Nancy Davis Kho's Blog, page 33

My Kind of Holiday Party

I know it’s fashionable to complain about the office holiday party – the pressure to be social with people you’re probably already spending too much time with, the stress of finding what fashion magazines call the perfect “office to party!” outfit (hint: it exists only in myth,) the breath-holding suspense of which co-worker is going to hit the sauce a little too enthusiastically and finally tell the CFO what you REALLY think of his new rules around expense reporting. When spouses are involved it’s even more fraught – I have to come to your party with a bunch of people I don’t even know and watch everything I say and do for fear that I’m telling an off-color joke to your boss’s boss? I only did that once and it’s not like you told me Tom was bald, I had no idea who that was.

But as someone who has worked for herself for more than a decade, I miss the office holiday party. Primarily the free food and drink, but also the chance to see people you know as serious and hard-working let loose a little bit. You’ll never understand Bald Tom better than after you’ve seen him bust a ballroom dance move with a female companion he brought to the party who was not his wife. (Where my Primark alumni at? You know who I’m talking about.)

Or maybe it’s that I’ve attended some epic holiday ‘dos in my time. Back in the ‘90s I used to go to London every year for a trade show attended by librarians that included a gala night, and I am here to say: ain’t no party like a British librarian party. Hey! Ho! They were the kind of parties where you would snap to at some point and realize, I am in a cab with four of my customers, it’s 3:30 am, and someone just mentioned an underground dance club with the password of “Stilton.” The next day would involve standing in the trade show booth for hours, teepee’d against a co-worker so neither of us would topple, customers and vendors alike exuding the same not-subtle scent of gin and mincemeat.

The holiday party for my Dot Com (the original era, not this Second Wave) was held at a super fancy downtown San Francisco hotel replete with sushi stations, prime rib, live band(s) and people on stilts offering hors d’ouevres. My husband the banker glanced around us and said, “Um, remind me again what your revenue model is?” That was, alas, the only holiday party thrown by that employer, what with 75% of us being shit-canned the following December due to a disturbing lack of positive cash flow.

It wasn’t long after that I began telecommuting for employers on the other side of the country, making company holiday parties pretty much extinct. I’ve gone to a few parties for my husband’s office since, but I’m so frozen with fear that someone will say, “Hey, I read your blog!” and my husband’s career will be over thanks to me, I tend to stand in the corner chewing on the poinsettia leaves.

Still, I figure I work as hard as anyone else every year, and deserve a night of frivolity at the end of December. For a while there, I took my husband out to dinner and insisted on paying with MY credit card (from our joint bank account.) It was pretty epic, at least until 8:30 when we are generally heading home again, which is essentially exactly like every other date night we have. It wasn’t really ringing my Christmas Party bell.

But this year I think I finally found my formula. A few months ago, Lord Huron announced a December 18 show in San Francisco. Yes, I already saw them once this year, but they’re in my Top 3 Live performing acts (behind Neil Finn and Bruce Springsteen) and they were playing the intimate, 400-or-so capacity Independent. So I decided to make their show the Davis Kho Communications Holiday Extravaganza.

After all, the concert had all the elements of a great office party:

Opportunity to dress up: I usually try for one of the very limited number of seats at the Independent but knew I’d be on my feet for this show. So I slipped my ortho inserts into my German made-for-walking boots and danced for the whole show. Check out CLASSIC holiday style, sea of smooth-faced young people who surrounded me in your lumbersexual attire and body glitter.

Good company: My planned-for date Maria was called out of town unexpectedly so I went with her husband Ted. Ted met Maria in my college dorm room Freshman year, when he was dropping off a flyer for a party that his band was playing, so I’m kind of why they’re married and share a love of music, if you think about it. Ted executed a parallel parking maneuver in a crowded San Francisco neighborhood that was so improbable, Priuses were queued up to take the spot the minute he realized he couldn’t fit the car in. That GUARANTEED he was going to fit the car in.

Also, Ted’s game for standing in the second row and staying for the encore. I don’t need that for every band, but I needed it for Lord Huron.

Too much liquor: in the overfilled beer cups that splashed onto my leathuh all night, and in the bold maneuver of two tiny if solid women who barged into the air pocket of space between Ted, me, and the first row. I hold a certain level of respect for that variety of stage-proximity-assertiveness, but no one takes my air pocket and bumps me from 2nd to 3rd row without a fight. My reaction was stone cold sober: clapping REALLY LOUD at the level of their heads, which didn’t require me to lift my arms, and yelling “Woo Hoo” repeatedly and directly toward their ears. I was back to the 2nd row in no time.

Don’t try to get between me and this

Surprises: There were two big ones. One, I don’t actually know the words to any Lord Huron songs. I thought I did, because I listen so much, but it turns out I’m not absorbing them at all. Much mouthing of “watermelon, watermelon” during the singalong parts.

The second was the song that started off the encore – “We Went Wild.” I’d never heard it before – it’s from an early EP – and it may be my favorite LH song yet. Lead singer Ben Schneider performed a little shimmy and whacked the hell out of a single drum throughout, and the song ended with everyone in the band and the audience living up to the song title. Hearing it felt like finding a hidden gift under the tree.

And on that note, here’s my holiday wish for you: May it bring you joy and unexpected surprises, like old new songs from your favorite band and physics-defying parking jobs and the realization that you CAN still stay out until the encore ends at 12:30 am!

Thanks as ever for reading Midlife Mixtape – I’m so grateful that you share some of your precious time reading my words!

Happy Holidays!

 

 

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A Plea on Behalf of December Babies

Take a moment from your Christmas cookie decorating, your holiday shopping, the work party that you love and loathe in equal measure, and consider the 11/12ths of the population who have a birthday in December.

There. That’s probably almost as much attention as they’ve ever gotten on their birthday, thanks to that guy Jesus who was born who knows what day but gets arbitrarily celebrated on December 25. (It made it more convenient for the Pagans to take vacation time off and upcycle their holiday fir trees, back in the day.)

I come from a family crawling with December birthdays, and I’ve managed to befriend a whack of Capricorns along the way. Our youngest kid was born on December 25, which may seem bad – all her gifts for the year crammed into one 24 hour period, and on her special day everyone else gets presents too. So much for being the center of attention. But actually it’s so bad it’s good again, in that none of her friends or extended family ever forgets her birthday, and we’ve spent fourteen years overcompensating for the fact that she decided to head for the maternal exit ramp three weeks early.

So she’s set. But pity the December 22 kids (I’d love to come to your party but I have to douse the fruitcake with brandy that night) and the December 26 kids (I’d love to come to your party but I’m exhausted and was hoping to lounge around in my jammies playing with my new XBox games) and the December 30 kids (I’d love to come to your party but we’re all going out tomorrow night anyway, so can we just combine them?) Pity the kids whose birthday presents come wrapped in Christmas paper. Pity the kids whose cupcakes for the class have Santa on them. Above all, pity the non-Christian kids whose birthday celebrations are usurped by a guy they don’t even hang out with.

One of my closest friends has her birthday today. Every year she graciously offers to combine her birthday celebration with an annual gift exchange luncheon we do, called Bitch Santa. (Why Bitch Santa? Each of us gets a number and you open from the stack of gifts everyone brings, based on your number. Anyone with a higher number can steal a gift from someone who’s already opened one. And every year, though it is unplanned, there’s a dud gift. This year it was heated fleece socks -“Perfect for Diabetics!” You never want to be #1, holding a great piece of jewelry or a fabulous holiday clutch, when #8 opens up some diabetic socks.) We take her up on it more often than not because ugh, the holidays, so overscheduled, so much to do!

This year, though, when she offered, I came up with an idea that I think borders on genius. We just needed to create a birthday party that gives people what they need in December – some freakin’ down time.

So later today I’m hosting a luncheon for a few friends with a strict dress code: pajamas. We’ll overeat, we’ll lounge, we’ll play Cards Against Humanity, and the birthday girl can decide whether the music we play is Christmas-themed or not. The whole shebang will be over by 4, still leaving time for evening plans on this booked-up weekend. (In my case, the Lord Huron concert that doesn’t start until 9 pm, pray for me, I am 100 years old.) I was going to offer people our wrapping paper and tape so they could multitask while they’re here, but I think having zero Christmas activities is part of the point.

Seriously, if you have friends with December birthdays, think of it as an opportunity to step back from the madness this month. Take them on a hike, or to a skating rink, or to a movie – anyplace that will take your mind off the fourteen gifts you still need to buy/wrap and the cards you haven’t gotten signed yet and the root cause of the faulty Christmas tree lights. All those problems will still be there when you get back.

And it may almost make up for the time you regifted him or her a present from your own stash, and forgot to take off the original to/from tag first.

Wow. I couldn’t NOT use this song, but proceed at your own risk.

                   
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Stay Away From The Ocho

Our youngest daughter has been easygoing from the day she was born. Still, through the teen years every child must pass, exacting upon his or her parents a particular kind of torture, and our youngest is no exception. Lacking the temperament to test us with outright rebellion and too dedicated to ballet to have leftover energy to do anything really hair-raising, she has found the one way to drive her parents to the brink:

She loves Top 20 music. Not Top 40. Top 20.

We tried. We really did. We used the same techniques of curated auditory listening at home and on the road that worked so well for her older sister, who is on track to have way better taste than her parents and heaven help us when she’s actually in close proximity to a college radio station next year. But for the younger child, our efforts fell flat. She says Kate Bush “has a weird, annoying voice.” Her favorite Bruce Springsteen song is “Dancin’ In the Dark.”

In the Radio On Wheels that I drive, the radio presets for Sirius satellite radio are well established. Number 1 is AltNation, and right beneath it at Number 4 is Classic Alternative, so I can switch back and forth between emerging music now and emerging music from my college years with the barest whisper of movement. Five is Old Skool Hip Hop. Seven is Willie’s Roadhouse. Nine is the Bruce channel, which plays his catalog far FAR beyond “Dancin’ in the Dark.” Our oldest kid will listen to all of them happily except for Old Skool Hip Hop because what sane 17 year old wants to see her mother spitting rhymes along with Chubb Rock?

But because I love both my children equally, I have allowed the younger one to colonize Eight for the Top 20 station, which, thanks to Sirius’ lack of advertisements and the average song length of three minutes, means we would hear every song on their rotation once, were we ever to give in and listen for a full hour. Because back to the easygoing bit: my child knows that even if I indulge her by switching to the station when I sense equity demands it, I have my limits. When The Band That Cannot Be Named But Is A Quintet Named After A Shade of Dark Red comes on, even she says, “It’s ok, Mom. I won’t do that to you.”

She is also studying Spanish at school so when she wants to request a change to “her station,” she says, from the backseat, “Mom, what’s playing on The Ocho?” It makes me laugh every time because obviously, Dodgeball and Pepper Brooks.

So the other night I’m having dinner with my friend Kathy, and she confesses to me that the last three shows she’s seen are 1.) OneDirection 2.) Taylor Swift and 3.) The Band That Cannot Be Named But Is A Quintet Named After A Shade of Dark Red. I stared at her, horrified. This is a grown woman who doesn’t even have the excuse that she’s rebelling against anyone.

“You would love the Ocho,” I stammered.

“I probably would,” she said. “I don’t even know what music is out there.” It was like Jimmy Freakin’ Iovine was right.

So I came home and did what I felt was my moral duty as a feminist music lover. I created a playlist for her of the alternative music we’ve listened to this year that even our Ocho-loving child will admit to liking, at least a little bit. They’re mostly upbeat, cheerful songs, steering clear of the experimental and punk end of my music collection, but also steering clear of the heavy gloss of overproduction. Like most teens, our youngest daughter is skittish – if I actually ask outright, “Do you like this song?” she will say, “a little bit” or “not really,” but then I catch her singing it later. So these songs (mostly) pass her standards.

For Kathy’s sake, because she’s older and tougher, I threw in a few ringers that will force her to stretch – Courtney Barnett’s “Nobody Really Cares If You Don’t Go To The Party” and “No Cities To Love” by Sleater-Kinney because they’re acts that mattered in 2015. They aren’t all necessarily 2015 releases either, but they’re what we were listening to when we drove the Radio on Wheels.

I made her a mixtape (actually, burned a CD but same same) for Christmas but I also put the list up on Spotify for you guys to check out. Let me know what you think.

For your sake and mine, I’ve titled it with a warning: Stay Away From The Ocho.

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Giving and Water Aid on BonBonBreak

Water is kind of a big deal.

Take it from this parched Californian, who, even with the siren promise of a torrential El Niño winter ahead, uses shower water to sustain the spindly roses in my garden, and has welcomed the crabgrass takeover of my once-lush lawn with a “well, at least it’s green and hardy.” These last four years of drought have done a number on our reservoirs and snowpacks and we’re told the sailor shower (water on for long enough to dampen you, water off while you lather up, and on again for a blitzschnell rinse) is our new normal. That’s why, whenever someone from California visits the East Coast, they will be found in the shower for most of their visit. Screw the tour of  Times Square, the work conference, or the family reunion, I’m not getting out of here until I’m pruned up from top to toe!

Ahem.

Of course long showers and blooming roses are a First World Problem What’s really scary is the notion of lacking enough water to drink and to maintain basic hygiene. Which is also known as “reality” for far too many people in the world.

So when the fabulous website BonBonBreak put out a call for submissions on the topic of Giving, a month-long initiative sponsored by WaterAid, I started to write right away. WaterAid is an international organization whose mission is to transform the lives of the poorest and most marginalized people by improving access to safe water, sanitation and hygiene. Through their partners, WaterAid reached 2 million people with safe water and 3 million people with sanitation in 2014.

Please click through and read my post on the topic – when it comes to “Giving,” I always think “Giving Circle” – and while you’re there, check out the other “Giving” themed posts that BonBonBreak writers created: Nutella BonBons, anyone? (Yes. Me. Give them to me.) For those of you curious about my Rahchester accent, there’s a podcast version on that page as well.

And if you’re looking for a great way to go into 2016 with good karma, please check out WaterAid and consider making a donation.

It’s a lot easier than turning off a hot shower midstream on a cold morning.

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Enough

In July, shortly after the Lafayette, Louisiana movie theater shooting, I visited my octogenarian cinephile mom in Upstate New York. For as long as I can remember, she has seen at least one movie every week, often going by herself if no one else is around to come with her.

“I know just what I’ll do if someone pulls out a gun at a theater,” Mom said as we sat at lunch in her bright little kitchen, and went on to explain how she’d hunker down under a seat and try to crawl toward an exit.

I hope the image of a grandmother of eight pre-planning her army crawl to safety in a movie theater in America in 2015 is as depressing to you as it was, and remains, to me. I went on Twitter later that day with a full tank of sarcasm and wrote, “My movie loving mom just explained her strategy for evading gunfire in a theater to me. Well done, America 2015. #GunControlNow.” A couple people who follow me on Twitter liked the tweet, a couple others retweeted it.

Later that evening, I saw that someone I’d never heard of had retweeted it and said something like, “Sounds like the mother has more sense than her #SJW daughter. Good for her. ”

My first reaction was confusion = #SJW? I Googled it. It stands for “Social Justice Warrior.”

For a moment, I was filled with pride. A warrior for social justice? Sounds like a compliment to me.

Then I clicked through the definition on Urban Dictionary and read this: “Pejorative term for an individual who repeatedly and vehemently engages in arguments on social justice on the Internet, often in a shallow or not well-thought-out way, for the purpose of raising their own personal reputation. They do not have relevant favorite real-world places, because SJWs are primarily civil rights activists only online.”

And then it finally dawned on me. That guy considers Social Justice Warrior a derogatory term. One click through to see his other tweets confirmed it. This was probably not a person who would envy my “Christmas 2008 – Thanks Santa!” ornament with the picture of Obama on it. This guy really believed it was a swell idea that my mom should have to have an escape plan when she goes to see the next installment in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel franchise: What The Bellhop Saw. SJW is a character-saving synonym for “lefty liberal bleeding heart,” handy in the era of 140 characters.

And then I got scared. Because you can’t shake a stick without hitting an outspoken, online friend of mine who has been harassed by trolls for his or her public support of causes I, too, believe in: Black Lives Matter, Planned Parenthood, compassion for refugees, and yes, sane gun control. Was this guy putting me on the map for his other friends, to make it easier for them to come after me?

I left the tweet up there, but I backed off the topic online. I could just stick to music and humor and the occasional ballerina picture. I could be a #SJW, but a low-key one. You know, keepin’ it on the down low. Don’t tell everybody you know.

So in one way, the guy was absolutely right about me limiting my activism to the online realm. And even then, with trepidation.

Only that doesn’t work. As the shooting in Colorado Springs in November, or the one last week in San Bernadino, or any of the other 353 mass shootings thus far in the US in 2015, proves all too painfully.

There was an article in the San Francisco Chronicle this week that I found infuriating. The title said it all: “Despite shootings, Congress unlikely to alter gun laws.” This is the sentence that got me, talking about the fact that Republican opposition to gun control is driven by a small core of gun-owning voters: “Although they may number only 5 percent of the electorate, they are single-issue voters whose high motivation to knock on doors and turn out in primaries is enough to topple lawmakers.”

Five percent of voters is what’s making it impossible to ban people on the no-fly list from buying guns, to close loopholes in background checks, to put limits on the sale of assault weapons. Five percent of voters is what is propping up the market for Bullet Proof backpacks for our kids.

You guys, five percent ain’t no thing. As long as the other 95% of us with high motivation to knock on doors and turn out in primaries get out there to show politicians that we’re not going to stand for their NRA-funded lack of a spine.

So this weekend, this lefty liberal bleeding heart voter is getting out there to demand change, out loud and in public, and I hope you’ll join me to make yourself heard. Moms Demand Action stands for a future without gun violence in America, and this weekend the California chapter is organizing family-friendly Orange Walks up and down the state, “to commemorate the Newtown anniversary and the founding of Moms Demand Action, to provide an event for new people to better understand where our movement has come since Sandy Hook, and to hold our politicians accountable.” Wear orange, bring your family, bring your friends. Be counted.

I’ll be at the Marin walk on Sunday, December 13th at 9:30 am in Piper Park. Facebook RSVP here.

There’s also an East Bay Orange Walk on Saturday, December 12th in Walnut Creek, meeting at the fountain at Broadway Plaza at 10:30 am. Facebook RSVP here.

If you’re elsewhere in the Golden State, check out this link for additional events.

And if you’re not in Cali, MDA has chapters all over the country. Get involved. Speak up.

Here’s to a future where my mother’s biggest worry at the movie theater is whether people sitting in front of her are going to slurp soda and crinkle candy wrappers.

Three years after Newtown: is that too much too hope?

                   
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A PRESCHOOLED Mixtape

Anna Lefler is one of the funniest and most generous writers I know. A three-time faculty member at the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop, La Lefler’s debut novel, PRESCHOOLED, hit bookstores this fall. It’s a fast-paced, absurdist read about the trials and tribulations of preschool temper tantrums and headgames (and here I’m referring to the parents, not the kids.) And like the GenXer she is, Anna’s made us a mixtape.

Dedications: A PRESCHOOLED Mixtape

by Anna Lefler

I’ve always thought of my novel PRESCHOOLED as a comedic love letter to the nursery school years in Santa Monica with my two children. Told through the alternating perspectives of three different grown-ups at the school, the book tells the story of how they each must overcome a personal crisis while working to succeed (whatever that means) in an environment of neurotic, affluent, and highly competitive parents.

From a comedy perspective, the setting – Garden of Happiness Preschool – was just too good to pass up. I mean, its potential as a funny backdrop is almost infinite. This was important to me as a counterpoint to the three protagonists, who are struggling with issues in their adult lives – heavy issues like loss, fidelity, and fulfillment. To me, the tension of alternating between these darker challenges and the near-ridiculous ones of preschool committees creates a satisfying ride for the reader.

So who are these three protagonists? There’s Justine, a parent whose arrival at the school puts her in close proximity with the head-gaming ex-boyfriend who broke her heart years before, and consequently puts her marriage in potential jeopardy. Then there’s Margaret the headmistress, who’s going through a divorce and has just watched her only child go off to college, and now discovers that she’s in real danger of losing Garden of Happiness – the cornerstone of her remaining identity. And finally Ruben, a comedian dad who trades parenting roles with his wife in order to pursue his television dream only to discover he’s got some serious growing up to do if he’s going to do right by the woman he loves.

So, yes, the book is a love story, not only to that period in my family’s life years ago, but also to the people I created to tell it: these characters I spent hours with each day as I sat alone in my office and wrote (and re-wrote) the manuscript. I miss them. I root for them. I worry about them. I wish I could go to lunch with them. (Yes, even the annoying ones.)

But now, thanks to Nancy’s invitation, I get to move beyond the book itself and create the undisputed and universal expression of love for these people I carry around in my head and heart: the custom mixtape. Yesss.

And so I dedicate these songs in turn to the citizens of PRESCHOOLED. Rock on, beloveds.

“Shadowboxer” – Fiona Apple

I’m dedicating this song to Justine, who is seriously outgunned in the headgame department by her “Kryptonite Guy” Harry.

 

“Somebody Got Lucky” – Angela McCluskey

Oh, Harry. You are such a delicious nightmare. Now get out. But first kiss me.

 

“One Less Bell to Answer” – The Fifth Dimension

This one goes out to Margaret, who suddenly finds herself in an empty house and whose only companions are the last thing in the world she wants to face: her emotions.

 

“What Makes a Good Man?” – The Heavy

Dedicated to Ruben, who has a lot to learn, and is smart and strong enough to know it.

 

“Something’s Missing” – John Mayer

This song is for Eddie, who’s determined to find happiness, and is convinced he must go through Margaret to get it.

 

“Flawless” – Beyonce

I dedicate this song to Trey (with thanks to my wise daughter Madison who suggested it because Mr. Trey had me stumped).

 

“Short Skirt Long Jacket” – Cake

This one is dedicated to Bette, who kind of scares me and whom I also think I secretly want to be.

 

“Love Runs Out” – OneRepublic

Marriage: a tricky proposition at best. Right, Greg?

 

“You’re My Best Friend” – Queen

Yeah, well. Some dedications – like this one to Ruthie – can be right on the nose.

 

“In Love with a Girl” – Gavin DeGraw

This song makes me think of Deandra, and the devotion she and Ruben have for one another.

 

“Stacy’s Mom” – Fountains of Wayne

This is dedicated to all the moms out there – of every shape, size, and culture – who remind us every day that motherhood is, indeed, a beautiful thing.

“Mas Que Nada” – Sergio Mendes + Brasil ’66

There is a certain kind of music I play in the background when I’m writing, and Sergio Mendes is at the top of that list. For years now, the Brasil ’66 vibe has kept me creating and – on more than one occasion – kept me from hurling my laptop into the neighbor’s hot tub. And so, as the stinger to this mixtape, I dedicate this song to all the novelists out there who are lucky enough to slip away into worlds of their own making each day, no matter what music happens to take them there.

I had a blast making this mixtape, Nancy – thanks for having me here! XO

Anna Lefler is a humorist, comedy writer, and author of the novel Preschooled (Full Fathom Five, 2015). She is also the author of the humor book The Chicktionary: From A-Line to Z-Snap, The Words Every Woman Should Know, which The Chicago Tribune called “a wry celebration of modern femininity.”  Anna was a staff writer and performer on the Nickelodeon/NickMom TV show “Parental Discretion with Stefanie Wilder-Taylor,” and is a three-time faculty member of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. Anna lives in Los Angeles with her two children, whom she regularly embarrasses, and she can always be found on annalefler.com.

***

Reading appetites whetted? Anna’s offered a signed copy of PRESCHOOLED to one lucky Midlife Mixtape reader! Just leave a comment below with the song that reminds you of your child’s (or your own) preschool days. I’ll choose a winner using Random.org on Tuesday 12/8 at 5 pm ET.

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The Nine Stages of Christmas Card Writing

Click the pic to see where I got these adorable cards

For someone as committed as I am to trying to wrangle my carbon footprint into submission (I always carry reusable shopping bags and sometimes even bring them into the store) I throw all environmental concerns out the window when it comes to killing trees for the sake of writing holiday cards. I don’t want to email you my wishes for a merry season, because what with the blog, you probably already have me set up in your spam filter. Besides, sending physical cards in the mail has a virtuous side. For one, we’re helping keep my mail lady Sheila, a.k.a. “Oh Sheila,” employed.

And we’re reminding children of a magical time when people applied a thing called “stamps” to a thing called “an envelope” to communicate, which required something called “patience.”

So I start off every card-writing season with high hopes. And then it all goes downhill.

Stage 1 – Buoyant Positivity (Early October) This year we’re going to do a really good family shot where we’re all wearing coordinated clothing colors! And I’m buying more cards than last year because I want to get back in touch with friends from my study abroad program, some former co-workers, and those 19 people who sent me cards last year after I’d already burned the remaining cards (see Stage 9.) And I’m buying new holiday-colored gel pens, and I’m not getting the super religious stamps from the post office because half these cards are going to people of other faiths.

Stage 2 – Pragmatism (Late November) Oops. Forgot to schedule the photographer and there’s no time for a new picture because only 50% – 75% of the family is in the same place at any given time. That’s ok, I’ll just do a montage of photos from the year. In which I am invisible because I am the one who forces everyone else into awkward, unsmiling group shots. Maybe I’ll just have everyone do a selfie.

Stage 3 – Anger (Early December) They raised the prices for the custom photo cards by HOW much from last year? Fine. I’ll show them. I’ll just get half as many. The stupid post office was out of the nice non-denominational Fair Isle Sweater stamp and the Jesus stamps are hardcore enough to frighten a Catholic priest. The new pens are missing, though I notice the girls’ homework has been done in glitter red and green lately.

Stage 4 – Shock (December 10th) What? How many cards did I order? This looks like way too many cards. Did they throw in extra to spite me?

Stage 5 – Physical Distress (December 11th)  I write six cards and my hand seizes up because who hand-writes anything besides their name on checks anymore? Who even writes checks anymore? *Collapse on couch*

Stage 6 – Bargaining (December 12th ) Maybe if I multi-task by putting on some Christmas music and taste-testing cocktails to serve at Christmas brunch, I’ll do better at buckling down and writing cards tonight.

*Address and seal one envelope. Forget to put card inside.*

Stage 7 – Guilt (December 15th ) My friends and relatives outside the U.S. can suck it because getting the right postage for their cards will require a trip to the post office and ain’t nobody going to the post office voluntarily again until after December 26th. I’ll just cross off “Merry Christmas” and write “Happy New Year” when I get around to sending it.

Stage 8 – Defensiveness (December 20th ) From here on out I am writing cards only to people who send me one first. Put your festive salutations up, or shut up.

Stage 9 – Acceptance (December 24th ) Next year, I am going to be completely fine with emailing my Christmas greetings. *Toss remaining cards into the crackling Christmas fire and settle in with a Christmas cocktail*

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Holiday Shopping Recs 2015

I’m vehemently opposed to Black Friday, in part because I resent those people who can get beyond their post-prandial Thanksgiving torpor when I’m stuck here on a couch, bloating. What did you do, skip the second serving of pumpkin pie so you could make it Target? That’s just wrong.

But this year the folks behind Record Store Day – which already took place in April this year – decided it was so nice they’d do it twice in 2015, and in fact scheduled it for Black Friday. Record store people, I love you, but this was not your best idea. Because now I have to get up and go shopping, especially since I heard that Neil Finn and Paul Kelly have issued a special TRANSLUCENT YELLOW vinyl version of their hard to find album “Goin’ Your Way.” I’m about to pop some Tums and hit the road to Amoeba Records in Berkeley.

For those of you with more shopping stamina than me, I thought I’d put together my “best of” lists for albums, music books, and concert tickets. I consume far too few of any of those things for you to consider this definitive, but I can vouch for what’s here. And I’d love to get your own suggestions in the comments – I’ve got some shopping to do too, people.

Albums

Frank Turner, Positive Songs For Negative People. What happens when a punk rocker goes acoustic. Never too sweet and never too rough.
Lord Huron, Strange Trails. These guys could release an album of their unique Western-Cowboy-Meets-Stevie-Nicks-In-Indonesia sound every other month and it wouldn’t be enough for me.
Brandi Carlile, The Firewatcher’s Daughter. I am completely transfixed by the way her husky voice is backed by male twins singing falsetto. And she probably writes the best love songs in the world.
El Vy, Return to the Moon. A side project from the deep-voiced lead singer of The National, I bought this about a month ago and it is on extended replay all the time by ¾ of the family (there’s one in every crowd.) “I’m the Man To Be” makes me laugh every time. Why, again, did you say you were peaceful?
Sleater-Kinney, No Cities To Love. Thank god Carrie Brownstein took a tiny break from Portlandia to reunite with Corin Tucker and Janet Weiss for another round of riot grrrl perfection.
Jamestown Revival, Utah. As my friend T-fan says, “If their song ‘California’ doesn’t go to Number One then NO song should become go to Number One because it’s perfect.’” Americana at its best.
Missy Elliott, WTF. I know it’s a single, not an album; I’m just putting it here as a placeholder until she comes out with the full album. There is no better kitchen cleaning/rump shaking music. That’s how they do it where I’m from, anyway.
Other faves: Salt As Wolves by Jeffrey Foucault, Wake by Nora Jane Struthers, Bitter Sweet by the Accidentals.

Music Books

The History of Rock N’ Roll in Ten Songs by Greil Marcus. For the wanna be music professor on your list.
Emergency Anthems by Alex Green. Short stories with a musical thread by the editor of StereoEmbers.
Girl in a Band by Kim Gordon. For the friend with the wild streak, now keeping it real as a mom, wife, and model employee while playing Sonic Youth and Hole in her car.
Your Band Sucks by Jon Fine. For the dad who’s started a band at age 50 and thinks he missed out by not having experienced life on the concert road in his 20s.
Unfaithful Music and Disappearing Ink by Elvis Costello. Still piled up on my nightstand but I’m hopeful it’ll live up to the critical acclaim.

Concert Tours

My cup raneth over in 2015, with an embarrassing abundance of great shows. But if I had to narrow it down to the ones I’d go see again at any price, here’s my list:

Lord Huron. They sound kind of mellow and new-agey on their studio albums which is why their live shows are such a huge surprise – they rock so ferociously. Saw them for my second time in April and I get to go again on December 18th, at the smallest venue yet. My best show of the year and it hasn’t even happened yet.
Jenny Lewis. I wish I could wrap up every teenage girl I know and plunk her in the audience at one of Jenny’s shows. She’s smart, cool, in charge, and nobody’s fool. Plus, the rainbow pantsuits. My god.
Jamestown Revival. I always show up early to see the opener play when I go to a show. This was the first time that when the opener finished (for Ryan Bingham’s recent tour) I felt like sticking around was unnecessary. Looking forward to catching them again next April.
Brandi Carlile . Another surprise – I didn’t know too much of her music beforehand but with three plays of The Firewatcher’s Daughter I had the lyrics memorized and was ready to sing along with the hugely excited, devoted crowd. She’s just lovely and gracious.
The Replacements . Yeah yeah yeah, devotees were saying this tour was all about the money, that it wasn’t the full band, whatever. I never saw them play before this year and I was not about to miss them this time around. They did not disappoint.
Already on my calendar for 2015: Vance Joy, Elle King, The Cure…and whatever else Santa slips into my stocking. I’m free in January and March, dude. Hook me up.

One more thing – on this Thanksgiving weekend, I want to thank you so, so much for reading Midlife Mixtape. If you hadn’t figured it out yet, I don’t get paid for this. I do it for the love of writing, and music, and connecting with people for whom my stories resonate. Were it not for your feedback and support I’d be shouting into the void (and let’s face it, some days I am.) So let me thank you again for being on the other side of these words and letting me know on the days that they made you feel something.

xoxoxoxo

P.S. This is what sweet victory looks like:

                   
CommentsThe CD has more songs – this is an excerpt from the original ... by Nancy Davis KhoI'm still debating about walking the 5 blocks to see if my ... by Mary A BrownRelated StoriesTurn Down The Music and Read: Chapter and VerseFavorite Music Books of 2014 

Songs From a Morrissey Album That Will Never Be Made

Every year on Halloween, the neighbors gather at our house after trick or treating is over. While the kids go full Gordon Gecko Wall Street on candy trading in the living room (“what am I bid for an Almond Joy?” …then, crickets) the adults drink wine in the kitchen and argue, inevitably, again, about whether music by Morrissey and The Smiths is happy or sad. The discussion is punctuated by everyone singing along to the chorus of whatever Smiths/Morrissey song has just come on Pandora, and then both sides use those lyrics to support their case.

Anyhoo. I was thinking about what the album track list would look like if for once, Morrissey was suffused with well-being, accepting of others’ faults, and not so militantly vegan. Here’s my best guess.

“Every Day Is Like Sunday, In That I Can Sleep Late And Catch A Matinee”
“Viva Tickles”
“Margaret On The Guillotine Slicing Up Some Amazing Charcuterie”
“November Spawned Some Lovely Foliage”
“Eating Is a Personal Choice And I Don’t Judge You For Your Diet”
“He Knows I’d Love To See Him: And It’s Mutual”
“Suedeboots”
“You Have Killed Me (With Your Selfless Generosity)”
“The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Respect Your Personal Boundaries”
“In The Future When All’s Still Well”
“You’re The One For Me Bacon Fatty”
“We Love It When Our Friends Become Successful”

P.S. Don’t ever change, Moz. Here’s to seeing you perform on December 27, unless of course you cancel it.

 

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What Goes Around

Hi. My name is Nancy, and my husband is a serious cyclist.

Hi, Nancy.

It’s been great to find this support group for bike spouses – people who, like me, can discuss the merits of various chamois designs in minimizing butt chafe, who come when called to cradle a component carefully while our mates gingerly perform surgery on their precious rigs, who understand that there will be no travel in July for fear of missing the live broadcast of a key stage of the Tour de France.

I’m speaking up today because I’ve recently taken my relationship with my husband’s bike to a new level, and I thought it might help some of you newbies to hear it.

Maybe I should start with a little history.

When we met in graduate school, my husband was strictly a transportational cyclist and a lukewarm one at that — when his mountain bike was stolen, he was mostly baffled about how someone could cut the lock and chain that tethered it to his apartment balcony without waking him up.

Once we were married he began the slow drift into road biking, and I was an unwitting accelerant. When he took me to see my first professional road race, I was captivated by the spectacle of these graceful athletes and their gleaming cycles. Every birthday and Christmas, I got him subscriptions to bike magazines that he read voraciously, once even tossing aside the annual Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition in favor of the annual Velo News Buyer’s Guide. He and biking were heating up, but slowly. Like an aging domestique on a stationary trainer.

It was when we moved to the Bay Area eighteen years ago that shit got real. With temperate year-round weather and access to some of the country’s best bike routes right out our front door, he indulged in biking with new fervor. He joined a group of like-minded cyclists who ply the roads of the East Bay during crack-of-dawn rides. They’re a competitive, smooth-shaved bunch, merciless when it comes to the flab they call Winter Bacon, or poor bike handling skills. I would say they are the meanest men I’ve ever met, except that when I see them in street clothes, they are as sweet as podium girls. And they’d never abandon a brother biker on the road. Unless he’s got Winter Bacon, in which case that guy totally had it coming.

In this support group, I can confess that when our two daughters were small, I resented the bike. Especially a French one he had, a Look 585. I referred to her as “Mademoiselle Look, the French mistress,” and visualized running her down with the family car so many times that I sometimes thought maybe I actually had. There I was with two toddlers and a blurry post-pregnancy body, panicked that motherhood would swallow me whole and horck me out like a biker does a snot rocket on a stretch of desolated road. And there was Mademoiselle Look, silver and black and weighing only 16 pounds, built for speed in a way I might never be again. Between the time my husband spent with her and the amount of money it took to maintain her good looks, was it any wonder I loathed his two-wheeled companion?

One sunny weekend I decided to show him how I felt, the only way I believed he’d understand. As soon as my husband pulled up from his extra long Saturday ride, I grabbed the car keys and walked past him toward the driveway. “I’m going to buy myself a bike, back in an hour, the girls are playing inside,” I said through clenched teeth, and gunned the car onto the street.

I drove to his favorite bike shop and uttered words every sporting goods salesperson working on commission longs to hear: “I want a bike, shoes, helmet and riding kit, and money is no object.” My credit card aflame, I had them load the bike onto the car top carrier I had no idea how to use. My husband’s jaw dropped when I pulled into the driveway and began unloading. “I didn’t think they were even selling that helmet until next year,” he said.

But then I had to ride the damned thing. The last time I’d sat on a bike with any regularity was 15 years earlier when I lived in Germany, tooling around Munich’s wide, flat bike paths on a rickety three-speed I’d bought at a drug store, which probably explains why parts fell off at regular intervals. My idea of a biking challenge back then was to ride all the way from one Biergarten to the next without sliding drunkenly off the seat.

Where we live in Oakland, a simple bike ride out the front door involves either a harrowing drop or a thigh-busting grind uphill. After a few months, I’d progressed enough to take a one-hour ride and come back exhilarated — not from the fun I’d had, because I hadn’t had any, but from the adrenaline thrill of surviving roads that were the biking equivalent of bunny hills at a ski resort.  I greeted the winter rain with particular joy that year. July came and the bike was still sitting in the garage, coated with cobwebs. I had to face facts. I would never fall for Mr. Giant the way my husband had fallen for Mademoiselle Look.

Time passed, as it does, and the children got older, as they do, and by about eight years ago, any jealousy I’d harbored over Mademoiselle Look and her successor bikes had evaporated. The girls and I had our own weekend morning routines while my husband rode – they took ballet, I sat at a coffee shop and wrote. When it rained and he stayed home, everything felt off kilter. On those days we were meaner than his bike club friends: “It’s just misting! That’s why you have arm warmers! Your friends are all going to go without you!”

Which brings me to where we are now. Given the hours my husband spends gently washing and rubbing down her sleek, sexy frame, his current bike, Signorina Pinarello, provides a LOT of the stress release in my house. By keeping my husband busy for big chunks of time, Signorina Pinarello has made thousands of pages of writing possible for me. My husband recently had an accident involving a barbed wire pileup on a steep descent and my second question – I’m not that awful of a wife – was “Is the bike also okay?” (As an aside, the barbed wire altercation earned him a new nickname from his ever-compassionate bike buddies: Barbie.) On their long rides together, Signorina Pinarello keeps my husband fit, and, except for the crashes, healthy.

So to all of you newcomers to this bike spouse support group, I want to say: don’t think of it as losing a husband.

Think of it as gaining a sister-wife.

***

This is what I read at The Basement Series last week, a fundraiser for scholarships for the LitCamp Writer’s Conference. Applications for the 2016 conference open now – writers, start your engines!

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