She Lives

She Gets No Respect

Oh my!

She's So Moved

Moving into a brand new rehearsal studio is a lot like moving into a new home:

• It's a chance to purge yourself of unwanted, unnecessary and damaged items.  Like chords, cables, processors, casters, speakers, and Bob Seger posters.
• It's also an opportunity to buy new, functional, and better items.  Like chords, cables, processors, casters, speakers and Pink Floyd posters.
• You start out having the guys carefully position larger items like drums and speakers in strategic locations.
• By the time you get down to smaller items like microphone stands, you find yourself calling out, "Just put it anywhere and I'll move it later."
• You wonder where the musicians will stand because the drums, speakers and refrigerator take up every square inch of floor space.
• You get down to the bottom of the boxes where the chords are inextricably tangled and the adapters don't seem to go to much of anything, and know that it's time to pitch the rest.
• The guys see usefulness in the dregs of aforementioned boxes and decide to take up precious studio storage space by keeping it all on the studio's only shelf in a filthy milk crate they found in the garage.  In the back of the garage.  Behind a tool box that hasn't been moved or opened since WWII.
• While you're scraping multiple layers of dirt and unidentifiable pink sticky stuff off three dozen cables, the guys take a break to discuss the great job they did caulking the cracks between the acoustic tile.
• You can't convince the guys that the band doesn't need two electronic harmonizers taking up valuable space on the mounting rack when we have four vocalists who are all perfectly capable of singing harmony.
• Ditto the pitch analyzer.
• Ditto the multi-band interface.
• Ditto the sonic maximizer.
• You reach the conclusion that there are simply too many toys!!!
• You spend an hour inhaling Goo Gone while trying to get the various and sundry layers of masking tape, stickers and other unidentifiable adhesives with illegible cave man scratchings off the sound board.
• You start out determined to thoroughly clean and label everything neatly and to make sure it stays carefully organized.
• You bring your label maker so everyone's name can be printed neatly onto the sound board rather than their initials scribbled in Sharpee on a torn piece of masking tape.
• The guys grab the label maker and start printing things like "The World's Most Rockin' Drummer" and "Saxophonists Use Tongue" to stick onto the 0.5 inch space under their respective channels.
• You have to take the label maker away from the guys.
• The guys take a break to admire the wall-mounted guitar hangers they fashioned out of bicycle hooks.
• The refrigerator is empty.  So you make a shopping list.
• The guys add to the list items like 120volt cables, 1/8th-to-1/4inch adapters, XLR converters...you know, stuff you can just toss into the grocery cart.
• Which also happens to be the same stuff they just pitched into the garbage.
• Meanwhile, the guys complain that they're hungry.
• No matter how carefully you work to set everything up, there are always leftover items that you know you'll never use again, so you box them up for the garage sale you know you'll never have.
• Before you started moving in, you thoroughly vacuumed the brand new carpet.  When you're finished moving in, the carpet looks anything but brand new.
• While you're vacuuming (again!), the guys take a break - their ninth break - to discuss the best way to print the band's logo onto the bass drum head.
• When you're done, you're dirty, grouchy, your back aches and you're ready to bash the bass drum over the guitarist's head.
• And you sleep really well that night.

She Pumps

Because I drive a big, ol' honkin', road-hawgin', gas-guzzlin' Suburban Assault Vehicle (with a hemi), I am, therefore, especially sensitive about the skyrocketing gasoline prices. The oil companies really know how to hurt a girl where it counts. 

Three years ago, (a few months after I bought the Mama Mobile) my husband predicted $3.00/gallon by early 2008.  I laughed.  Now he's predicting $4/gallon by Christmas.  I'm not laughing.  He's also saying $5/gallon by next summer.  Makes me cry.

When I'm at the pump waiting as the dollar amount spins out of control, bracing myself for the grand total, I usually clean out my car.  I think there's a post or two about that around here somewhere.  That's good multi-tasking, don't you think?  Spending much money while simultaneously clearing my vehicle of debris?  Just to make sure I'm as efficient with my time as possible, I usually dig deep for colorful phrases that describe my disdain for oil companies without actually entering into the realm of profanity.  It's quite the little challenge, I must say.  And somewhat therapeutic.  For the car, anyway.  And maybe the oil companies.

Anyway, someone has suggested something I can do in lieu of bashing the oil boys.  I can pray at the pump.  For lower gas prices. Here's the link.  I find the comments interesting.

She Unites

I think this is a good use blog space.  So many human rights issues to choose from!  It will be quite a challenge to choose only one.

So, if you are among the two people who still read this blog, won't you help me spread the word?  And join me with a post of your own on May 15th.

She Survives

Not much sleep.  Many goofy pranks.  Sort of suck-ish food.  Lots of technical difficulties.  Gallons of coffee.  Too many snacks.  A very funny speaker.  A really good message.   Great fellowship. New relationships.  Frequent, hearty laughter.  Awesome worship. Scores of lovely women with beautiful hearts for the Lord.  The presence of God...

Best retreat ever!

She Sees a Pattern Here

After some years in women's ministry, I'm beginning to notice a pattern. About this time every year, I just want to quit. Completely. No more women's ministry for me. I don't know whether this has anything to do with it or not, but our church's annual Ladies' Retreat is this coming weekend.

This is actually the first year our church has had a Ladies' Retreat that I have not been in charge of. Last year, I trained someone else to take over that job and she's doing way better than I ever did. It's awesome! She needed help with a few things so I told her I'd be part of her team (read: committee). This is actually a new team. We're calling it the Tech Team.

The tech team basically consists of making sure all necessary technology is present, in good working order, and has someone with sufficient skills to run it. Cameras, video cameras, laptop with Power Point projector, video player, lapel mic, sound system... That kind of stuff. Not that big of a deal, in my opinion.

And I'm in the ladies' praise band. There are seven women in that band. Think about that for just a second. Seven women. In a band. With seven schedules that we try to work rehearsals around. And seven opinions on every song, chord change, into, ending, chorus, bridge, verse and what to wear for every event.  It's....a lot.

Somehow, some way I also ended up in charge of skits this year. Many skits. Skits the speaker we've hired sent to us that go along with her message. A skit we video taped involving much scenery, makeup and costuming.  A skit we did in church to announce the retreat, involving BB guns, a military cadence and a gun drill straight out of Bill Murray's "Stripes" movie. And a skit with nine actresses in it that we will rehearse this morning. (Nine women with nine different schedules all getting together in the same room at the same time? Yeah, right.)

All things involving technology have come under spiritual attack these past two weeks; broken cameras, computer glitches, bad DVD disks, instrument cables shorting out, wheels falling off of amps, etc. No biggie. Just a lot of trouble-shooting and prayer takes care of all that.  God is sovereign over technology, after all.

But the skits!!

As per my usual pattern, I swear I will not work on next year's retreat at all! No way!

And, as per my usual pattern, when the retreat team gathers for our post-retreat meeting to discuss how things went and start brainstorming next year's retreat, I will probably agree to help out.

Because, per my usual pattern, I know I will be blessed among women by what God does through me and in me at the retreat this weekend.

But no more skits!

She Works

After eleven blissfully unemployed years - okay, that means not counting M-cubed (Motherhood, Musicianship & Ministry) - I have officially reentered the workforce. Seriously-officially as in, I just got my first paycheck! For $53.11. That's what 4 hours/day, 2 days/week, barely above minimum wage gets ya. But hey! I earned every centavo of it and am pleased as punch, which is an expression those of us in the over-40 age bracket use on occasion and can get away with because we're closer to the possibility of seeing a Social Security check than those under 40, okay?

Oh, yeah. My new job is working in my friend's Christian book store/coffee shop that she just opened a few weeks ago. It's the only Christian book store within 30 minutes of our community and it rocks!  Because I keep music turned UP!

In my previously employed life, I was an R.N. My fellow R.N.s that did not take an eleven year hiatus can earn the sum total of my net paycheck in a single hour. I remember what it was like working as an R.N. It was like a heavy person being on a clear liquid diet year after year while stepping on the scale every payday to see they'd lost a couple of ounces at a time. Progress, yes, but one can't help wondering whether it's really worth the brutality of it all.

I hear nursing is better now. I hear there's less paper work. Which was horrific and getting worse when I was nursing. I also hear there's more computer work. Which there was zero of back in my day. I hear the number of patients per nurse is about the same, but the patients are way sicker. (Is that a word?) And I hear I can make a lot more as a nurse than I can working in my friend's book store. (Duh.)

To all that I say, "This is where the Lord has me right now and I'm content with my itty-bitty paycheck."  I guess  part of that is because I've been out of nursing so long, I have to take refresher course to practice again.

What? Go back to school? Me?!?!? You can't be serious.

All hard work brings a profit,
but mere talk leads only to poverty. Prov. 14:23

She's Out $1.00

Well, I'm glad somebody thinks it's funny!

Kinda like the old joke that my dear friend Allen, the uber smart guitarist Berkely School of Music Grad with the PhD loves to tell:

Kid gets a bass guitar for Christmas. Dad arranges lessons, so the kid can learn to play and have fun.
First week of lessons, Dad asks kid, "Hey son, how'd the lesson go this week?"
"Great, Dad! I learn the notes on the low E string up to the 5th fret!"
Next week comes along, Dad asks the kid, "Son, how'd your lesson go this week?"
"Dad, it's going great! I learned the notes on the A string up to the 5th fret!"
Third week arrives, Dad asks the kid, "Well...You haven't mentioned the lesson this week. How did it go?"
"Man, I didn't go to the lesson this week, I had a gig."

*snort*

She's Just a Temp

Yesterday, my husband was sitting at his desk at work, pounding away at the keyboard, coding who-knows-what, when Shawn popped his head in the door, said "Howdy" then walked on.  Shawn is a Katrina evacuee that landed in this area.  He's also black.  Black folk from New Orleans do not say "Howdy!"  They just don't. 

Shawn's also something of a clown.  He works at my husband's company as a temp.  I met him at the Christmas party - the only guy I really liked out of the whole crew.  He's really funny and...well, from New Orleans, so there's that.  And he's just funny!

Less than fifteen minutes after popping into my husband's office, Shawn was dead.  Massive coronary.  Flat-lined in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.  He was 37 and left behind 4-year-old twins.  He had no medical insurance, but the company is paying for everything; medical, funeral, and they're setting up a fund for the twins.  In that respect, Shawn was fortunate - that he worked at a company that would do all that for someone who wasn't even one of their employees.

Life is very uncertain.  We're all really just temps on earth.

She Stands in the Back

There's a joke among musicians that the bass player should just stand in the back, shut up and play the bass.  I don't know why the joke is funny, but I hear references to it all the time.

So, in my friend's last campaign for a seat on the school board, I did just that.  I helped edit her campaign materials, wrote her newspaper responses, proofed letters and emails before she sent them out, and so forth.  That was pretty much my contribution to the campaign.  Background stuff.  That and, well, standing at one of the polling places on election day, holding a sign and waving at passing cars in freezing weather.  There's always that; just stand there.

Well, it was actually an interim position, so we're back on the campaign trail.  This time, however, she brought all her workers together for a meeting before we started the gig.  It was a very productive meeting.  It might have gone better had I not expressed my disdain for the currently proposed bond package that will share ballot space with my school board-ish friend.  (We do need a new 9th grade center, but does it really have to cost $34M?  And the indoor football practice field that's better than any but the biggest of Texas colleges'?  We really need that thing?  Extravagance!)  My thoughts on the matter were shared by some, but not others.  Hence, I effectively split the band...er...team.

I know, I know...Just stand in the back, shut up and play the bass!

She Not Doing Much Damage

Last weekend, my husband and his brother went to spread Coon's ashes over the ranch.  Why'd it take them so long?  Dunno.  Anyway, they figured out they couldn't spread Coon over the ranch via airplane or helicopter without running the risk of having their dad blow back on them.  So they opted to carry him onto the ranch and spread him around his favorite fishing spot.

Jon and his brother are the fourth generation to work that particular ranch.  After the Sooners settled the area in the late 1800's, some of the streams were damed to create several good sized lakes.  They were stocked and made fine fishing holes.  The land was also used for hunting - deer, boar, whatever's good to shoot, I guess.   So it morphed into a hunting resort for the local ritz.  During prohibition it was used as a storage and distribution point for running liquor while continuing to be used as a hunting resort by folks like the local sheriff and judge.  Legend has it there was also a brothel on the property at the time.   After that, my husband's family acquired it and used it for cattle ranching.

Coon retired off the ranch shortly after Jon and I married in the mid-80's.  His cousin actually owned the land and, when the cousin died, cousin's wife denied Coon access to the property.  He periodically sneaked in to fish the lakes anyway.  She eventually died and her daughter now owns it.  Since Coon retired, the land once again lays fallow, no cattle, no vehicles, no people except the gas company that tends the easement for its gas line. 

As Jon and his brother walked onto the ranch, they were stunned.  In less than 20 years without human intervention, it became unrecognizable to them.  The horse corral with plank fencing was not only gone, but entirely covered by brush and even had 6 foot pin oaks growing in what had been its center.  The road leading up the house was completely overgrown, impossible to trace, totally erased.  The woods consumed entire pastures that had once taken years of human effort to clear.  Hay fields could not be found.  Outbuildings were on their sides, mostly rotted and covered by plant growth.  The guys had trouble reaching Coon's favorite fishing spot - a place that once bore a well-worn path, now almost inaccessible. The house still stands, but the roof has fallen in.  It won't be there much longer.

This all begs the question:  Who do we really think we are to say we humans can destroy this earth?  As my husband witnessed first hand, what takes us generations to build, God's creation can fully reclaim in a mere two decades.

And Coon's ashes are now a part of the land onto which he poured a life time of blood, sweat and tears.

Who do we really think we are?

She's All Psalmy

23rd Psalm for the Bassist

The Lord is my drummer, I shall not rush.
He maketh me to lay out in tasteful places
He leadeth me beside cool meter changes
He restoreth my "one".

Yeah man, though I read through the
trickiest of charts, I will fear no train wrecks.
For You are with it.
Your ride and Your snare, they comfort me

You setteth up a solo for me
In the presence of mine guitarists.
You annointeth my lines with drive.
My groove overfloweth.

Surely good feel and swing will follow me
through all the tunes of each set.
And I will dwell in the pocket
the whole gig long.

                   --author unknown

She's White on Rice

Build vocabulary skills and help end world hunger at the same time?  Okay, that could work.

She Needs Some Ch-ch-ch-changes

Thought this was pretty clever.

She Does Lapse

Is it just me, or do we forget things we'd like to remember, and remember things we'd rather forget?