Mondays Much Needed Song of the Day: Joga by Bjork

If only.  . . .

Mondays Much Needed Song of the Day: To Let Myself Go by Ane Brun

Well, yeah.

Monday's Much Needed Song of the Day: America's Son by Air Review

KXT has been playing this song for awhile and it catches my ear every time. I'll admit I thought it was Sufjan, so I looked it up.
I was pleasantly surprised to find a local band in charge of the ditty. I was even more pleasantly surprised to find a boy I worked with once, playing the lead in the video. And was then weirdly surprised at the theme of the video.
I have been working on a short film where a group of kids are trying in a magical sort of real way to save the adult versions of themselves. Or at least that's how it started out. As we filmed and as I edited, I couldn't quite get it there. God and I have had major discussions about the reasons for this, but it wasn't until I saw this video that my dilemma made  a little more sense to me.
My cousins and I would never let those kids get to us. Not even close. They're too damaged, have blocked too much out, and live primarily outside of who we are today. Yes, they do feel separate, and that is how we survived our twenties. Little did we know, not addressing them would come back to haunt us in this last decade in horrific and near-fatal ways. By denying them access to us, we have lived in a suffocating state, but over this last holiday hang, I felt a shift. We sat comfortably around each other, discussed the past in the realest way we ever had and left a little lighter.  At least I did, and that's never bad. Hope I wasn't the only one.

Mondays Much Needed Song of the Day: Hold On by the Alabama Shakes

For those of you who know the fear and trepidation that ensue upon the mere thought of going to the grocery store, you'll understand how I can find any reason not to go: laundry, deleting emails, storyboarding a short film I will never get around to finishing.
Sometimes I am tempted to turn as I leave to go to the store and address my family, in a pleading, Rodney King sorta way and ask, "Can't we all just share a can of corn?"
But maternal instinct always wins and I go. I stop and get a soda at the QT on the way (even though I am trying to give them up) because I deserve it for ah, uhm . . . going to the store? You know that big place with the bright lights that requires a million tiny decisions that somehow cause my face to tingle and my right hand to draw up. (Think price, recipes, health, quantity, brand, etc.)
Once I  arrive, I sit in the parking lot and procrastinate some more before actually going inside: I clean out my purse, organize my glove box, text a few forgotten thank you messages.
I take so long sometimes, Chris wonders what has happened to me. He is just now beginning to understand going to the store means a trip to Crazy and back, and sometimes that takes time.
"No one will tell me where the peanut butter is," I cry into the phone or "Why is the bacon so expensive? Center cut or cheap crap. I can't decide. I can't decide!" Now he is patient enough to talk me down an aisle and has only once had to rescue me from a store.
But last Thursday night, as I pulled up to Albertson's, (I miss my old tiny market across the street.) I heard a song that reminded me of what I had to do when I go to the store or a ton of other things I'll save for other blogs. (I know you can't wait.)
I attempted to Shazam the song but came up with nothing.
Thankfully, I remembered enough lyrics to get a hold of it. My name's not Brittany, but still, it's what I gotta do!

The Reluctant Sorta-Home School Momma: What tha?

Yesterday I took Chloe shopping for a dress to wear to homecoming. HOMECOMING!
She is going with friends, but still.
Today, I dropped Caleb off at Woodrow Wilson High School to shadow an IB student. I don't know who decided that those short private school skirts were alright to wear to a co-ed PUBLIC school in EAST DALLAS wear the girls are far from waify or WASPY, but that was a dumb decision. DUMB!
(Also, when these girls are in the Glee Club singing Beyonce's "All the SIngle Ladies", well, a mother's heart sinks. A bit.)
And tomorrow, I will pick up Chaz's girlfriend to take her to see him play baseball, because, well, because he's nineteen and he can't drive due to epilepsy.  Yes, I said it. GIRLFRIEND.
My doctor took one look at me and said that I was not menopausal, because you can tell all that from one look right? Maybe she is right. Maybe just the fact that the apron strings are being ripped out of my hands as I am trying to desperately tighten them is causing a permanent, petrified anxiety attach which cause me to organize and clean and cook incessantly and not get any writing done, because then I have to face the truth.
The truth about what I am writing right here and now.
That I am not in control. I never have been. And it sucks.
Jesus, take the wheel . . .seriously.