Nancy Davis Kho's Blog, page 30

My BFF-To-Be: Michelle Obama

First Lady of Fabulous

Last month a bunch of my nicest friends from the blogging world were all in the same place without me. The place was the White House. Where they were meeting with and talking about Michelle Obama’s #LetsMove initiative, so they could help spread the message from #FLOTUS about healthy lifestyle choices. They were also engaging in some serious hijinkery (Arnebya hiding in the drapes and hoping she’d be left behind) and life goal fulfillment (Laurie posting pictures of the best cup of coffee ever.)

Those of us bloggers who were stuck at home in jeans and our spouse’s sweatshirts with no White House invitations did some of our own backchannel social media communicating all day, of the “OH MY GOD THESE WHITE HOUSE PICTURES ARE KILLING ME” variety. But really, I’m not mad.

Because this all plays into my own life goal: to make Michelle Obama my best friend. And as of the Let’s Move event, I am one whole degree of separation closer to Michelle, as I leapfrog over the backs of my blogging friends.

There are SO many reasons why Nancy+Michelle4Evah makes sense. Let’s start with the fact that we are both mothers of teenage daughters who are 15 and 18. Our kids have passed through all the same life stages at the same time, hers publicly, for the past eight years. I have studied the dynamic between Mrs. Obama and her daughters in photos and videos closely, looking for signs that she and I are on the same parenting page. For the rest of our lives, whenever Michelle needs reassurance that Sasha and Malia are ok, asking, “Does your older daughter do the same thing? What about the younger one?” I can provide credible and meaningful comfort, because our girls will always be the same age.

Then there’s our love of sheath dresses. No one rocks a sheath like Mrs. Obama – did you see the tangerine stunner at this year’s State of the Union address? I will not even pretend to compete. But once, when I was wearing a dark red number to a dinner party at a restaurant, a server said to me, “You’ve got that Michelle Obama thing going – classy!” I imagine us sitting side by side over  coffee, flipping through catalogs and saying “Oh, that sheath would look so great on you! I couldn’t pull the color off but you definitely can!” and other types of generally encouraging things that BFFs say to each other.

Our husbands have both gone pretty grey in the past eight years (see Teenage Daughters, above, plus also stressful jobs) and yet they’re both still foxy. We could talk about that.

I feel like Mich – I call her Mich – would give me great book recommendations. She would know that I like both fiction and nonfiction, and sometimes she’d just tuck a book into her purse when we were going to meet for lunch and say, “Here – I just finished it but I want to hear what YOU think. It’s signed, by the way. Keep it.”

Mich likes a dance party, be it impromptu or scripted. SO DO I.

By the way, you know she’s reining in her moves in that video, for a national audience. When we have kitchen dance parties after POTUS retires, she won’t be afraid to let loose her real flow, once she sees me do the same. We will laugh about being in our 50s and how sore the dancing makes us, but neither of us will consider giving up the kitchen dance parties.

My current BFFs won’t even be mad to read this because they know how much I love introducing people to one another. Once Michelle and I get our matching “Best” and “Friend” necklaces, it’s only a matter of time before they start hanging out with her, too.

In conclusion, I love you Michelle Obama, in a not-creepy, not-stalkery, just very platonic friendly way. And while I’d support any one-time constitutional amendment that would make it possible for your husband to run for office a third time, as your close friend I’ll just point out that you wouldn’t be the first presidential spouse to run for office after having had a little time to catch your breath.

According to a 2015 interview, this is my future BFF’s favorite song. Even if it’s overplayed I’m featuring it here, because that’s what friends do for one another.

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We’re Having a Party

Click to enlarge and see all the details…like my name, and the fact that the party time goes til 3 AM

When my 40th birthday was approaching, I knew exactly how I wanted to celebrate: a dance party at my house, where I would be in complete control. Obviously I orchestrated the five hour playlist ahead of time, taking weeks to refine it. But I also wanted control of every other element of the party, so – with input of my friends who went on to found Rosecrest Special Events – I chose the menu, the decorations, the lighting, the invitations, the big baskets of hats and sunglasses that we busted out at 11 pm to make the party energy crank even higher. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance that might derail my perfect vision of dancing the night away with 40 of my dearest friends.

What a difference a decade makes. This month I turn 50 and there’s also a dance party involved. But if the last ten years have taught me anything, it’s the benefit of peeling your fingers back from the control panel.

Nothing provides a greater sense of your inability to dictate outcomes than the act of parenting two teenagers. It doesn’t matter how much love we feel for one another: as the parent of a teen, there are painful and turbulent moments that sit you right down in your tracks and remind you have no idea what you’re doing, and your kids know it.

And yet, for all the mistakes I’ve made, all the times I couldn’t control what happened, my kids are great. I wouldn’t change a hair on their heads.

Similarly, when I bellowed, “I’m a WRITER!!” at my 40th birthday, having downed a few of the signature birthday cocktails I insisted be served, I hadn’t yet experienced the abyss between SAYING you’ve made a midlife career switch to become a writer and making a living as one. Not one step on my ten year journey into writing has gone as I thought it would. Sometimes it went way better than I’d hoped, but often it went way worse. I have had frequent cause to think of this Dorothy Parker quote: “If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”

Still, the closer I get to the century divide, the more I think this whole decade was meant to tell me trust and let go, and make room for the unanticipated. I drove the kids down the hill to try a ballet class with a friend, and now it’s the central passion of their day. After years of ambivalence, we got a dog who became the canine love of my life. I started a blog that has put me in touch with a group of writers and readers to whom I talk almost every day for mutual support, music hints, and daily hysterical laughter. I won an essay contest that sent us to the freakin’ Grammys, yo. The less I try to predict the outcomes, and just focus on the effort instead, the better things seem to turn out.

So when my beloved Cat Club crew reached out a few months ago and said, “Don’t you have a big birthday in April? Do you want us to host a party for you?” I didn’t worry about the lighting or the invitations or the playlist. I just said yes please and thank you. All I have to do for this party is show up and trust everyone else to do the same.

If you’re in the Bay Area, I hope you’ll come join us this Saturday, April 9 at 9 pm to celebrate as I turn 50. Bring your friends – everyone is welcome! Here’s a link to the FB invite if that makes it easier to share with your posse.

Ok, maybe I did buy some special party cupcake toppers

As for me, I’ll be the one handing out cupcakes, wearing a giant smile, and reveling in the sensation of not being in control.

See you there?!

                   
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Rochester, My Way

One of the hardest things to do when traveling is have an authentic, local experience, off the beaten path from the tourists and amateurs who want to hit the “Top 10” sights in every location they visit. There’s nothing better than bringing back stories and memories of that little neighborhood bistro where you were welcomed like family, or the funky museum that you entered via a back alley with a secret password. Of course, you need someone with inside information to point you to those places.

Well, when it comes to your next family vacation to Rochester, New York, do I have the itinerary for you.

I’m here this week visiting my mom while my dad’s out of town, and I’ve developed a three day micro-itinerary that promises an intimate, up close look at The Flower City. I promise you will not have to wait in line for any of it.

Day 1: Arrive at the Rochester International Airport (we do too have flights to Canada) and notice how the 42 degree, blustery weather makes native Rochesterians peel down to their shirtsleeves so they can catch a few rays. If you happen to have moved away from the city and your eyes water uncontrollably from the wind and cold, be assured that my brother, who can drive over from his office to pick you up at the airport, will mock the bejeezus out of you.

Within an hour, you’ll want to be at the crown jewel grocery store in Rochester’s tiara: I speak, of course, of Wegmans. It may look gray from the outside, but once you step in, you’ve entered Nirvana. As one Rochester-raised friend commented when I shared this picture on Instagram: “please get me a house plant, a garden hose, a 4 pack of wine coolers, and a DVD rental of your choice!” It’s conceivable that this will be the only place you go shopping while you’re here.

Back at my parent’s house: You’re probably tired from your travel, and it’s rainy anyway. Don’t fight it. Put on your pajamas and robe by 3 pm and do like your parents do: drink decaf coffee, eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs, and watch the Weather Channel. Even if it isn’t your childhood home, you’ll be sleeping in one of the twin beds from mine, and I guarantee you nine hours of the deepest sleep ever. Dream of bagels from The Bagel Bin.

Day 2 – Now that you’re rested up, you’re ready for some adventure, as far as that goes. You could take Mom for a pedicure, or go to the Barnes and Noble around the corner, or even foray out to the gas station to fill up the car for Mom. Probably not all three in the same day, though. Pace yourself.

The real excitement comes at dinner, when you take Mom to the Cracker Barrel (their Wholesome Fixins’© menu is off the chain!) Be sure to stop in the gift store on the way out because you never know when you’ll find just the right sheer, size XL butterfly-printed tunic that, you swear, you can do something with in time for the big upcoming Mom 2.0 Bohemian Welcome Party. This may be a result of having watched Pretty In Pink for the 756th time last week, though, or the Reese’s hangover.Good thing you slept so well last night because you’re staying out LATE tonight, til 10:30. Head to the Tap and Mallet beer pub down in the South Wedge neighborhood. If you’re lucky, my nephew who lives around the corner will be there – you’ll recognize him by his piercings and his penchant for beer that is so dark, you’ll ask him why he doesn’t just chew on a handful of espresso beans. In the convivial pub hubbub, remember that the worst thing you can call someone in Rochester is “pretentious” and note how comfortable that makes you feel.

Day 3 – After the regular morning routine of watching more Weather Channel and Kelly and Michael, it’s time to head out at the crack of noon for a visit with Noonie. Specifically, lunch from Applebee’s drive through, with you as chauffeur while both Noonie and Mom give you (not always the same) directions.  Discuss Lily Dale or the Loch Ness Monster or Sasquatch.

You’ve heard of the National Portrait Gallery? Afternoon brings a visit to a similar institution, because within the walls of my parents’ home you’ll find yourself surrounded by portraits, in the hallways, on the tables, even in a storage closet. Even if we comprise three races at this point, soak in the family resemblances, most notably how awkward we all look when being photographed. Ironic for a Kodak family, right?

The last night, you’ll want to get outside of Rochester’s city limits to see the beauty of the Finger Lakes region, where my sister lives and will cook you dinner in the house her boyfriend is essentially remodeling into a showpiece (hey Rich, come on out to Oakland anytime!) The drive there takes an hour and you’ll pass the most beautiful farmhouses and rolling hills. The trees may still be bare, but for anyone raised here it’s obvious that spring is about to SPRING, none of that sedate California transition from one season to the next. You’ll want to come back when the lilacs are in bloom, the geese are flying north in great V’s overhead, and the mercury hits 62 degrees, also known as “Shorts and Bikini weather.”

There! Your perfect insider-y three days in Rochester.

Just call me first so I can clear my stuff out of my parents’ guest room.

The fact that Rochester’s radio stations seem hermetically sealed in the late ’70s/early ’80s becomes more of a positive as time goes on. That was me weaving Mom’s sedan down Mt. Hope Avenue and shaking my hair to this (followed by Lido Shuffle, followed by Centerfold, followed by Walk This Way) on Tuesday night.

On the other hand, I never realized Joywave was from Rochester (as is KOPPS, featured on this track.) Much respect to my northern brethren. Also this video is def NSFW but it sure is funny.


Joywave – Tongues ft. KOPPS (official music video) [NSFW] from DANIELS on Vimeo.

 

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Six Months Later

Most of my Jewish friends here in Oakland go to the same synagogue, so I’ve been privileged to attend many Bat and Bar Mitzvahs there. There’s a part of the Jewish worship service that I love, at least how they do it at this synagogue – the Yahrzeit observance. It’s a moment when the living acknowledge the passage of time since a loved one has died, and family members spend extra time remembering someone who died a year ago, two years ago, and so forth.

I couldn’t wait a whole year to remember him specially. It’s Achilles’ half Yahrzeit this week.

The first month after he died was rough. I have now learned that as awful as it is to lose a beloved pet, it is worse to watch your beloved children go through the same thing. There were frequent bouts of unanticipated crying. Even if, as we sobbed, we agreed that we’d do it again in a heartbeat for Achilles, there was a searing and bottomless anguish inside the house last October. The many, many cards and texts and calls and thoughtful condolences we received created a temporary floor where we could gather ourselves for the climb back out.

By two months out, we could start telling each other stories about Achilles again, and laugh instead of cry. The way he’d sneak up onto the forbidden couch very slowly, one paw at a time, thinking that the person lying there wouldn’t notice if he just went at 78 rpm speed. The way he knew when it was 6 am or 6 pm a.k.a meal time, down to the second, though he never wore a watch. The amazing way he cut his front legs to the right and his back legs to the left when playing with other dogs, so they could never be sure if he was coming or going. The laughter made it all a bit easier.

Christmas without Achilles was hard. Then again, Christmas WITH Achilles was hard, between the way he attacked everyone’s presents in excitement and pounced on whatever stray chocolates fell out of stockings. But Christmas without him was worse.

Almost right away after Achilles died, certain dog-loving people in my life began asking when we’d get a new one. “NEVER,” I said in those first days. “I am never ever going to put myself or my family through that kind of loss again.”

Time continued to pass. I’d run into people on the trail where Achilles and I have hiked together for years, and they’d say, “Where’s your pup?” and I found I could answer without choking up. I morphed into that dogless lady who greets other people’s dogs on the trail with kissy noises and baby talk. I freak out with affection when I see another German Shorthaired Pointer.

But if I’m honest, I also started acknowledging that there are some nice things about not having a dog. Sleeping past 6, for instance. Not being stared at through my entire workday. Walking through the house without tripping over someone determined to guess where I am heading next, so he can be there to greet me. Going away for a weekend without having to pay a dog sitter.

But the house feels so quiet after everyone else leaves for school and work for the day. And then Achilles’ old dog walker occasionally sends me texts like this:

The family is split on the subject of a new dog. My eldest daughter has recused herself because she leaves for college in the fall, but voiced her understandable reticence about us adding a new pet who she feels will never be “hers.” The youngest is ready to go out and pick up a puppy right now, and is making all kinds of promises about how much she’ll walk and feed the dog (which we all know would become fiction within the first month. )

My husband is firmly, loudly, and deeply in the “no dogs” camp. He always has been, but is a generous and loving dad and therefore lifted his embargo for Achilles, so the girls could have a childhood dog. They had that, so now he’s really just gone back to his original position. I suspect it may even be more firmly entrenched, as the sight of his wife and two daughters completely undone by the death of Achilles for weeks and weeks last fall was not something he’s eager to see, ever again.

As the swing vote, I see the merits of both arguments. I check the NorCal German Shorthaired Pointer rescue website at least once a week, just to see what’s happening over there. Then I sit down to fold laundry and come across the old kitchen towel that we placed under Achilles’ head in his final hours, and I start crying into it and saying, “Sorry buddy, I’m so sorry” when I don’t really know what I’m sorry for except that he’s gone. And I don’t want to go through that either, ever again.

So just as we are betwixt and between his death and his Yahrzeit, so am I between wanting a new dog and never having one again.

But here’s a thought. Do any of your dogs want a weekend visit?

Today’s song has absolutely nothing to do with the post, but for some reason I’ve been humming it all week. And it’s always the right time for a good song.

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This Is How We Did It

Note: I wrote this earlier in the week, before the bombings in the airport and train stations in Belgium. Our daughter still flew to London last night (and landed safely this morning,) with her parents’ blessing. Given that my husband and I met while getting grad degrees in international business, we will always, always hold to the notion that travel builds bridges between people, and provides life experience of immeasurable value. We will also both breathe easier when she’s home again next Saturday…

On Thursday, our eldest daughter got to claim her high school graduation gift a couple months early, in the form of a flight to London to go visit her best friend who is a year older and studies at the University of the Arts London.

It may seem like an extravagant gift, but if you compare the cost of the ticket to the therapy that would have been required after our daughter basically had a limb removed – such is the close-knit nature of their friendship – we feel like we got off easy. The ticket has worked all year as a carrot for good grades and getting her college applications done in time. Besides, she had to earn all her own spending money and she has to bring me home some fresh McVities Digestive biscuits (milk chocolate please) so it evens out.

The girls have been in a state of high excitement for months, using Snapchat, FaceTime, and an ever-morphing Google Doc to collaborate on their plans for the week, which could also be titled: How To Fit 14 Days of Sightseeing Into 9, and Still See Two Ballets. They are triangulating non-stop.

Which really throws into relief the way that my friends and I made plans to meet up in Europe in the ‘80s when we were studying abroad, pre cell phone and pre Internet. It was a miracle we ever found each other on that continent, using snail mail only, since none of us could afford to call each other on land lines even if we’d ever figured out how to dial country codes properly.

Kitty and I, for instance. She was studying in London while I was in Vienna and somehow, through a series of handwritten letters, we hatched a plan to meet in Italy and travel around together during Spring Break. I hopped on a train to Florence with some friends on my Vienna program, who dropped me off and continued on their way while I waited for Kitty to show up.

She never did. Turns out, she had gone first to Greece, and was stuck on a Greek island because all the boat operators had gone on strike, and she couldn’t get to Italy but would plan, instead, to go straight on to our next destination and I could meet her there. How did she convey this last minute change in logistics to me? She somehow reached a person I knew from college who happened to be in Florence, and when I happened to call that person, she relayed Kitty’s message to me. How did she know to call Bonnie, whom I swear she never met? How did I know to call Bonnie? How did any of us ever know anything before the Internet? We actually met up eventually, which seems the biggest miracle of they story.

(But first, I had to take the train back to Vienna alone and this happened.)

Much more believable is the story my friend Lisa tells. She was also in London that junior year semester. (Was anyone left in college in America in the spring of ’87?) She says that she and I wrote one another agreed to meet on a certain street corner in Vienna, which sounds very The Third Man to me. Lisa and her friend Carin arrived in Vienna by train and at the appointed time and day, went to the corner. Where I never showed up because apparently I don’t just not remember it now, I didn’t remember it then either.

After waiting for a long time, Carin and Lisa started the long walk back to the youth hostel. En route, they passed a group of Viennese guys, one of whom reached out and said hello in a way that, having spent a semester in Vienna, surprises me not at all: he punched Lisa in the face. Suffice it to say Lisa and Carin were out of Austria the next morning. Where was I? Who knows? Maybe in Greece, stuck in a boat strike? All I know is Lisa tells the hell out of that story, and rightfully so.

So while I’m glad my daughter and her friend have it easier connecting this time around, I hope there’s still room for the serendipitous (Ed. Note: added 3/24/16 “happy, safe”) surprises that become the travel stories they regale each other with thirty years later.

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A Pieces Of My Mother Mixtape

In the Bay Area, the words “Book Passage” are synonymous with “fantastic bookstore(s).” With locations in San Francisco and Marin, BP is revered for its breadth and carefully curated depth, as well as its dynamic author events – many of which are coordinated by author Melissa Cistaro. I met her last year at a Listen To Your Mother reading, and left that day with Melissa’s new memoir, Pieces of My Mother, tucked under my arm. It’s a beautifully written, heart wrenching story of loss and redemption, and I was so pleased when she agreed to share the songs that helped her get through both the loss of her mom, and the long process of bringing the book into the world. Don’t forget to leave a comment at the bottom to win your own copy of this lovely book.

The Songs That Sustained Me Through Writing a Memoir – and Losing My Mother

By Melissa Cistaro

When I first set out to tell my story, I never imagined it would take twelve years to write. But there are stories that live deep within us and refuse to rest.

When I became a parent, I struggled to make sense of how my mother – or any mother – could walk away from her children. My brothers and I were all under the age of five when our mom left our family. Throughout our years of growing up we usually saw her once, sometimes twice, a year. The memoir I wrote is about that childhood of growing up without a mother and how that shaped me as a parent.

The story is set during the last six days I spent with my mom in Olympia, Washington before she died. It was during her final days that I stumbled across a folder titled, “Letters Never Sent.” These letters, which my mom had written over the course of many years to family and friends, became part of the narrative. Within the pages of my mother’s letters, I found the threads of her authentic voice – one full of yearning, love, and heartbreak.

Over the past twelve years, music often guided me to keep writing the story I needed to tell. Musicians are definitely some of my favorite storytellers. I admire the brevity and depth of their expression. For me, music has been the poetry, the salve, the light, that kept me writing through the darkness. There are many songwriters who helped me (unknowingly) through the process of writing a book.

Here are some songs I played again and again as I wrote and rewrote Pieces of My Mother. These songs were not background music as I wrote, but songs I played to revitalize myself – sometimes to find inspiration, sometimes to soothe an aching, doubting heart.

Hem: Half Acre

When I wrote about the big yellow house I grew up in, I would hear Hem –

I am holding half an acre, torn from the map of Michigan – a nd folded in this scrap of paper is the land I grew in . . .

The lyrics resonate with me because they sing of home and how we never really leave the places we grow up in. As I wrote, my mind would return to the big yellow house, the hillsides full of wildflowers, and the small town we lived in.

Iron & Wine: Upward Over the Mountain

Mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry

Blood on the floor and the fleas in their paws

And you cried ’til the morning

This single lyric in the song will always bring me to tears. It helped me when I wrote about my brothers – who also carried this fierce longing for our beautiful mother. When we were young, our dog Amy had sixteen puppies and nearly died. She was barely a year old and too young to have puppies. When I hear this song, it is the intense longing for my mother that I recall. I wanted her to be there when Amy had those pups in the pantry.

David Berkeley: Homesick

I met David Berkeley at a reading when I first moved back to the Bay Area. He wrote a book (140 Goats and a Guitar) that came along with an accompanying soundtrack. I became an instant fan of both his writing and music. Berkley’s music is soulful, literary, and full of longing and it is a rare gift to mingle stories and song in the way that he does. I love so many of his songs but I’ll share the first one I ever heard here. Homesick – goes back to that theme of defining where home is for us – especially when we are feeling lost and unmoored.

Death Cab For Cutie: A Lack of Color

This is fact not fiction

For the first time in years

I spent many years writing this book as “fiction.” I didn’t want to write a memoir. But eventually it became clear that I was writing my own story and I needed to claim it as such. I remember how this phrase in the song grabbed me the first time I heard it.

Jackson Browne: Running on Empty

My mom loved this Jackson Browne song – so much that she named her first and only horse after him. The story of “Jackson, Running on Empty” became a chapter title in my book. As I listen to the lyrics it makes perfect sense that my mom loved this song. She was a such a free spirit, always traveling, always running . . .

Neutral Milk Hotel: Two-Headed Boy

I listened to Neutral Milk Hotel when I needed a dose of unbridled passion and evocative storytelling. The energy in this song is infectious. The lyrics strange and laced with mystery. It’s the kind of music that lets me get out of my head and wander into someone else’s story.

Alexi Murdoch: It’s Only Fear

Don’t hold your head too high,

Don’t be afraid to cry,

Because you know my dear, it’s only fear, it’s only fear.

This is the song I reached for when I was alone in the mountains of Ojai (on a writing retreat) – and found out I was pregnant. I blasted it at full volume to mask my sobbing. I was never planning on having a third child – and my mom had just died. I played this song to imprint in my heart that somehow it was all going to be okay. I often go back to the beauty of this song when I am struggling with any big life decisions.

Idina Menzel– Let it Go

Okay – this one is really hard to fess up to – but I played this song at least 100 times in my car before I sent out the final draft of my memoir to the publisher.

Couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I’ve tried

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see

Be the good girl you always have to be

Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know

Well, now they know.

Letting go of this memoir – when that final draft was going to print and I couldn’t make any more changes –  was one of the most emotional times for me over the twelve years of working on it. It was no longer going to be mine alone – the world was going to see it and love it or hate it or be indifferent to it. My days of being isolated with my story were coming to a close and it was absolutely terrifying. Here’s where a song (commercial and Disney as it was) gave me what I needed to hear and believe as I hit the send button on that last draft – finally letting go of what I had held onto for so long.

***

Want to read more? Melissa is giving away a copy of Pieces of My Mother to a lucky Midlife Mixtape reader! To enter for your chance to win, leave a comment below…we’ll use Random.org to select a winner on Friday, March 25 at 5 pm PST!

Melissa is the author of the memoir Pieces of My Mother. Her essays, interviews, and stories have appeared in The New Ohio Review, Brevity, The Huffington Post, PBS: To the Contrary, Good Housekeeping and the anthologies Love & Profanity and Cherished.  She also works as event coordinator introducing authors at Book Passage in Corte Madera. You can learn more about Melissa at melissacistaro.com or follow @melissacistaro on Twitter.

 

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Turn Down the Music and Read: Your Song Changed My Life

There are many things to love about my neighborhood indie bookstore but right up there in the Top 3 is that when the owner receives galley copies of music-themed books she’s considering stocking, she pretty much hurls it at me when I enter the store and says, “Tell me what you think.”

So did I come into possession of Your Song Changed My Life: From Jimmy Page to St. Vincent, Smokey Robinson to Hozier, Thirty-Five Beloved Artists on Their Journey and the Music That Inspired It (HarperCollins, April 2016) by Bob Boilen, host and creator of NPR’s All Songs Considered.

It’s a nifty little read for any music lover – from his perch behind the desk where Tiny Desk Concerts are made, Boilen’s come in contact with artists from every genre and background, and has an expansive view of music that allows him to make connections that most any other writer would miss. Boilen was also a musician himself, and before that, worked at a record store. So whatever entry point the specific artist has to the song that changed his or her life, Boilen can relate on a personal level.

The book’s structure is pretty straightforward: Boilen sits down with an artist – often just before they’re due to play in D.C’s iconic 9:30 club – and starts a meandering conversation that will lead to which song changed the performer’s life. By the ¾ point in the book, I did want to pat Boilen on the shoulder and say, “It’s not going to be the song you think it’s going to be. Surely by now you see that.” And in a few cases some tighter editing would have been welcome, to make the individual essays tie together a bit more. But those are very minor points.

Mostly, Boilen plays an able host for his readers, giving us enough backstory on artists for people who may be unfamiliar with them, but not lingering too long there and losing the interest of the readers who are already fans. From there it’s about following the story to that one, life changing song, and understanding why it was so important. Finally, using his All Songs Considered cred, Boilen points to the places in the artist’s catalog where echoes of that song poke through.

For instance, Jenny Lewis was a total hip-hop head, thanks to a mixtape of Run D.M.C. and Beastie Boys music given to her by…wait for it…’80s teen heartthrob Corey Haim. She couldn’t be pigeonholed to a single song and chose The Low End Theory by A Tribe Called Quest. Boilen immediately connects her love of wordplay inherent in rapping and hip hop with the way that she overwrites lyrics on her more country/rock sounding solo albums – as he say, “It’s all about the words for Jenny.”

The Decemberists’ lead singer Colin Meloy cites “Hardly Getting Over It” by Hüsker Dü. Meloy describes as “beautiful, aching, gorgeous, acoustic,” a departure from the rest of Hüsker Dü’s harder-core sound. It’s exactly that willingness to veer from what people expect of the band that Boilen sees as the link between The Decemberists and “Hardly Getting Over It.”

There were more than a few artists I’d never heard of but ended up seeking out, like Israeli singer Asaf Avida and Kate Tempest, after reading about the songs that changed their lives (“Famous Blue Raincoat” by Leonard Cohen and “Twelve Jewlez” by RZA, for the record.)

For a few other singers whose music I knew, but not much else, YSCML was an eye opening view into their worlds. The Cat Power chapter was particularly moving in this regard; this fragile, mercurial performer chose the Aretha Franklin version of “Amazing Grace” and Boilen, with efficiency and empathy, draws out the reasons why a song with such power and hope could save her.

It’s impossible to read this and NOT consider: what song changed my life? What one song? Maybe that’s the real genius of this book – getting these musicians to settle on a single song.

If you have an answer I’d love to hear it – leave it in the comments. (Reading your picks will give me more time to think of my own, which is proving to be next to impossible…)

 

                   
CommentsOne song? Impossible. One album? also impossible Maybe ... by LanceYou'll love it – everyone from Carrie Brownstein to Pokey La ... by Nancy Davis KhoEver since I saw that this book was coming out, I've been ... by EllenRelated StoriesTurn Down the Music and Read: Hunger Makes Me a Modern GirlTurn Down the Music and Read: The Jesus and Mary Chain – Barbed Wire KissesFavorite Music Books of 2014 

Paradise With Kitty

This was supposed to be a concert review, of an all-girls Guns N’ Roses tribute band called Paradise Kitty.

See, my friend Kitty, whom I met in first grade, is also celebrating her Golden Jubilee year. She lives in Australia these days and we haven’t seen each other for seven years, which is – if my math is correct – 15.9% of our friendship. So when she let me know she was flying sans husband or daughter to spend a birthday week in LA, and hoped that a few of her friends would join her, I immediately booked my flights.

Emergent personality traits in full effect in ’74: Meet Wacky and Bossy

Then I took it upon myself to research concerts we could go see while we were there, and saw that Paradise Kitty was playing at the Viper Room, and how do you say no to an all-girls Guns N’ Roses tribute band called Paradise Kitty when you are spending a girls’ weekend with your friend Kitty? You don’t, is the answer.

So I packed off to LA last Friday afternoon that was fixin’ to be the start of a rainy drought-busting weekend in NorCal, and emerged 90 minutes later to glorious SoCal sunshine.

This is what happens when you see a friend like Kitty after a seven-year visiting drought: you hug each other in the hotel lobby, say, “So anyway, as we were saying,” and you pick up the seven-year-old conversational thread as though one of you had just returned from the bathroom and not from Australia.

A friendship that formed in 1972 has a lot of well-worn ruts that barely need to be referenced as you pass through them. We refer to ex boyfriends by nicknames or geographic origins; we share hair product and lipstick without asking permission first; we remember each other’s stories, at this point, better than we remember our own. (“Remember how that thing happened to you that one time?” “IT DID?” “YES! Let me give you all the details.”) No one apologizes for burping or snoring or worse.

The entire 48 hours we were together was punctuated by: “So what do you hear of X?” and “Did I tell you I ran into Y?” and “OMG, Z friended me on Facebook, I about died,” as we walked down Sunset Boulevard or sat at a rooftop bar overlooking Los Angeles or took our shoes off to feel the sand of Venice Beach between our toes. As much as I love going to beautiful spots with my friends to catch up, I’m always struck afterward with the realization that we could have been sitting in a Motel 6 in Altoona PA and had just as much fun, because it’s never so much the setting as the conversation that makes a weekend like this memorable.

Kitty and I have shared a lot of common interests over the years – starting with our troll doll families and their vast wardrobes of homemade couture, moving on to goth new wave music, morphing into living overseas then moving back to America at the same time. But maybe more than any other friend who is so close to me, Kitty and I also have distinct areas of difference, spheres of our lives that we have always kept a little separate from each other. Our relationship has had plenty of room to breathe over the years.

So within the first 15 minutes of our reunion on Friday Kitty assured me that if, at any point, I needed a break from the weekend’s festivities – which the rest of her crew of very nice and very-much-more-energetic-than-me friends had organized – I should bow out at any time, no questions asked, she’d catch up with me later and by the way what had I heard lately about C? Did she still live in our hometown?

Which brings me to Paradise Kitty. The tickets said the doors of the Viper Room would open at 8 and when Kitty’s Coterie finally meandered down Sunset from our hotel at 10 pm, I squelched my silent worry that we’d missed the opener and Paradise Kitty was probably halfway done.

Hahahahhaah.

The ticket taker said, “The girls like to come on at about midnight, FYI.” Oh. Do they not understand that I wake up at 7 even when I’m on vacation? Should we ask their manager to tell them?

We headed up into the dank stank of the Viper Room in time to hear an amazing Aussie Iron Maiden tribute band whose name is lost to the ages unless someone here knows it and tells me. Then around 11:00 another band came on, pretty sure their name was “None More Loud, Turn It To Eleven” and that was also when the aromatics diffuser at the Viper Room was set to “Barf, Mixed with Pee and Stale Beer.” At about 11:30 pm, right after a bouncer shoved me off the wall with both hands and said, “Move, MOVE, MOVE!” like I’d been leaning there to bother him, I said, “Kit, gotta go, I’ll bring you your coffee in the morning, flat white with one sugar right?” and I left.

So I didn’t even see Paradise Kitty. But I can tell you I had a great weekend with Kitty in Paradise (well, Venice Beach with the sun shining when it was pouring five inches of rain at home.)

And it sure felt heavenly to catch up.

As a consolation prize for my non-review, let me introduce you to Aussie hip-hop band the Hilltop Hoods, with Kitty’s best regards.

                  Related StoriesThis I BelieveSpring 2016 Events and AppearancesFebruary 29th Free For All 

This I Believe

Don’t look too closely, you may get something from the present closet someday

The other day I was driving a carload of teenage girls to high school and remembered something I meant to tell my daughters. “I got some really funny socks at the book store the other day and I put them in the present closet in case you need them,” I said. My kids were silent (ok, it was 7:56 am and maybe they weren’t as fascinated at the announcement as I’d hoped.) So were the girls in back. I caught the eye of one of them in the rear view mirror.

“You have a present closet, don’t you, Iz?” I asked. “You know, a drawer or a cupboard where you keep the stuff you buy with no one in particular in mind, so if you need a gift at the last minute you look in the present closet?”

Izzy shook her head no very slowly, like you do to someone you don’t want to upset. I looked at my other passenger.

“Casey? You must have a present closet.” Casey has no present closet.

“WHAT?” I said, gripping the wheel tighter. “What is happening?” I said, turning to my oldest daughter who was riding shotgun. “I thought everyone had a present closet!”

She shook her head. “They don’t, Mom. And by the way, they also don’t say ‘Keep your hands to home.’ I’ve said it to people and they have no idea what I’m talking about.”

Seriously? SERIOUSLY? What did you say to your kids when you wanted them to keep their mitts off each other in the backseat of the car or when sitting at a restaurant? I didn’t even have to say the whole phrase at a certain point in their development, just: “Hands. Home.”

No present closets, no Hands Home. What else do I take for gospel that none of the rest of you even know about?

Do you not deadpan “Alert the media!” when someone in your family gives a particularly boring life update?
Do you not collect rubber bands on the door handle in the kitchen?
Do you actually wear yellow? As in clothing, near your skin?
Do you stand still when you cook dinner, even if a Missy Elliott jam comes on?
Do you not do all your laundry on the same day, so you don’t have to think about it again for a week?
Do you actually take the top copy of the magazine off the newsstand at the grocery store instead of reaching for the one behind it, which has fresher news?
When someone says, “What’s the time?” don’t you answer, “It’s time to get ill,” at least in your head?

I tell you, I am shook up. And when the fundamental beliefs of my life seem so suddenly precarious, there’s only one thing that I can do to placate myself.

I’m dipping into the present closet for some new socks.

I like dinner recipes that have to simmer for awhile, so I can practice my moves while I wait. Can’t wait til the real Pep Rally video comes out from Missy Misdemeanor…

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Spring 2016 Events and Appearances

If you live in the Bay Area I regret to inform you that I will be almost unavoidable in the coming two months. I would love to see any and all of you at the happenings below – let me know if you’re coming and I’ll bring along my stash of Midlife Mixtape badges to thank you for your trouble!

Wednesday March 16 7:00 pm

I’ll be reading about Noonie and Lily Dale at the fun travel writing series Weekday Wanderlust, Hotel Rex, 562 Sutter St, San Francisco, CA 94102.

Join us at 6 at the hotel’s Library Bar for pre-reading travel writer libations!

Saturday, April 2 7:30 pm

I’ll be reading at the Bernal Yoga Literary Series, Bernal Yoga, 908 Cortland Ave, San Francisco, CA 94110.

Haven’t decided what I’m reading yet but there is every chance I’ll be doing it from the Child’s Pose position, as I will have just landed from the East Coast a day earlier. Yay for mats! PS Wear socks to this one, no shoes allowed in the studio. I just found a pair that say “Ringmaster of the Shit Show” that I’m thinking would be just the thing.

Saturday, April 9 9:30 pm – ?

Remember my Golden Jubilee year pledge to celebrate throughout 2016? Well, the sweet fellows at The Cat Club SF who’ve hosted the Midlife Mixtape Early Bird Dance Party are helping out by throwing a big ‘80s Dance Party base in my honor on April 9th, and you’re all invited.

Bring your friends, wear your dancing shoes, and come help me celebrate my descent into Midcentury Modern. We’ll have cupcakes and party favors and probably napkins like these.

Make sure to like the Midlife Mixtape Facebook page for the official invite once the Cat Club sends it out. And oh by the way: they let the birthday girl pick the two bands who will be in heaviest rotation. So:

You’re welcome.

Thursday, April 21

So excited to be heading back to the annual Watermark Conference for Women at the San Jose Convention Center at the end of April, both as a speaker and a rapt attendee. It’s a really powerful one-day conference for women’s professional development and networking, with a roster of superstar speakers from Minday Kaling to Abby Wambach to (be still my heart) Tanya Holland of Oakland’s own Brown Sugar Kitchen.

I’ll be leading a Social Media round table on Thursday afternoon on How To Maximize Your Blog’s Reach – look for me from 3-4:40 pm.

***

And finally, music for your enjoyment – last weekend I caught Darlingside, a Massachusetts-based quartet who harmonize like your favorite Simon&Garfunkel/Beach Boys/CSNY song. Since then I cannot stop playing this song, “God of Loss,” or watching this beautiful and mesmerizing video. Enjoy.

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