Vegan. No way.

Here's the deal.

I skimmed a book in the bookstore earlier today called Skinny Bitch. And, apart from being funny and frank (which I like) it also promotes a vegan diet (which I don't like.)

Not because I believe veganism is wrong. How could one argue that? But because I LOVE MEAT. I love eating it. And I don't want to be told I'm a fool to like it. Or eggs. Or dairy.

I know, I know. I've been raised with the propaganda slogan "Beef. It's what's for dinner." And I've bought it, hoof, line and sinker. But MAN. Meat is goooooood. It's tasty. And so is cheese. And so are fresh eggs from my friend Shelly's chickens. Scrambled with a dab of butter. Mmmmm...

I think the whole thing - veganism - makes sense. Don't get me wrong. I just don't want to be right.

It makes sense that meat should not be a part of every meal, every day. If we were still hunter-gatherers, we would not have the luxury of freshly killed (or even sun-dried) buffalo, or venison, or what have you. That makes sense. But sometimes, right? Sometimes, you would eat meat.

As I try to foster better eating habits for myself overall, I make sure not to over-indulge in red meat, and I try to keep any portions of any meat I do have right-sized. But I will have meat. Chicken. pork, beef, buffalo, venison, turkey, rabbit. I will eat that stuff right up. And even though so many people have "seen the light" I honestly cannot imagine that being me. If you are a vegan or vegetarian who has found happiness in your meatlessness, I truly am happy for you. And I will prepare vegetarian selections to enjoy right along with you (don't have a handle on vegan dishes, but I can learn.) But, when you come to my house, be prepared. Meat is in full effect on the premises. And it gets ett up.

I have a bible bump.

For the last week or so, I'd been noticing a weird sort of irritation around the back of my left wrist. Then, on Tuesday, I just happened to look down at it and was shocked to find I have a weird lump on it.

I called the doctor to make an appointment. Well, I called the appointment lady (Kaiser patients call the appointment line. No talky to your doctor's office.) And she said he wasn't available until next week but that she could have them call me. To try to give me one of the slots reserved for "urgent" cases. I said, all brave and stoic, "Oh, no, no. This thing doesn't hurt, really. It's just sort of agitating. Let's just do it next week. Monday will be fine."

How I've suffered. The wait. The anxiety. The WTF?? of it all....

It's so weird to see a lump on your body. And it's sad but true that "lump" is synonymous with "cancer" in my mind. So, I've just been staring at it for three days, thinking, what if I've got a rare wrist cancer? Cancer of the wrist. That'd be so lame.

Today, it finally occurred to me to Google "lump on wrist." And wouldn't you know it? From the looks of things, I have something called a ganglion cyst, a.k.a "bible bump," a.k.a. "Gideon's disease." It's a fluid-filled sac that builds up (different theories on why) and appears mostly on the backs of wrists. Mine isn't as big as the one pictured in the wikipedia entry, but it's totally noticeable. In the not-so-distant past, a common remedy for these cysts was to slam a heavy book down on them to pop them. So, people thought, "Hmmmm... I need a heavy book. Nooo... not the 'Joy of Cooking'... no, not the L-M volume of the encyclopedia... Oh! Here we go. The Word of God. Perfect." Not only is that insane, it's also creepy to think this thing could pop. Gross.

I'm so totally grossed out by my bible bump.

el debarge is NOT gloria estefan

So, I had to write about this even though I should be writing about software. Today at work we had our usual status meeting. And, I have to say, even though status meetings are supposed to be boring, I really like the people I work with, so our meetings always have a kookiness to them that keep them from being completely mind-numbing. We always get off the subject at some point and today was no different. Ultimately, we ended up talking about DeBarge and, specifically, "The Rhythm of the Night." I sang a little of it, we all giggled, then suddenly, a terrible thing happened.

Someone asked, "Wait. I thought that was that Miami Cuban band?"

I gasped.

"Do you mean Miami Sound Machine? Are you talking about "Conga?"

I was heartbroken. How, oh how, do you confuse the two songs? One involves the Motown rhythms we all know and love, teeny-bopified as all things seemed to have been in the 80's, while the other practically single-handedly placed the montuno flair squarely into the top of the American pop charts for perhaps the first time ever. Oh, no. These are not the same songs.

Okay, perhaps the very subject matter is enough for listeners to get them mixed up, seeing as how they're both songs about infectious rhythms you cannot deny. Sure, I can see that. If you're a totally PASSIVE listener. But come on! One begins with a bass line and, like, Jamaican steel drums, with a very ballady intro, "When it feels like/the world is on your shoulders/and all of the madness/has got you goin' crazy." Then you find out about a place where you can dance the whole night away and shake your blues right away, and finally, at the end, there's a very Lionel Richie-esque call and response with a chorus of voices: "Naaa na na nah!" indicative of people everywhere pouring into the streets, succumbing to the rhythm of the night. This is a story, people. This is a story of triumph over the blues with a top-down cadillac and your brothers and sisters, some rhinestone sparkle, a little hairspray, and all the people in your neighborhood. It's like, Sesame Street meets... Well. It's like Sesame Street. For 80's discotheques.

The other song, "Conga," is a command. There's no story. This is a fast, undeniable spell you are put under from the word go. There is no exposition. Bam. The horn section starts and you're on. "Come, shake your body, baby, do the conga, I know you can't control yourself any longer!" says Gloria Estefan - twice, just so you know she's serious - and then, boom. A piano furiously syncopates the Din Din din-din-din Din Din, as you slide down the chromatic montuno scale into a pool of rhythmic escape. The rest of the song is all about the beat and the dance. And at the end? No denouement. There's no fading out of party Na-na-nahs. Nope. The song WAS the party, and if you missed it, too bad. It is over. You'll have to remember not wait around so long next time the Miami Sound Machine comes for you.

These are not remotely the same songs.

Want to refresh your memory? YouTube videos here:

DeBarge: "The Rhythm of the Night"

Miami Sound Machine: "Conga"

Back to software.

elaborate dream

I had an elaborate dream last night, and when I awoke, I felt as if I'd slept for days. In a good way.

Can't verbalize all of it, but one part I can retell is this: My friend and her daughter (real life people, not dream life people) played a duet. The little girl played the drums and the mom played the piano. (I don't think either of them play an instrument in real life, but I could be wrong.) And the little girl had this simple rhythm she was keeping. It wasn't just rat tat tat tat, though. It involved a roll, so it was more like: rat-a-tat tat, rat-a-tat tat. And I was very impressed by her consistency. And the mom played sort of a jazzy, slightly avant-garde melody. They were playing for me. To show me what the little girl could do. And I was beaming. Partly because I wanted to encourage the little girl, but partly because it was thrilling how consistent she was. It wasn't robotic. It really was musical. And then, the mom began to slow the melody she played on the piano, in a ritard, signifying the end of the song was near. She raised her eyes to her child, as if to say, "Remember? Here's the way we end together." And the little girl dutifully slowed, letting her mom lead the new rhythm, but complementing it perfectly. And they reached their end together, with the mom hitting one last piano key. And it was so beautiful.

I woke up ready to walk the dogs.

Um. It's happening.

That thing where I fight a little against getting older.

I just spent ten minutes fishing through the hair on my temples for silver hairs and then carefully separating them from the darker herd and mercilessly plucking them out of my scalp.

I used to say to people complaining about their grey hairs, "I think I'm going to like when my hair starts to go grey. I'll finally have some character. I hate that I have such a babyface." How did I not get slapped?? I was delusional and smarmy. Seriously. How do I have any friends at all?

Eight little silver hairs met their deaths tonight. But the follicles will live to push new ones out into the world. I will either stop plucking or begin spending money on hair dye.

Which will it be? Only time will tell.

not singing many weddings these days

I feel kinda weird continuing a blog of this title, but I love it so much that I don't want to let it go. So, despite the fact that I don't sing with the wedding variety band anymore... I'm keepin' the blog. And I'll write about performances in general, which could be anything from singing the occasional wedding with my fabulous friends at AdHoc, or a play I'm in, like the upcoming MacB, or even Freak Train, although there's already a MySpace blog for general thoughts about FT.

And maybe. Just maybe. I'll start singing with other bands. Or start my own.

holy shit.

31 and I've never had a band of my own. That's kind of like a The 40-Year-Old Virgin meets Virgina Woolfe.

Reading thru the archives

Wow.

My friend Lisa and I have been talking about doing a little writing project together. Let's just say that we figured out that we have a collection of similar material and we think it might all add up to something good. So, I went tripping through my writing archives today and whooo boy.

I am SO glad I'm not dating any more. Why do women torture themselves over men they have no business being with? I have a few "letters" I wrote to someone who did not love me like I loved him. These letters were never meant to be be read by him. Just to keep me from calling him or saying things I couldn't take back. I'm glad I have them. It's a great foil to what I have now with Lee. Not because I think we live a bliss-a-minute existence, but because I've never felt the need to write him a letter full of things I can't tell him!

Also, I found an IM coversation I copied and pasted into a document* from someone I'd met when I had a profile on Nerve.com over four years ago. Literally, four pages of IM conversation later, we ended up meeting for coffee, closing the place, then going back to his apartment where we made out all night long and then I was stuck at his place when my old bessie blazer wouldn't start during the blizzard that had begun. (For Denverites, this was the 2003 blizzard, eclipsed only recently by last winter's snow frenzy.) We saw each other a couple other times but it really didn't go far. I've always wondered how he ended up - he was a bit unsettled here in D-town - and when I saw his handle again from the IM, I remembered how unique his name was and I looked him up.

I googled a past internet date. Does this qualify me as a stalker?? What will Lee think? (I've got a lot of embarrassing things on my husband so he'd best not make fun.) Anyway, I found this blast from the past pretty quickly as he has a blog. I intend to send him a note to say hello. From what I've read, he's back in Chicago and very happy indeed. Which really is good to see. Because, now that I've said how happy he seems, I'll also say that when I say he seemed "unsettled" what I really mean is he seemed borderline suicidal.

Anyway. There's nothing much to this, other than to say that I want to email him to say, yay you! Great blog! But, honestly, I don't remember how we left it. I don't think we had any kind of argument. I think we just stopped calling one another. Which is a mutual thing, so that's good terms, right?

Is finding someone's very public blog the modern-day equivalent to running in to someone at the grocery store?

*Please tell me I'm not the only one who saves IM conversations. Am I really weird and creepy?