of at this point – I had the sense that I didn’t know anything about music; now I’m 100% certain of it.

We took the bass into the office and locked the door. The door wasn’t locked for the normal reasons, but just on the off chance that someone opened the door it would cause damage. We spent 15 minutes adjusting the bottom thingy to get the height right for me – Michael is in denial that I am as tall as he is, and he insisted that the height needed to be adjusted for me. In the end, it’s back where it started.

Next, I had a revisit of learning the alphabet. Along with learning about chords A through G…actually, I remember something about E A D G, and I’m to come up with an acronym to help me remember them. I don’t know if A through G are the chords, or what they’re called. Then Michael proceeded to tell me that all stringed instruments have frets to help us determine where we are supposed to be and he demonstrated this on his Huber banjo, but then told me that the bass does not have frets and that I would have to guess. So, right off the go I’m in trouble.

We spent a considerable amount of time on the alphabet. Michael insisted that I would need to know it. All I kept thinking of is when I was a little girl my father would say “A B C the goldfish?” and I was supposed to reply “L M N O goldfish”, to which he would respond “ O S M R - C M P N”. This still cracks me up, by the way.

In the midst of the alphabet lesson a miracle occurred – the phone rang. I answered “Thank you for rescuing me!” The person on the other end, a stranger, was rather surprised and said that I must have been expecting a call from someone else. “Not at all” I replied, “Just really happy that someone called right now – it didn’t much matter who it was”. Unfortunately, the call ended and the lesson resumed.

By now I’m drawing lines on paper and putting letters across the lines and then numbering the letters 1 through 7. The point of this, I gather, is that when someone in a jam says "we’re in G”, I’m supposed to know that I’m to play a G string and then the D and back and forth. I think. I wouldn’t want to swear to that.

Next we got out the metronome so that I could get my timing polished up. Up to this point, I have not touched the bass other than the height check. I am feeling pretty discouraged as the lesson seems to be going not great. Usually through the course of a lesson we get clarity, but I was getting further away from clarity. The metronome was going TICK and I was supposed to DING at the same time, but my ding didn’t line up with it’s click only but a couple times…Michael kept saying ‘you’re off…you’re off’…you’re ahead of it…you’re off’. I would like to point out that you knew I had no sense of rhythm when we got married and it would seem that this has not improved at all in these years. So yes, I’m off.

Lemme see…I don’t know what the chords are supposed to sound like, I can't tell one from another when someone else is playing them, the alphabet stuff is as confusing as heck, there are no frets to guide me (a fact that I find fretful – I had to put that in here), my ding can't line up with the tick, the teaching videos put me right to sleep, and I’m fearful that I’m not going to be able to fake my way through this thing, plus the whole experience made my neck and right arm ache and apparently I had my thumb wrapped around the neck in the wrong fashion. Whatever. I’m very much aware of my shortcomings in this area.

On the positive…hmmmm….I did spend some time with Michael while we had the lesson, so that was nice. I found Michael’s explanation of the nut to be highly entertaining…the nut talking about the nut… " I absolutely mastered G D G D G D G D, D A D A D A D A, G D G D G D G D. Next, Cluck Old Hen. Move over, Barry Bales.

At the beginning of the lesson I was looking at the comments to Michael’s latest blog – a gentleman named Jack wrote something about the music all sounding the same…I hear you, Jack. After giving this some thought though, I have the feeling that Jack was taking a poke at me…I bet you don’t think it all sounds the same do you, Jack? Oh, and by the way, Michael said he was only able to practice for three hours because I was out – don’t you believe that horse poop. He can practice as much as he wants when I’m home, as soon as he’s done his chores.

This is the most I’ve written about music. It’s going to take me a while to recover from this experience.

Have a happy and blessed day.
Helen

Two Scoops of Raisins...

Michael and I had the very great privilege of being guests recently at Ed and Becky B’s home somewhere north of here. I’m just about sure I wouldn’t be able to find it again by myself. We had a lovely time; I enjoyed myself very much. Thanks so much Ed and Becky. Your hospitality is outstanding.

I learned some new things over the course of a trip across the border with Becky, and then later that night when a friend dropped in to visit. Becky needed milk so we made our way into a store in Maine (the closest stop) and this store, along with selling beef jerky treats, milk and other necessities, sells live bait and “eau du varmint”. I refused to look in the live bait tub (like, ewwwwwww) but I found the gonna-catch-me-a-varmint spray rather intriguing. The cans, labeled such as BearBomb, MooseBomb, and BeaverBomb, at $9.99 USD are an absolute steal. According to the can instructions, I’m to spray the moose love potion, which the can assures me smells like a cow in heat, into the air but downwind (huh?), scurry up my tree and wait with anticipation for my catch to come stomping through the woods looking for the amorous female. This, I think, is an absolutely shocking way to catch a poor defenseless animal.

You can check it out for yourself at http://www.buckbomb.com/ I found a very entertaining website featuring Mission Impossible type music, and videos of a man dressed in full camouflage gear spraying everything in sight, including the bottom of his boots with the buck bomb spray. Imagine my anticipation as he climbed the tree in the video to await his prey – I was really hoping he would fall out of the tree, but alas, he did not. I can’t for the life of my figure why anyone would want to shoot something with big brown eyes. The Bluegrass Widow has brown eyes, but that has no bearing on my opinion. The online store features the full range of scent products, including Hog Bomb, with my favourite – Hog Peanut Butter. The clothing line looks a little … brown, but, to each his own.

The unnamed friend, who appeared at Ed and Becky’s home later that evening in full camouflage attire, assured me that this tactic was clever of us humans. I could tell he uses the Bomb products as often as he can, not paying attention to the legalities. Details !! Anyway, this person did not find the fact that I found this type of lure hilarious to be funny in the slightest – serious business, this varmint capture. Anyway, go in peace, man, and don’t forget, stand downwind or you could be in for the shock of your life.

All in all, my visit to Ed and Becky’s was educational, relaxing, peaceful and very much enjoyable. I had a great time. Thanks so much!!

I find it alarming that Michael keeps asking me for the password to my blog. I can't imagine what he plans to unload there – how much worse can the pictures get though; you’ve already seen my mouth covered with duct tape. There are no naked pictures out there of me, so I’m not concerned about that. Hey, maybe he wants to put a naked picture of himself out there…that could be interesting.

Some new definitions:
Jam:

Toe jam - sometimes also found in the belly button. This jam is not considered edible, unless you are desperate. I hope you’re never that desperate.

Jam - Also known as jelly or spread. This jam is edible and tastes good with toast, peanut butter, cookies, ice cream, and green beans. I really like this type of jam.

Jam - A group of musicians getting together to make music that they consider tasteful. Usually includes a few groupies that pretend it’s tasteful because they want the musicians to like them.

Bluegrass Jam - A group of musicians getting together to attempt to out do each other on the ear splitting noise that their instrument can emit. Also, there seems to be an unwritten rule: whoever can play the fastest, wins. There are groupies with this type of jam too. They tend to be hard of hearing, are extremely tolerant, and love the musicians. They would not be at the jam if they were not in love. Groupies that are connected with the banjo players are the most hard of hearing, the most tolerant, and the most in love.

More later. One last thing…don’t believe everything you think.

A Few More Random Thoughts...

I thought the title of this blog appropriate since most of my thoughts, or at least the ones I share here, are random.

I was speaking with Ed and Becky B. on the phone a couple nights ago...the call included a personal invitation to visit them at their cottage, and I was assured that this 'cottage' is not a shack in the woods with no running water and other positive ammenities but rather a home. They even went so far as to offer to send me a picture of the cottage to ease any lingering fear I might have of being stranded. Ed went to great length also to put my mind at rest that he has no less than nine blankets available just for me. I surely do appreciate the personalized invitation - what lovely friends you are, Ed and Becky. I really appreciate too the idea that you would send me a picture of your home so that I won't be filled with fear. The picture of your home isn't necessary, thank you. I trust you implicitly on that note. However, I would like a picture of the nine blankets. No offense intended, I'm just doing due diligence. Serious stuff, this blanket business.

I suffer a lot of harassing with regard to being cold. Another topic that I have endured a great deal of abuse about is how I wear my hair. I've blogged on this subject at least once before, I'm sure. I was visiting my father this past weekend and he felt it necessary to point out the fact that I'm getting very gray. Really? Damn. Thank goodness you told me...I would never have known. Time to get the chemicals out, I would say. Perhaps my father was shocked to see that his oldest child is old enough to have this much gray hair. Well Dad, at least I have hair. I don't mean that like it sounds...I'll explain in a minute.

Anyway, as I'm trying to explain why I have gray hair, Dad interrupted me with this: "You know who you look like with your hair like that?" Here we go, I thought. "You look like Tina Turner's husband...what was his name?..." Oh man...deep sigh. "Mr. Turner?", I say. "No really", Dad says "You know who I mean, right? He went to prison for wife beating...you look just like him". Sheesh. This is the worst comparison to date. It was several hours later at home that I remembered Mr. Turner's first name: Ike. I googled (another verb like 'blogged') Ike and Tina so that I could see how I resemble him. As I sweep aside my denial about how I could possibly look like a man named Ike that went to prison for wife beating, drug and weapons charges I am somewhat relieved that we don't look alike. At all. Triumphantly I call my father to relay this news. "Actually", he said "I think the man I'm thinking you look like is a wrestler. I can't think of his name". Oh, well now. That's much better.

Dad hasn't been to the barber in a while and was feeling a bit scraggly so he asked me if I would take the shears to his hair and trim him up. "That will be my pleasure", I said. (Insert evil laugh here). After I took the shears, set to the lowest level, straight up the back of his head, I asked if he wanted it all removed. Yup. Phew. The slogan 'measure twice, cut once' comes to mind. I went along fine from that point, cleaning things up nicely. Dad assured me that I wasn't hurting him, although he did object when I took a couple swipes inside his ears. After I was done and admiring my work I noticed that the eyebrows were a bit scraggly too. Dad showed me how to do the eyebrows holding them up with a comb. Well, I realized half way through shaving off the left eyebrow that I wasn't holding the comb correctly. All I can say is that I'm glad I started from the outside edge. Ooooooooooops. (Insert cringe here).

Have a happy and positive day, unless you've made other plans...
Helen

Where Does the Time Go?

On December 19th I wrote that it was getting close to Christmas, and since this is now January 7th, it would seem that some time has swept past since I last wrote. My intention had been to blog at least once more prior to Christmas, but, as you will notice, my intentions and my actions once again are not in alignment.

I see Michael gives note on his blog to Bluegrass Roots TV, a company that creates DVDs from live performances for a very reasonable price and they do a quality job. I know this because we (not me) ordered a DVD of a group called Bluegrass Ridge and it has been watched at our house (not me) no fewer than 4 times since it arrived via Canada Post last Friday.

I did enjoy picking the parcel up at the local postal outlet though. Apparently there is more stuff to arrive so Michael wasn't sure which parcel the postman had tried to deliver. After intercepting...picking up...the parcel, I called home on the cell phone. I suggested that it was pretty darn big and that I needed help to get it outside and strapped to the roof of the car. Needless to say, guess who appeared at the back door as soon as I backed into the driveway to see what I had brought home. I can never get him to come to the table for supper, but it just occured to me that were I to cover a DVD or CD with tomato sauce and some parmesan, perhaps he would make an appearance. Did you want ketchup with that, dear?

Hmmmm...what else can I relate today? I could tell you that my rice cakes just now were especially fresh, or I could tell you about the fantastic finds I have discovered in Frenchy's and the second-hand clothes store of late...

Speaking of clothes, I got new pyjamas for Christmas. I bought them myself and said that they were from Michael. My thought was that since he is constantly telling me that I dress like a lumber jack when I go to bed (sweatpants, big wool socks, long sleeved shirt, and a sweater...I like the very best the sweatshirt with the hood...yes, I wear the hood up) as I am in a never ending state of cold. Yesterday, much to my dismay, he counted the blankets on the bed. He said "Eight blankets?!?!?" Actually, dear, it's nine. You missed one. Anway, since the complaint is that I dress like a lumber jack and for some reason this has about as much appeal as...well, getting into bed beside a lumber jack, I decided to split the difference with him. I got new PJs that are ultra warm, and I thought, sexy. Based on the reaction to date, I have slightly missed the mark on that one. When you're done laughing, dear, the bathroom needs to be cleaned.

A friend related a story last week of a trip to LaSenza where he was supposed to be assisting his girlfriend in choosing stuff for her to model for him...it sounds like his head was on a swivel trying to take in all the sights in that store...at one point he thought he was going to have to hyperventilate into a D-Cup Bra. I can't say I've ever seen a bra shaped like a brown paper bag. I have a feeling the pyjamas they have there are not meant to keep one warm, but if a person were to pile on several pair at the same time, that might do it.

Keep smiling...
Helen