A Christmas wish

When I was five years old my family was visiting my grandparents in Connecticut. At the time we were devout Catholics who attended church every Sunday and could sing all the hymns by heart, so it wasn't a surprise when after we returned to my grandparents' house I wandered over to the piano and played a full hymn. Well, maybe it was a surprise because according to everyone in the family I'd never touched a piano before that morning.

Apparently my parents took it as a sign of impending prodigal fame and bought me a used upright. It was gigantic, with carved relief work on the front that resembled tangled vines. Standing six feet tall it reminded me of a wise, creaky old man with dark sun worn skin. It played, which is a quality that is hard to find in a $500 piano. There was a key, the low A, that stuck like it had molasses under it and the sustain pedal stayed down when you pushed it. You had to get your foot under it and pry it back up before you could push it again. That's how I learned to play, every song a full body aerobic workout.

After a couple of weeks I started my lessons. Ten dollars a week for a half an hour lesson in the back of a music store run by a woman whose name I've forgotten. I went to her for a few months and my first recital was the most stressful thing I'd yet undertaken in my young life. I played a hit people would know, a tinny rendition of "Give My Regards To Broadway" that had my left hand stagnant in my lap most of the time. All of us little kids had songs like that. But then the big kids came out and my left hand wanted desperately to move across keys like theirs did, to dance with the right in a counter melody of coordination. At my next lesson I asked for harder music, but she refused saying I wasn't old enough. I stopped taking lessons from her.

I moved on to Melinda Jackson, a nice woman from the South who pronounced my name like the first syllable was leaning onto the next and tickling it. "Dayn-yale" is the closest way to phonetically spell it, and that doesn't even really do it justice. She was soft spoken but firm and never let me slack on practicing. She would KNOW if I hadn't been. It got to the point where I would practice obsessively - not to get better at piano, but because I couldn't stand the look on her face that said, "Why are you wasting my time and your parents' money?"

She opened a world of music to me. Her recitals were dynamic and featured every level of talent. She even let my sister (a pretty good flautist) play duets with me as a second recital piece. When I got to middle school, a friend of mine started to take lessons from her as well and we were fiercely competitive. Mrs. Jackson made it work to our advantage by giving us four hand duets higher than our skill level that she made us perform together. I learned how to use my left hand. I learned Debussy and Mozart, Beethoven and Schumann. I learned what an etude was and played entire sonatas under her soothing, correcting tones. My parents promised to buy me a baby grand if I learned how to play Moonlight Sonata, so I practiced until my arms throbbed and got a $500 used, crackle finish Brahambach baby grand for my efforts. I was stoked.

In middle school I was in the concert band (playing clarinet, then orchestra bells and melodic percussion) and my director would ask me to play the piano for people as a kind of segue between grade levels. I even played at a mall once. I was basically a classical version of Debbie Gibson touring the Rhode Island mall scene. It was pretty damn awesome.

Eventually my main performance medium was as accompanist for my high school's choirs, directing a musical (Anything Goes) and not much else. I mean, really. There were boys and booze now and who has time to practice with all of that? I stopped being good. I still played my favorite sonatas and arabesques, but really I wasn't technically improving anymore.

And then there was that fateful day that my old chorus director asked me to accompany the middle school choir at their choral festival and I bombed so hard that it shook the moon. Granted she had given me the music (four different, complicated pieces) a week before the performance and I had never played them with the choir, but still. I had never walked onto a stage and not been prepared.

Since then, I haven't played for an audience. I miss it. I also know however that I am less likely to dazzle and more likely to fizzle. I haven't felt my hands wither from carpal tunnel in at least five years, and oddly enough I miss that. I haven't felt the thrill of buying new sheet music because I have nothing to play it on, and that's probably the feeling I miss the most. And just remembering how it felt to sit on a bench in front of eighty-eight keys and a million possible songs is heartbreaking.

My dad is selling the old baby grand. He broke it to me last weekend at my grandfather's 80th birthday party. I took it as a nothing, like I'd forgotten all about any piano. Deep down my heart gave a little shudder, a faint arpeggio of a memory.

So here is my Christmas wish:

I would like a piano. Nothing too expensive, eighty-eight keys and a nice tone. It could even be electric. I don't care. If it sounds like a piano and has weighted action in the keys and pedals attached, I am good. I need it. I need to breathe in trills and grace notes. I need to feel the felted hammers beat on my heart strings and finally find the adagio again.

It is our 8 month anniversary!

Michael and I, I mean. Collectively we are called "Our." Here is a list of top five things involving Michael since I met him in May of 2005:

1. We went to the zoo on his birthday last June and I made him wear a blindfold for the entire 50 minute drive to Providence. But we went because they had the dinosaurs that are life sized! OMG.

2. On MY birthday this year, he and Steve got on stage and sung "Green Jelly" for their karaoke choice. You know the one. It used to be on Beevis and Butthead all the time and has a line that says "LITTLE PIG LITTLE PIG LET ME IN! Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!" It was amazing. Michael informed me that it is now a tradition for them to sing to me on my birthday. I have no complaints!

3. This one time I gave him such a good dead leg (which is when you punch someone really fucking hard on the top of their leg) that he couldn't walk for like an hour. That was hilarious.

4. He once gave me a crazy good dead leg and I almost cried. Also hilarious!

5. Every time I travel for work he picks me up from the airport when I get back. I hate flying so I am always very anxious and adrenaliney. But seeing him there ready with hugs and kisses is one of the best feelings ever... like relief and calm had a baby and named it Michael's Arms.

I am a lame-o! Happy 8 months, dorkface.

Tired.

It is almost halfways through, and I am tired.

I am tired of hating the words that are coming out of my head and feeling like they are worthless.

Here are a few of my favorite things and why:

Fig. 1

Dinosaurs, because they are pretty awesome and if they took over the world tomorrow I wouldn't even cry about my house getting stomped.

Fig. 2


Robots. You know how people watch scary movies because sometimes it's fun to scare yourself? Well, scary movies are too scary for me, so I just think about robots and get my kicks that way.

Fig. 3


Knitting, because I can't think of a better way to keep my hands warm.

Socks on my legs

I want these so bad:



Somebody please donate ten dollars to me for this worthy cause.

I worked a ten hour shift last Saturday at the laser tag place (my old job) because I need the dough. You know what I didn't miss? Any of it.

A dream!

I am not really into posting dreams, but holy crap this was awesome:

Everyone was calling me Mr. Peanut but I was still a girl. I had five guys with me, apparently on "my side," but there were about ten that were definitely NOT on my side. I know this because they all had swords and were trying to kill us. With swords. We were all in a hardware store and it looked a lot like the little mom and pop one I used to live near that was later replaced by a Staples.

Anyway, they were on the other side of a rack of items (screwdrivers?) and we were trying to push it over on top of them to slow down their pursuit of us. We had almost tipped it over and were screaming to the patrons of the store (yes, there were still customers around) to "help us! Can't you see they're trying to kill us?" but they all just looked on in horror. The bad guys overcame our strength and pushed the rack onto us, but we got out of its way and didn't get crushed. Yay! But then there was nothing between us and them, and they had swords. Boo!

We ran and grabbed sledgehammers and started trying to break through the wall we were near and as the first hammer reached the outside, this crazy bright yellow light beamed through the crack. Blinding yellow light like the sun was trying to get in. We started to open a hole big enough to break through, and the bad guys were right on our heels. The guy on my right, who I realize now was supposed to be my boyfriend in this dream (I have no idea who he really was), turned to help me through and pushed me through first. I turned around and went to grab his hand but he had his back to me and his face to them. I went back into the hardware store to see what was going on and a guy with two swords sliced open my boyfriend's stomach Kill Bill style.

Dream boyfriend's insides came out, and as he looked down he had this look on his face that could only be described as sadly resigned. He raised his hands, dug through his own entrails and up into his chest cavity, pulled out his heart, and handed it to the guy that killed him. "Your turn," he said. Then I woke up.

Wow! I hope that means something good. But... more likely it means I like swords and DIY? I would have words with my subconscious!

Drunken Saturday Posting!

Seriously, I'm doing this to get this out of the way. Because really, NaBloPoMo just doesn't dtop, does it?

I am drunks at a house in Little Compton, RI. For those of you that do not know where that place is, it is nowhere. Seriously.

Umm... Cole is here? So.. he should write something.

Cole: Umm so yeah, hello to the world of Nelly's blog. I should really say something profound and meaningful, or perhaps witty. But I am quite run down from a long day of work at a mall infested with teeny bopper mall rats. So I guess I'll just give you this bit of advice, ...

1. Never work anywhere, where the average person you interact with is four years younger than you.

Keep it with them older folks, they're more mature, and know where it's at. And with that I'm done. (this has been a bit of wisdom for your friendly neighborhood red-head)

Friday 250

“There was something, you know? Something real.” She’s picking at the dirt under her fingernails, her eyes darting to yours and away again repeatedly.

"And now?" you ask, your palms becoming sweaty.

"There's nothing."

You look into her eyes and suddenly it's that day when you were eight and you thought you saw someone lying on the bottom of the deep end of the pool. Your heart was racing as you frantically tried to figure out what you should do. Part of you wanted to run away and hope someone else noticed, but a bigger part of you wanted to dive in and be the hero.

"I mean, I still want to be friends, you know,” she says, her eyes foggy like swim goggles in summer. She twirls her hair in her fingers while she waits for a reaction. You always thought she was watery – a liquid that wants to slip through your fingers. “But for me,” she adds, furrowing her brow, “there’s nothing else there.” She flips her hair, tearing open the clouds and letting light in.

And it’s that day again, but the clouds had moved and you realized it was nothing but the light playing tricks with a shadow and a forgotten t-shirt. It was nothing but nothing.

"Yeah," you concede, and flash a smile into the yellow light bouncing off her highlighted head. "There’s nothing else there." And it's easier to walk away, because you know that nobody ever needed saving because nobody really got hurt.

Two things

There are two things that I am totally stoked about today!

1. The Democrats have officially gained majority in both the House of Representatives and the Senate, but you all knew that by now I'm sure. I am cautiously optimistic because you can only get hit so many times before you get a restraining order. Oh no! Bad metaphor! You get my point. Anyway, you need 60 votes to really get anything done in the Senate and maybe it won't happen but all of us who were all about sending a message to Washington should feel pretty proud. I am still very sad about voting for Sheldon Whitehouse though, as everyone knows that Lincoln Chafee is my fantasy shugah-daddy and naughty things happen in my underpants when I think about him.

2. Britney Spears is dumping that slimey parasite of a man. Here is another list:

Things Kevin Federline Has Failed At:
- Music (Popo Zao? Are you shitting me?)
- Shaving
- Throwing peace signs (or gang signs? You be the judge)
- Being cool in corn rows
- Becoming an underwear model (hint! It doesn't count if Britney's the one who taped it)
- Music (No, really. Popo Zao? What does that even mean?)
- He also has crappy tattoos, you guys.

I am tired from that! I will go watch James Woods and feel better. LONG LIVE THE NEW FLESH.

List Wednesday! No. 1

Tattoos that I really do not like:

- Barbed wire around any appendage.
- Butterflies
- Nautical stars
- Elbow spider webs. WTF, you guys.
- I once saw this tattoo that was a big black square that covered someone's entire back. The only part that wasn't filled in were big letters that read "Back Piece." I can not condone that!
- Fairies. Again... wtf?
- Looney Tunes characters, especially adaptations thereof. I am looking at you, girl who got Taz tattooed on her hip during that episode of Taboo.

Tattoos I am seriously all for:

- DINOSAURS, especially just the outline or just a silhoette.
- Robots feeling emotions
- Real nautical tattoos such as a squid wrestling a boat.
- Birds
- Science themed tattoos, like an atom or your favorite compound formula!
- The outline of David Bowie's head with the lightning bolt thing. Is that Aladdin Sane? I think it is.

Ooh! I just thought of a game. That will come on Game Thursday! Stay tuned.

Project Pumpkin Room has launched

Dear Ex-Boyfriends,

I want my stuff back. And by stuff, I mean my sub-conscious. So please, stop showing up in my dreams. Especially in dreams that are otherwise delightful, and especially you, ex-fiancee Matt (a.k.a. The Ex). I just saw you the other night and that was enough for a while, so if you could just keep the eff out that'd be great.

Love,
Danielle

In other news! Mike and I finished plastering the walls of half of our living room which means this weekend we get to start painting it! Orange! Like a pumpkin! All the light that comes in is from the southwest, so it will be so warm and spicy (flavorful, not hot-spicy) in there that I can't stand it. Or I can stand it! I can stand it quite well, thank you because it will be great!

My carpal tunnel is screaming at me from the spackeling, so I am going to rest my weary wrists. Boy! That is a tongue twister. Please forgive the crappiness lately of these posts. I forgot how to write and I'm trying to get my voice back. It may take a bit.

Panic with no disco involved

Around four years ago I woke up to my heart beating about 120 beats per minute and sweating a cold, clammy, not at all nice sweat. I had a sneaking suspicion that I was going to die which quickly turned into an "Oh my God I'm actually going to die," but I couldn't find the thing that hurt that would kill me. Chest? Ok in there, except the heart rate. Liver/stomach/abdomen? Nothing hurt. And yet I was convinced beyond reason that I was going to die so I called 911 and went and laid on my bed and waited for them to get there or the icey hand of death, whichever came first. When the EMTs arrived they took one look at me and said two words:

"Panic attack."

I couldn't believe them. I was 17 and a happy senior in high school. What the hell did I have to panic about? I soon learned that it didn't work that way.

My heart would be the first thing. It would palpitate once or multiple times. Then I'd know what was about to happen and my hands would get clammy. My breathing would quicken. At this point, I'd try to talk myself out of it. "You're fine," I'd tell myself. "This is nothing you can't handle." And then I'd be sweating all over. My vision would get blurry. I'd start to hyperventilate and get dizzy. "No," I would say, "you're just freaking out." At that point, I'd be convinced that I was dying. I'd look for a way out... get up and jump up and down just to know I still could, make a fist so hard it hurt, just to feel it... anything to convince myself I wasn't going to snuff it. If I could do these things and feel these things, I couldn't be dying.

I decided to ignore these weekly occurrences. I would hide in bathrooms during school or try to walk it off while I was at home. They blossomed into twice weekly occurrences, and finally to every day. Let me re-emphasize that. Every day, I thought I was going to die because that's what you think even though you know you won't. Every. Day. They wouldn't all be huge, but they'd exist. I was remarkable at outwardly keeping my shit together. That went on for a year, and I learned to live with it.

It wasn't until I started calling out of work every other day and leaving early that I realized I maybe might kind of have some kind of maybe sort of half problem. Yeah. I am stubborn. But when I was driving home one day and wave after wave of panic came over me, bigger than the biggest ones I'd ever had and I almost killed myself and someone else, I decided that something had to change.

I figured it was subconscious angst. I changed my diet. I started exercising. I did yoga. I did all the things they tell you to do to de-stress. I even picked up knitting (a hobby I continue today). Nope! Nothing. Once a day, I still thought I was going to die.

I became a hypochondriac. I insisted that there was something physically wrong with me and saw at least 15 specialists for multiple tests. All were negative. No cancer, no brain tumors, no heart problems, no diabetes, no adrenal/hormone/thyroid issues. I was so bucking healthy and it pissed me off so much. What was the problem?

It wasn't until I went to my physician's office and saw one of the women who was not my usual doctor that I heard the words that would change how I looked at mental issues:

"Panic disorder."

Not just "attack" anymore, kids. Disorder. DSM-IV classified disorder. Me? I had never been disorderly in my life. Still, it made more sense than anything else I'd heard/imagined. We started the medication.

Within 3 months, they dissipated almost entirely. Once in a great while I'd get a feeling of anxiety in my chest, but it would never bloom into that terrible place that defied any logical thinking. I was on the medication for 2 years and then weaned off it. We waited six months and I didn't have another one after that. Everything was fine. I never even got that wave of anxiety that comes for no reason. Again, these panic attacks happened for no. Reason. I never got one while doing anything even mildly stressful.

Anyway, I've been off the medication for over a year and haven't felt so much as a twinge. Until today! That's right. Panic at the workplace! Molly was great and went for a walk with me to clear out some of the adrenaline and keep my mind off itself and I did feel a bit better.

But I can't get rid of that feeling in my stomach - the one saying that this isn't over.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I've recently developed this terrible habit of having no life and as a result I have become limp and boring like an over cooked, sticky noodle. Yes, sticky. I feel like this wasn't a problem before, but I am determined to deal with it before my friends stage an intervention on my lameness.

Here is proof that I am not always lame! I went to Scotland by myself in May, and it was my first plane ride ever. I am adventurous to the farthest extent that my anxiety disorder will allow!



It was fun, but being so far away from home made me realize why I love home so much. Though the drunk Scotts singing karaoke probably is one of my top 5 memories of all time.

Death match!

I would really like to see a cat fight a lobster. I have a few reasons:

1.) SERIOUSLY.
2.) I feel like the lobster has the weapons advantage, but the cat would smell it and be all, "Mmm, lobster!" and have the advantage of really wanting to eat that sucker.
3.) I have no idea who would win and I'd like to know.

Obviously, if at any point there was a threat posed to either party involved I would remove them from the ring. But! That would mean the victor is whoever I think is in the least amount of danger. My heart can't take a kitten clamped in half by a big lobster claw, nor could it let me watch a lobster eye clawed out by a cat. Man. On second thought, I'm pretty sure the lobster would win. I think there'd have to be a handicap like keeping those rubber bands on it's death claws.

Thinking about lobsters is making me sad, actually. What kind of life is that? All of them will eventually get caught and wait for their death in an over crowded tank in a Stop & Shop somewhere with children ogling them and banging on the glass. When I was little and my mom made lobster, she'd stroke them between the eyes until they fell asleep (you could tell because their little antennae would stop flipping around) and then place them gently in the pot and let the water warm up gradually. They would just die in their sleep and I used to imagine they dreamed about being on a really hot beach.

Then there was that other guy my dad knew that cooked them in the microwave. They'd go in alive and you could hear them tapping around to get out. Everyone would look uncomfortable but not want to be the bleeding heart so they didn't say anything. What a fucking jerk. Poor little sea bugs.

THIS JUST IN: LOBSTERS ARE SUCH A DOWNER, YOU GUYS.

Seriously?

I was engaged for a year and a half when I was nineteen. Yeah! I am kind of dumb sometimes? I broke up with him because he forgot that I existed and eventually it came out that he only asked me to marry him because he thought I was insecure. I haven't seen that boy in a year and a half. Until tonight.

I was visiting Michaela at work - a laser-tag arena on the fourth floor of an old mill in Fall River. I guess his family still practices archery on the second floor because while waiting for the elevator, who should walk out but Him, accompanied by His Mother.

Me: What, no time to chat? Him (not stopping his forward momentum): I didn't even recognize you. Me: Ha...
They walked outside to their cars, and I followed. So maybe this is my fault? But I figured I would be nice and say hello to both of them.

Me: How've you been? Him: I'm kind of busy, at the moment. Did you want something?

See, now it's on. Because if you are rude to me I will be TERRIBLY sweet back to you. My conversational skills will slap you around like a four dollar whore who turned a bad trick. My unbreakable eye contact will root you to the spot and you will be a deer in my fucking headlights. I will use politeness to trap you like a rat. Just try and get away.

Me: Oh. Am I bothering you?

Note the acknowledgement to the fact that I am possibly bothering Him by being nice. "The nerve of me!" that tone seems to say. It works every time, at least on people who are halfway decent and have some grasp on social etiquette.

Him: No, hang on while I put my stuff away.

I wait patiently. I even smile at His Mother and say hello while waiting patiently.

Me: Hi there! How've you been? His Mother: Good. Me: That's great. His Mother: You lost a LOT of weight.

She said it so condescendingly, so much in a "How dare you" sort of way that I almost choked. But I pulled it together and covered with a joke!

Me: Umm... thanks? I hope I don't look sick! Haha! His Mother: Hmm.

Wow. Cold. But who cares? I wasn't engaged to her and subsequently ignored by her.

Him: So. Me: What have you been doing? Him: I'm a student. Me: Oh? Where? Him: The technical school in Providence for Marine technology. I fix boats. Me: Oh wow! That's pretty rad. Do you enjoy it? Him: Yeah, it's good.

Notice how he hasn't asked how I'm doing. Typical, I would say, but so is this chip on my shoulder.

Me: I noticed you have Rhode Island plates now. Where are you living these days? Him: Umm... I've been living with Kayla for about a year.

Kayla is the girl he started dating after we broke up. She is a nice enough girl and really I have nothing against her.

Me: Oh that's great! I'm glad it's working out. Don't her brother and mom live there too? Must be crowded.

Zing!

Him: Yeah. Me: Well, I really am glad you're doing well.

Do not be fooled! I do indeed have a force-him-to-be-civil agenda, but only because of the initial rudeness. That does not mean, however, that I want him to be miserable. I am human as well and know from experience that misery is no good. I actually meant what I said.

Him: Oh, thanks. Me: Well, I'm sure I'll see - His Mother: Matt, Carolyn's waiting for us at the restaurant.

YOU ARE STILL HERE, WOMAN? They had separate cars. Did she stay to protect him from me? Not only that, but she interrupted me in the middle of my parting statement. She couldn't wait two seconds while we said a civilized goodbye? Fine. It's on with you too now, lady.

Me: Oh! have a nice night Tonya. It was LOVELY running into you! Really! His Mother: Bye.

Good riddance!

Him: Yeah, I'll see you around.
Me: Bye, kiddo.

Kiddo because he couldn't play nice, even though he's five years older than me. Seriously? Lame.

Deep-sea diving

An inventory of just some of the things in the box marked "Memories" (a box that has followed me on each of the thirteen moves I've made in my teen/adult life):

-A card from my mom congratulating me on my promotion ("On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!" says the front)
-The Ocean State Driver's Manual, stolen from driver's education when I was 15
-2 postcards sent to me by people I don't know
-2 responses from Lincoln Chafee to letters I wrote him (I am sorry that I cannot vote for you! I do love you though, you know that. Right baby?)
-Ticket to Edinburgh Castle and train ticket for passage from Markinch, Scotland to Edinburgh, Scotland
-Boarding pass from my first plane ride
-Drawing of the wedding dress I designed for myself
-A terrible poem I wrote at band camp
-37 love notes from boys, still folded in their original note shapes (paper football, anyone?)
-A paper towel drawing from Michael
-Sevendust concert ticket stub (the first concert I attended).
-Incubus/Deftones ticket stub (the second concert and last arena show I attended)
-A reflex hammer that I stole from the nursing department in college (we couldn't carry the medical mannequins so we arranged them in compromising positions on the examining tables)
-A picture of my parents from when they were still together

That is only some of it! It's amazing what a Puma shoebox can hold, no? An entire life. Well... the good parts, anyway. And yet I still need 2 Rubbermaid bins and 3 garbage bags to hold my possessions. Such excess! It is silly. But then, I'm pretty sure we get more silly as we get older, even if we'd love to think we're finally becoming serious about this "life" thing.

Whatever gets us to sleep at night, I guess.

NaBloPoMo kickoff

NaBloPoMo oh so a-go-go in slow-mo! For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, get with said program.

I know this five year old boy named Wyatt who, whenever he is finished eating proudly stands up, places his fists on his hips and declares to the world, "I AM DONE NOW!" and walks away. And I got to thinking: how cool would it be if instead of Tom Brokaw saying whatever Tom Brokaw says as a sign off he calmly announced, "I am done now"? I feel like when we grow up we try to be poignant instead of pertinent. We become long winded and boring and in dire need of translation. This is irritating to me and slightly disenchanting (translation: fuck that noise!).

And oh, by the way? Apparently I am one of those busy women that people write niche market cookbooks for, but I refuse to use them. Mostly because I don't own a microwave or care for Whatever's-In-Your-Fridge casserole. But in the spirit of grabbing crap from the cupboard and turning into other, more slightly appetizing crap, here is a recipe for healthy, oil free roasted pumpkin seeds that I put together Monday night while drinking Jack Daniel's.

From the Book of Being Domestic Without Sacrificing Your Vices: A Guide to Drinking while Cooking*

Ingredients:
2 large handfuls fresh from the flesh pumpkin seeds
3 tblsp red wine vinegar
2 tblsp dried basil
cracked fresh pepper
1 tblsp garlic salt

Directions:
Mix all the stuff except the pumpkin seeds in a bowl. Throw in the pumpkin seeds. Toss 'em around a bit until they look all feisty and delicious. Bake them in a single layer on a non-stick baking pan at 375 degrees until golden and crispy.


*That is not a real book. I made it up. Please don't go looking for it, you gullible dork. Though it does sound like a good idea for a busy woman's niche market cookbook. I will write it!

I am done now!