Christmas Time Is Here

Well hello there internets! It's your long lost pal Peg, taking a moment away from her long winter's nap to wish you Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule, and/or Happy We-Survived-the-Mayan-Apocalypse! Of course, in my MBLF* world, there's no better way to do that than through music.

Omni Carolers circa 1997

And yes, internets, I know what I'm talking about with Christmas music. I spent 14 years in a professional caroling group (complete with Dickensian costume and Cockney accent), directing the group for nearly half that time. I'm kind of a carol snob. Wailing divas or cutesy pop pablum don't tend to make me happy in general, and they're downright maddening to me at Christmas.

As you'd expect, this playlist is pretty diverse. Swing, ska, folk, rock, Celtic all figure prominently, evoking emotions that range just as widely—joyful, jubilant, wistful, mischievous, reverent. (And of course there are a few cartoons represented, because Christmas without Muppets or Whos is unconscionable.)

Some are chosen for novelty, because I can't resist a musician who successfully ventures outside their usual genre. Some have meaningful lyrics, some remind me of childhood, and some are simply beautiful for their stark simplicity or lush harmonies.

Note that the first track is distinctly NSFW. Please avoid it if you have delicate sensibilities!  It's from the South Park Christmas episode Mr. Hankey's Christmas Classics. It just makes me giggle, but for many it's beyond irreverent and downright offensive.

So with that, internets, I wish you all things merry and bright, and more love than you can handle so that you have plenty to share. The world needs more of that, but especially at Christmas.

* Music-based life form

This Is Halloween

Today's post will be blessedly brief, internets, for I am about to undertake some Halloweening. However, I cannot let today go without an MBLF* post. I do love everything about the holiday (candy! skulls! dress up! witches! bats! etc!), and the music is a big part of my joy (fits in with my stealth Elder Goth status).

So allow me to share with you my seasonal playlist (that, to be fair, gets played pretty frequently all year long). I didn't include the Monster Mash-y, kitschy stuff, instead opting for a sprinkling of Jonathan Coulton when some nerd flavor is required. Some of the tunes don't reference Halloween-type topics, but have a spooky feel to them, and there's plenty of old school Goth for good measure. It's currently 77 songs long, so you should be able to find more than a few bits of choonage to your liking.

Go forth! Listen! Enjoy, and Happy Halloween, internets!





* Music-based Life Form

Thoughtbytes - Take 2

As you may recall, I recently had some technical issues withthis blog. Subsequently, “Rewrite blog post” has been on my To Do list every day since then. Since the Unfortunate Event occurred a week ago, clearly this task has become problematic.

Actually, it’s not the task; it’s my brain. (Stupid Brain Weasels*!)

See, I realized that I’m actually resentful of the site for eating my post. And because I’m Quite Contrary, withholding my bloggy goodness is apparently how this resentment manifests. (Let’s not get into the ridiculousness of resenting an inanimate object, OK? I know it’s silly, but there are my FEELS we’re talking about, internets; they’re not rational by definition.)

So, in the spirit of getting back on the blogging horse (yeesh, mixed metaphors much?), here’s my attempt to recreate last week’s thoughtbyte post.

·         How does a thing called a Burnt Ends Sandwich have any right to taste that good? I mean, the words “burnt” and “ends” together are the sole descriptors of said sandwich. How could that possibly be tasty? But clearly it was… ohhhh, Gates BBQ, I love you so.

·         This love of Gates is yet one more indicator that I am not a Texan, even though I’ve spent more than 30 years here. Texas BBQ? Blech. Too sweet. Give me tangy, vinegary sauce every time.

·         It is, in fact, possible to be funnel caked into submission when you don’t even purchase a funnel cake. Just add 3 friends who each needs her Very Own Funnel Cake, and the willingness to help out when they each in turn admit they can’t finish on their own. (What can I say? I’m a giver!)

·         Apparently, the answer to the question, “Do I really need a third sugar skull t-shirt?” is a resounding “YES!” when said skull is covered in glitter. On a related note, *GLITTER BOMB!* (Sorry, Julian…)

·         Speaking of sugar skulls (like ya do), the group I sing with has been invited to sing for some talented, tap dancing kids at their Halloween show. To look appropriately spooky, we decided on sugar skull make up. I not only get to wear sugar skulls, I get to BE a sugar skull! This makes my not-so-inner Goth girly do some very un-Goth-like squeebling.

·         We’re also learning Donovan’s “Season of the Witch.” Because the Diva knows/loves me, she asked me to sing lead. This led to me squeebling some more. (I know, I know… I love Gothy oontz-oontz stuff, but I also have huge love in my heart for 60s psychedelia. I’m a conundrum.)

Seriously Cthulhu-esque. innit?

·     Went to the Chihuly exhibit at the Dallas Arboretum. It was a lovely event for a friend's milestone birthday. (On Thursdays they do live music on the lawn; that evening featured Big Band tunes.) Some of the glass was lovely, but far too much seemed Lovecraft-inspired. I kept expecting to see an eyeball looking at me, right before it came to life and gobbled humanity whole. 

Me & my Mom-Away-From-Mom
at the Arboretum

      I did, however, manage to use the Big Band theme to try out my Rosie the Riveter look. (Hey, it was humid and I have really sad flat hair on a good day, so it was more of a practical decision than anything... though I will acknowledge my obvious love of playing period dress up games...)

·         While it’s somewhat reasonable to expect to hear the intro to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” on a bagpipe when one is at an Irish music festival, beer can, in fact, make you doubt that what you’re hearing is actually happening. And when the piper deftly launches into the hook from “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and then segues into “Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now),” beer can make you think you might be having a small stroke (at least until a compadre confirms what is going on). For the record, all of this sounded awesome even to people not drinking beer. That was one talented piper.

·         Beer also turns burly guys into Woo Girls. (Adding beer on top of a funnel cake sugar high might also facilitate this transition.) This is, as one would imagine, a veritably fountain of comedy  gold.

I’m sure there’s a thoughtbyte or two missing, but this is what I can remember. I have done my duty by posting. And hey—it got me over being angry at a Web site.

Mostly.

* Sometimes you hear people describe unhealthy, obsessive mental behavior with the “hamster in a wheel” metaphor. My brain is, apparently, an overachiever; it replaced hamsters with weasels. They’re more ferocious and a lot less cute than hamsters and when they run rampant it’s really not pretty.

Welcome to My Life, Tattoo*

I'm not saying it's a fact, internets, but it's possible I have a tattoo problem.

Maybe.

I know of several reputable, talented artists, so fortunately quality is not a problem. And I have a rule (more of a guideline, really) that no ink shall become part of me until I've considered it for a year. If, after that time, it seems like a good idea, then it's a go.

After all, I'm choosing to literally make the image a part of myself. To me, I'm invoking a specific kind of energy or trait—a very symbolic process. A pretty image isn't enough. It has to be meaningful. Of course, that's just my standard for myself. I'm all about the Underpants Rule. If your ideas are different, good on ya. Be the boss of your own underpants. That's just what I need to be happy with my tattoo-related choices.

Feel Good, Inc.

Last week found me ruminating over a random list of Good Things. No surprise that music figured prominently into the equation; it's part of the privilege and birthright of a music-based life form (MBLF).

Since this week has consisted largely of workday fire drills (in the metaphorical sense, of course), this week's post will be brief, but chock full of music-y goodness. You see, internets, I'm sharing with you my instant good mood playlist.

Good Thing*

I firmly believe that as our predominant thoughts and attitudes go, so go our lives—or at least our perception of our lives. And since we’re the ones living them, our perceptions about them are what count, right? I mean, you can’t choose what you feel, but you can absolutely control what you do about what you feel. That’s why I frequently make myself stop and take stock of what in my life is good (though, internets, I confess that it’s sometimes more of a List of Things That Don’t Suck than a List of Happy Making Things because while the contents are the same, my state of mind can only encompass non-suckage instead of embracing what is good).

I’m far from a Pollyanna personality, internets, and I’ve already shared my thoughts on dealing with the Bad Stuff That Befalls Us (known as the The Only Way Through It Is Through It axiom). There is often value, though, in forcibly stopping The Wallowing (or its less intense cousin The Whinging) and actively seeking out Things That Are Good Right Now.

I’m not in particularly dark state of mind at present—and hooray for that!—but in the spirit of preparedness, I’m putting together my list so I can save myself some effort later. (After all, in dark times it makes sense to conserve one’s energy, am I right?) And if anyone out there needs inspiration to undertake just such an exercise for themselves… well, I’m a giver. May you soon find yourself out of the Smelly Gym Socks funk and back in the George Clinton and Parliament funk soonest.

With that, here's today's list:

• A faire patron recently told me I reminded her of comedic actress Kathy Najimy. While this is cool, just being able to make someone laugh is a wonderful, powerfully healing thing for all involved.
• Got a text today from Paleo Jo saying she was looking up “awesome” in the dictionary and there I was. What a great way to start out a day (especially when the compliment is from someone you love/respect a lot).

• I am fortunate enough to have many friends who randomly send love my way, whether I need it or not. I believe that to have a good friend you must first be a good friend. Apparently I don’t suck at this, because I am awash in kind, loving, and incredibly wacky people.

• While Spring in Texas only lasts about 2 weeks before we start the descent from Oh-My-Heavens-It’s-a-Tad-Warmish into I’m-About-to-Burst-Into-Flames-Why-Oh-Why-Lord-Won’t-You-Smite-Me-With-an-Iceberg, it’s quite lovely. Fields of bluebonnets never fail to bliss me out, and lunches and/or happy hours on the patio provide many of life’s simple pleasures – food, drink, friends, balmy temperatures and slight breezes – all in one. This is somewhat mitigated by the constant threat of tornados, but that just adds a soupçon of danger to the mix – delicious danger.
• Spotify. I love it. I never quite got around to setting up stations on Pandora so I can’t say Spotify is better or worse than, but I enjoy the ability to peruse friends’ playlists or find other tracks from artists to see if I like their repertoire or if it’s just that one song. For MBLF’s, there’s little better than this. I’m currently grooving on the Hipster International playlist. I don’t know the person who built it, but I’m glad they did. It’s keeping me energized and motivated without distracting me from tasks at hand.
• Hooray for cheese. So grateful I’m not lactose intolerant. From the bitiest bleu to the smokiest gouda, from asiago to manchego to extra-sharp cheddar… cheese is good food. You’d think I was from Wisconsin and not a Michigander. Lordy be, I loves me some cheese. (Yes, it really is about the simple pleasures some days, internets.)
• I have three wonderful mothers. There’s the Mom Who Made Me, the Mom Who Raised Me, and my Mom Away from Mom. It’s the Mom trifecta. I win!
• While I have some issues with my body, it’s still pretty great. It lets me see, feel, taste, and hear things. It has put up with neglect from me and continued to function. It lets me experience the world.

I could go on, but this smattering is enough to remind me of the embarrassing wealth of good things in my world. Of course, some days it’s all about where you set the bar, so when life is in Supreme Suckage mode you may have to start with “I’m not actually on fire right now,” but 1) that’s a very good thing; and B) it gives you a solid base on which to build.

So, internets, what’s on your list?

* Yes, internets, it's a two-fer title that is both a description of the post's contents and a hit single from Fine Young Cannibals' 1988 album "The Raw and the Cooked." And really, I only had to Google it to double-check the year...

Black Holes and Revelations*

Last Friday involved a rather harrowing event for me, internets:I had an MRI.

What's more, I didn't completely lose the rest of what passes for my mind.It may sound like a First World Problem, but trust me—it's a nigh heroic feat.

Lest you fret over the fate of yours truly, rest assured that all is well in your pal Peg's world. It was routine stuff—or at least as routine as it gets when you've had Boobonic Plague. I'm due for the usual spate of -ologists groping my bits to be sure that my breasticles aren't once again trying to kill me (not as much fun as it sounds).

Instead of a mammogram, this time my surgeon wanted an MRI. She seems like a pretty nice person; she even commented on her love for Firefly when I wore a "Shiny!" t-shirt to a check-up, so I think it's safe to assume that her reasons for this recommendation were altruistic (though the traumatic awkwardness of the experience may indicate some latent masochism lurking somewhere in her psyche).

Aside from the will-my-ample-assets-fit-in-that-narrow-tube trauma, there's the matter of being face down in a tiny space for the better part of a half hour. I've always thought of myself as a pretty strong person, internets, but I'm here to tell you that in an appallingly short time frame I would have confessed to Tweeting state secrets to the leaders of Alpha Centauri via tin foil helmet.

You see, internets, not only was I confined in the tube of doom, but I was face-down-and ass-in-the-air, with my girlie bits sticking through a couple of holes (presumably to enable scanning of said bits). The tech was as polite and professional as she could be while manhandling me to ensure optimal position (that's what SHE said!), but that's what it boils down to.

I was given a tiny face cradle similar to the one on a massage table... but unlike during a massage it wasn't open air on the other side, making it only incrementally less claustrophobic. Also, I was clearly not getting a massage out of this (not that I'm bitter). Had to keep my arms over my head, too, like some perverted cliff diver with a Rhode Island-sized ass.

The tech provided ear plugs, then gave me headphones on top of those. This was somewhat of a mixed blessing, as she asked me a couple questions when she returned. I may have agreed to some shameful things, internets; I have no idea what she said, and my non-committal un-replies could be interpreted many ways.

So... yeah. These adventures all occurred before the main event. Yee and Haw.

While I was grateful for the headphones' noise dampening qualities, the music choice was less appealing—generic light piano hits of the *insert indeterminate decade here*. This is where being an MBLF (music-based life form) created an unexpected challenge. At first, the music seemed to be your basic slightly new age piano fare, but then I'd catch a phrase that sounded hauntingly familiar. It wasn't quite enough, though, for my brain to latch on and confirm it it was a tune I knew.

This went on for a couple of minutes and in such situations you're wise to take any available recourse to help pass the time. Once I confirmed that I was actually hearing "I Will Always Love You" (couldn't recognize it without Whitney's hollering—what? Too soon? She had a wonderful voice; I just never cared for what she did with it.), I was able to turn it into a game: See How Fast You Can Figure Out the Song. Parker Brothers would never buy it, but given my limited resources... work with what you've got, right?

It doesn't sound like much of a challenge, but without lyrics and familiar instrumentation some songs were a little tricky. Then, of course, I realized that I could too readily identify songs that I never even liked a little bit ("(Everything I Do) I Do It for You" in only 3.2 seconds—REALLY, brain? Really?!?). Kind of upsetting, but considering my position—which was getting more stiff and sore with each passing moment—I kept it in perspective. (You know you're pretty bad off when you start thinking that a routine mammogram sounds like a cake walk.)

When the actual scan was occurring was the beginning(ish) of the surreal part of the experience. The metallic clanging—even muted—turned the serenade into something more akin to Skrillex** remixes of light rock hits. (Yeah... let your brain meats marinate on that concept for just a moment.) Thankfully, the tech wasn't too alarmed at my giggling. I'm sure she was grateful it wasn't complaining, screaming, or crying (yet).

Soon, even the luster of musical entertainment (such as it was) began to fade. That, internets, is where this wee blog came in handy. I started making mental notes of the experience. With each ludicrous thought, I realized I had the makings of a blog post. Such pursuits helped me pass at least another 5 - 7 minutes.

Sadly, the brilliant mental meanderings are lost to the ether, internets, as I had no way to write down was was most assuredly the most brilliant, insightful blog post in the history of EVER. (Yes, internets, it's true: this isn't the greatest blog post in the world; this is just a tribute.)

Even with all these shenanigans and mental calisthenics, though, I was only half way through the process. That realization alone nearly broke me (particularly as I realized my arrogance in turning down the opportunity to pee just because I didn't really have to go. RIGHT. THEN.).

I remembered something I learned about myself during radiation, internets: if I must experience pain, I'd rather have intense bursts of pain than prolonged low-grade pain (those of you making unsavory inferences—HUSH!) During the slow cooking of my tender vittles (a.k.a. radiation), I began to understand how crazy-making chronic pain can be. Intellectually, I knew that treatment would end and eventually my burns would heal; emotionally there were many days where that knowledge did me absolutely no good.

While it wasn't on par with radiation, the dull ache in my shoulders did have a similar effect—particularly because I couldn't move to alleviate the stress. When the tech came in to add contrast to my IV, I asked if I could shift a little; the answer was a resounding if apologetic "no."

With that, each minute grew exponentially harder to handle. I think I went through all the stages of the Kübler-Ross model in 5 minutes flat, leaving me to grieve the loss of the concept of myself as a strong person (and, possibly, my self-respect).

Just when all seemed lost, of course, came respite and the end of the longest half hour I've spent in quite some time. I must confess a small blush of pride when the front desk staff complimented me on how well I handled the ordeal.

"Me, I just go straight for the drugs," one confessed.

"Shit," I thought. "I didn't even know that was an option!"

It's probably for the best, though. I'm not sure the world is ready for the almost-awesomeness of a drug induced Tribute-esque blog post.

Besides... my boobs are still healthy. It's all good.





*  For a post referencing a lot of music, I didn't actually reference Muse anyplace except in the title. Weird.

** Imagine the gleeful if slightly psychotic chortling, internets, when this decidedly obscene and NSFW song was the first to play on my ride home; it sounds just like getting an MRI!

My Loud Brain*

Help me, internets! I'm new to this whole public blogging thing and I'm not sure of the protocol. Do I introduce myself? It seems a bit, I don't know, sudden or presumptuous to just start spilling my thoughts onto the pixelated page.

But hey, there's a reason my name is Square Peg. I'm one of those grown ups who is old enough to know better, but frequently doesn't act that way. I'm waiting for that awkward moment when I enter a room and it literally reverts to grade school (instead of that metaphorical "High School Never Ends" state we all know and love loathe), with everyone pointing at me, saying, "Look at you, ya big FAKER!"

Yes, I'm an awkward teenager in a grown up suit.

(Those of you who know me IRL shaddup! Your help is not helpful!)

ANYhoodle...

I'm noticing as I type this that my brain is a noisy place. I guess that's the double-edged sword of being a music-based life form. A couple of key words and suddenly *BAM!* I've got a lyrics snippet in my head, which turns into a full-blown song and then I get all distractimicated (yes, internets, that's what I meant to type) by the song in my mental jukebox.

And if it's not music, then it's a quote from a movie/TV show/comedian. I hear Eddie Izzard in my head a lot with his oh-so-British "I-don't-know-how-to-wrap-this-up" phrase... So, yeah.

Occasionally it's Jerry Seinfeld and his "Ever notice how... blah blah observational comedy schtick here."

So yes, it's loud inside my brain. And now maybe by sharing this, some of it will rub off on you, internets.

Muahahaha!

*ahem*

I mean, "You're welcome."



*So as you can see, internets, I didn't mean my brain is loud is the same way that chartreuse, fuchsia and purple plaid is loud. I don't know why I felt the need to clarify, but there you have it.