Hermit-phobia

I am friends with hermits. You would think I'd love that quality in a friend because I'm terribly anxious when I'm in my own home for extended periods of time, but that's not always the case. Because they are hermit-like I have to make the first move (again, not always fun) and rely on their schedule to figure out my own. I've tried studying the hermit in their own habitat, how they manage to create an atmosphere of an open-invitation policy. That is what's so fascinating to me; they manage to make me feel so welcome and yet they don't like to leave. I can't quite capture the same courtesy extended to me regarding my own house. Maybe my outward appearance and feelings toward my own house come across that I don't want people to come over because I'd much rather leave and go where they are.

Does that make me a coward or a good friend? I don't know. I'm still trying to figure that out.

I thought it would help me to research famous TV hermits, but all it yielded me was Herman's Hermits. (Great band, but not exactly what I was hoping for) and Eric "Plays-with-Squirrels" Matthews from Boy Meets World. Again, not really the result I was expecting.

I'm well aware of the idea that the world would be pretty boring if we were all the same, but would it kill the universe to send me a friend that was a little more like me? One who doesn't mind spending time over here? One who calls me? 

* End rant * 

I told you I feel better when I get things off my chest in writing. 

~Lady Jane 

Theme Song

Music speaks to me. It makes me reflect on my life and certain people in my life have their own song. Anytime it comes on the radio, my thoughts immediately flutter back to that simpler time.

I didn't have a boyfriend in high school but I did have a good friend who happened to be a boy. His parents were always so nice to me and constantly thanked me for being their son's friend. I couldn't help but feel good loved and welcomed. He didn't always make the best decisions, but he tried and that's what counted. He was one of the few people that helped me celebrate my 16th birthday. He came over at Thanksgiving and fit in like one of the family. He was my best friend. So every time I hear this song, I think fondly of him.

I will admit I loved those silly Facebook games of discovering the soundtrack to your life. I really liked it when the songs fit the category, I didn't like it so much when it didn't match up. Sometimes I wish that I had a soundtrack to smile and cry to.

Although, every time I hear this song, it reminds of a boy that I did date for a brief moment.

I wasn't exactly sure what it meant to him that I reminded him of this song, especially since a few weeks later, it fizzled out.

But the boy that stole my heart and made me a wife and mother has too many songs that remind me of him. But the one that makes my toes curl and my heart fly is this classic:

The first time that we ever danced to this song, was in front of my house. He was dropping me off from a date and this song came on the radio. He parked the car, but instead of turning off the car, he turned up the radio. He escorted me from the car and without light but the headlights, we held each other and swayed.

I had read about two characters who shared the same experience and thought that was the most romantic thing I'd ever read. I had never told the husband about this dream of mine. He just knew somehow and made it true for me. 

Music is powerful and seeded with memories.


What's your favorite song? The one that makes you happy every time you hear it?

~Lady Jane

Cultural

I should probably do some research before I start complaining, but I hate to research, and I'm an English major (a very complex individual)... Anyway, I would really like it if someone did a research paper on which cultures are the more openly exuberant.

I've met my share of a few cultures, okay I'm lying, most of them have been from watching TV. But I did meet a few rowdy Italians in London on a trip with the hubs back in the day and boy howdy were they loud and proud of it.

So what I'd like to know is if my in-laws' reserved nature is cultural because it's all foreign to me.

Maybe it's the feisty Irish, the boisterous Mexican, the passionate French in me that overpowers the reserved English nature. (I've got quite the pedigree) On a side note, not joking my grandmother's mother was Mexican so that makes me...drum roll please an 1/8 Mexican. Although to look at me no one would consider it.

But I digress.

So who wants to take on that project? Or find the research for me?


~Lady Jane

Working Through the Book

Now that I feel that I have thoroughly exhaled with my previous posts I can now begin my journey of working through the book, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. In the introduction Goldberg explains ultimately what her book is about as well as what it might help the reader to accomplish. Two of my favorite lines are, "This book is about writing. It is also about using writing as your practice, as a way to help you penetrate your life and become sane." Who wouldn't want that? And, "To do writing practice means to deal ultimately with your whole life." Sounds pretty profound right? Doesn't have to be. The exhilarating aspect of writing for me is that I can confront my fears, disillusions, fantasies, regrets, aspirations and many more parts of my life that need a little tweaking or fresh perspective.

I love music and so I'm often reminded while I write, a song that also conveys my thoughts. In reference to perspective a line from "Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen". I can't believe how in one song there are so many good mantras to live by. If only all songs could be that inspiring. "Advice is a form of nostalgia; dispensing it is a way of wishing the past from the disposal-wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it's worth."

How many times have we given or gotten advice? I remember a story about my Papa and advice. He said something to the effect of, "When somebody gives you advice. Just nod your head and do as you please." This sounds completely contradictory to what I just copied from that song, but in reflecting about what my Papa said, sometimes your gut is your best advice.

When I Think of Home...

Due to my incomparable upbringing, I have always had an active imagination. I grew up in the same house for nineteen years, I had freedom to roam our expansive three and a quarter acre lot with trees, grass, our cats and friends. Many nights were spent gazing up at the stars on the trampoline. Running, climbing, and eating filled my days. My paternal grandfather, who I call Papa, planted fruit trees in the backyard. For seven years at least, my cousins and I enjoyed picking the ripe plums, apricots, and pears. Our saliva, sufficient enough to clean them allowed us to move onto our next adventure.

Even when I was a little girl, I dreamed of bringing my children to the home I grew up in to play on the swing set in the backyard, to show them that with enough sweat they could climb the walls with their feet, slide down the stairs on an old mattress or fall asleep on the living room couch as the din of family chatter in the kitchen wafted through the house.

My dream came to an end in 2006. I had no children yet and my parents were being forced out to rebuild a dying company that my father had put his life into. No longer can I bring my children to that home to see their Gigi and Papa and play with cousins uninterrupted in the basement, play a round of 9-hole golf around the house or come over for Sunday dinners.

I hate it when people say, "Let it go" or "It was a long time ago", that doesn't make me feel any better. It doesn't make feel any better to believe that my parents are giving another family the opportunity to make memories in that house too. As childish as this sounds, it was my house first!

The song, "Our House" by Madness, perfectly illustrates the kind of home I had. Needless to say it has become our anthem for my family. We even used it on a video montage for a family reunion.

Father wears his Sunday best

Mother's tired she needs a rest

The kids are playing up downstairs

Sister's sighing in her sleep

Brother's got a date to keep

He can't hang around

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house it has a crowd

There's always something happening

And it's usually quite loud

Our mum she's so house-proud

Nothing ever slows her down

And a mess is not allowed

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Something tells you that you've got to get away from it

Father gets up late for work

Mother has to iron his shirt

Then she sends the kids to school

Sees them off with a small kiss

She's the one they're going to miss

In lots of ways

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

I remember way back then when everything was true and when

We would have a very good time such a fine time

Such a happy time

And I remember how we'd play simply wasted the day away

Then we'd say nothing would come between us two dreamers

Father wears his Sunday best

Mother's tired she needs a rest

The kids are playing up downstairs

Sister's sighing in her sleep

Brother's got a date to keep

He can't hang around

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our street

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house, was our castle and our keep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, that was where we used to sleep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle of our street

I loved my house, still do to this day. I've even thought of knocking on the door just to ask if I could look around. I wonder what stories my house would tell me since my family's been gone? Don't you wish if you just pressed your ear up against the walls hard enough you could hear everything the house has been through?