If It's Too Loud, You're Too Old

I have a secret. I love really loud, really hard rock music. Okay, so that's not really a secret to my friends who know me well, but to a lot of people who only know me on the outer fringes of my life, this may come as a surprise. After all, I'm a middle-aged mom of three who just became a grandma; I'm supposed to be listening to just about anything but hard rock, or so I've been told.

I first became enamored of hardcore, heavy and loud music because of a t-shirt. That's right; a t-shirt started a 30-year love affair with what my mother referred to as "Godawful racket!" but it's true. I was a nerdy twelve-year-old who listened to whatever songs the pop radio music station played and barely listened to that. Then my totally cool older cousin Todd came to visit from Florida and he had on a Molly Hatchet t-shirt. It was really cool. HE was really cool. (Well, he was 19 and tan with long blond hair who always smelled a bit "herbal" - of course he was cool!)

I silently admired his t-shirt for most of the week he was there, making up all kinds of stories in my head about who this Molly Hatchet was; she had to be cool, I thought, with a last name like Hatchet. Finally, the day before he was to head back home I asked him who she was. After he finished laughing and then apologizing to me for laughing at me, he explained that Molly Hatchet was an awesome band and that I had to listen to them immediately. He gave me a mix tape that had "Flirtin' With Disaster" along with other gems such as "Sweet Leaf" by Black Sabbath, "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin and "Big Ten Inch" by Aerosmith. I listened to the music up in my bedroom and I was hooked.

The first album I bought with my own money was Kiss "Destroyer". I then started exploring the genre of punk (with the direction from a record store clerk who loved punk) and a love affair with Iggy & the Stooges, the Dead Boys, the Ramones and the Sex Pistols ensued. I began to explore even more in depth and found that Henry Rollins was a genius, GG Allin was controversial yet amazing and Glenn Danzig was a master lyricist as well as a super nice guy. (I met him at the Vogue after a show in Indy when I was 15; he kissed my cheek and signed my shirt.)

I still remember exactly what I was doing when I first heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and I looked at the infant Ellie and said "Well, hair metal is dead!" She cooed in agreement. Nirvana changed my direction yet again, and suddenly I was dreaming of moving to Seattle and hanging with Alice in Chains, Screaming Trees and the Pixies. Soundgarden's "Big Dumb Sex" became one of my favorite songs to play to irritate my mother. (Listen to it if you've never heard it; you'll understand what I mean.) I also remember what I was doing when I heard the news about Kurt Cobain's suicide; I had to pull the car over and cry for about a half-hour because of the great talent that had just been so carelessly taken out of this world.

Then just when music started to seem lame and all the radio would play was Matchbox 20 and Fuel over and over, I met a man who captured my music fan heart with his controversial lyrics, his carefully calculated "insanity" and his gorgeous eyes. Marilyn Manson became my newest love; I absolutely was crazy about everything about the band and the man. Every song was amazing; hard, loud and unapologetic, the way real rock and roll should be.

I had never really gotten into rap or hip hop (except for the Beastie Boys amazing "Paul's Boutique") until a certain blond haired, blue eyed beauty of a man from Detroit captured me with his poetry. Yes, I love Eminem too. While I wouldn't play his songs around my kids, after they went to bed I was often in awe of his ability to rhyme in an almost impossible way, his vocal prowess and his content. I still think "Stan" is one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs ever written and I absolutely love him taunting Dr. Dre in "Guilty Conscience" by calling him "Mr. AK, Mr. NWA, Mr. Strait Outta Comptom, y'all better make way!" 

I've been listening to a lot of old favorites lately. I still love to put in Pink Floyd (any Pink Floyd album, doesn't matter which one) and just mellow the afternoon away. The kids still love to twirl around and dance hippie-style to "Estimated Prophet" by the Grateful Dead. And anytime I hear any Red Hot Chili Peppers song, I have to sing along with Anthony Kiedis's beautiful, rich voice. But then I'll get a little tug and will have to pop in Korn's "Wake Up" or anything by Disturbed. Sometimes nothing will do but a hit of Slayer's "Seasons In the Abyss" album to get me pumped up. And I just laugh when people ask me when I'm going to grow out of this "phase". It's thirty years going strong people, and I'm still rockin' hard. But hey; that's rock and roll!

My Love Affair with Baseball

I've really been caught up in the World Series this year, even though my favorite teams (the Pittsburgh Pirates and the San Diego Padres) aren't in it at all. Part of my enthusiasm has to do with the fact that I have a deep crush on Tim Lincecum of the San Francisco Giants. (I love that long hair.) But mostly it has to do with my deep and abiding love for the sport of baseball.

While watching game three with Kirby last night my youngest daughter Allison walked through the living room, looked at the television and pronounced "Ewww. Baseball. Ugh."

"Why don't you like baseball?" I asked her.

"It's sooo totally boring!" she said with a sniff of disgust that only a twelve-year-old can muster, then she tossed her hair and huffed out of the room.

As I was really into the game at the time I didn't stop to tell her how totally and completely wrong she was. Baseball isn't boring at all! I honestly believe that anyone who thinks that baseball is boring, too slow or not exciting enough has never really watched a game and appreciated all the subtle nuances that make for an exciting match up.

Don't get me wrong; I love all sports. I love football, hockey, basketball (mostly college; the NBA annoys me for some reason - unless the Pacers are winning, that is.) I am an equal opportunity sports fan. But baseball is a thinking woman's game. It's more cerebral than any other sport; there is a calculating intensity to the pace of the game. What pitch will be thrown? Will this player get walked? And there is nothing more exciting than watching a shutout or a closer coming out on the field to put the game away; it gets my blood pumping like nothing else.

Living in San Diego during the late '90's I remember how awesome it was to be at a game and hear the opening toll of Hell's Bells by AC/DC; you knew Trevor Hoffman was coming out on the field to do something amazing. And getting to watch Ricky Henderson steal bases, or the legendary Tony Guinn playing his last seasons (a little slower perhaps, but still great!) And of course, I was completely infatuated with Ryan Klesko and was visibly angry when, a few years after we moved back to Indiana, I found out about his request to be traded to the Atlanta Braves. (The Braves Ryan? Really?? What were you thinking man!!!)

My passion for the sport started early, when my grandpa would take me to Cincinnati Reds games; I always took my mitt so that I could catch a foul ball (never happened) and I always ended up lying in the back seat of the car during the hour-and-a-half drive home with a stomach ache because of too many hot dogs and sodas. Grandpa was a great teacher about the sport. He explained strategy, how to recognize different pitches and why the designated hitter rule is a sure sign of communist activity in America. He loved Pete Rose and was sorely disappointed by his dismissal from the game and his omission from the Baseball Hall of Fame. ("I bet every one of them gambles - Pete just got caught is all!")

Baseball is a gentleman's game; it is America's game. One of the greatest things you can do as a family is to head to a ballpark, explain the game to your kids, and let them get sick on hot dogs while clutching their mitt, looking out for foul balls. Oh, and make sure to explain the communist ties of the designated hitting rule; it's what Grandpa would want. 

The Fine Art of Letting Go

When you have your first child it is a magical experience.  You look at them in wonder and awe, disbelieving that you had anything to do with the creation of this perfect little person.  You are full of hopes and dreams for them; you want them to live the best life they can and to always have all their heart desires.

Those first few weeks home from the hospital are a blur.  You and this little person are getting to know one another.  You are sleep deprived and cranky but looking at that little face as she looks up at you makes your heart melt and you know that you will do anything in your power to protect her and give her what she needs for the rest of your life.

Soon she is crawling all over the house and making a mess of everything.  Your once well-ordered world is somehow in chaos.  You walk into the bathroom and she's in the process of unrolling a jumbo pack of toilet paper, a beautiful blond haired blue-eyed princess in the midst of a snowy fall of paper, laughing like she is the most clever thing in the world.  You can't help but be proud of her ingenuity in maneuvering through a baby gate and a safety latched bathroom cupboard; she's obviously a genius.  You put the cleaning products on high shelves as you grin with maternal pride.

Then she's walking around, playing dress-up in your clothes and high heels, bossing her dolls around when they don't want to do things her way.  "Do it myself!" becomes the phrase of the day, in every area of her life.  Bathing, making her bed, "tying" her shoes, brushing her teeth; she is an independent spirit, one who knows her own mind.  No one has ever told her she shouldn't be confident in her ability to take care of herself, so she does it without thinking.

Then comes school and the playground politics that come with it.  You watch her making friends as a kindergartner and the days of play dates and slumber parties has started.  Soon you're cheering her on as she tests for the next belt in Tae Kwon Doe or as she makes the game winning free-throw on the basketball court.  You laugh at her playing an outrageous character in a school play with all the flair and drama of Mae West and Bette Midler's love child; you burst with pride as she sings the National Anthem and any number of solos in the school choir.

You cry as she goes through her first heartbreaks; love is something she can't control and it kills her!  And it kills you to see her learning all of her lessons about love the hard way, as she gives her heart too freely to boys who don't deserve it.  But you've raised her well and taught her to respect herself and to be strong and make the right decisions; you know she's not going to throw herself away on someone that isn't worthy of her.  And she doesn't.

She goes to college, gets her first apartment, works a part-time job and is basically the wonder woman you always knew she would be.  And though your heart hurts when you walk past her empty bedroom and sometimes you look at her baby pictures for hours on end, you are so proud of the young woman she has become, the young woman you always knew she would become.  And soon she is bringing home a young man; one who treats her like a queen but isn't too intimidated to challenge her.  One who is as scarily smart as she is, who speaks to her as an equal and a contemporary.  One who you know, even the first time you see them together, will be her partner in life.  And though it's lovely planning a wedding, you are sad too because you know in a sense she will never be "all yours" ever again.

Soon, these two are making a life for themselves together.  You don't always agree with the direction they choose to go in, but you are so proud that they are making good choices for themselves.  You become a grandparent, something you never dreamed you wanted to be until you were one.  And you watch her, looking down at his little face with all that beautiful awe and wonder and you realize at that moment that you've never stopped looking at her the same way.

Spiders & Sand: That's What My Little Boy is Made Of

 This is an essay I wrote about my precious boy William that was recently published in my local newspaper and will soon be published in Columbus Parents Magazine, December 6, 2012 issue.  Hope you enjoy! :)

Okay, it seems like a no-brainer to say that boys and girls are different. But aside from the obvious naughty bits business, the differences between the male and female of the species are staggering. Now, I have three children; my firstborn Ellie, my middle child and only son William, and my youngest, Allison, whom we call ‘Big Al’ because she’s so tiny. The girls are interesting. Ellie is a married college student now with a new baby, my first grandson whom I call Benjamin Alexander the Great. Allison is a sixth grader, a cheerleader, straight A student and all around goody two shoes, but with a streak of evil in her a mile wide, especially when it comes to tormenting her brother. And then there’s my boy, William.

Poor Will. He’s the rose between the two thorns that are his sisters, and believe me; they love to harass him to no end. But it’s hard sometimes to feel sorry for him because frankly, boys are weird. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my boy just as much as I love my girls. He is funny, smart, a handsome young man of thirteen. But from day one, he was just a strange kid, and the more I’m around boys, the more I realize they are all the same.

When my girls were little, they rarely if ever put anything in their mouths that didn’t belong there. Will’s first solid food was a spider he found crawling along the baseboard of the living room floor. We lived near the beach in California when he was a baby, and for days after an afternoon on the shore I’d be changing sand-filled diapers. Cigarette butts buried in the sand went right into his mouth. Cat food had to be put up on a high surface or the cat would have starved to death.  In fact, after catching him eating a crayon one day I began to worry that he had that weird disease that causes people to crave dirt, detergent, paint chips and plaster.

And it’s not just the weird “I’ll eat anything” syndrome. He and his friends speak a language that I don’t get. At all. In fact, this is a standard thirteen-year-old boy conversation:

“Dude!”

“Dude!”

“Duuuuude!”

“Duuuuude!”

“Oh, duuuuude!”

See? Nonsensical perhaps, yet they completely understand every subtle nuance of this conversation. And this weird conversational style extends to our family as well. Every day, I’d ask my girls how school was, and I’d receive a litany of complaints about Bethany doing something heinous to Brittany while Morgan was stabbing Ashton in the back and Megan complained about it to Stephanie and now everyone was mad at Emily! When I ask Will about his day, it goes a little something like this:

Me: “So, how was your day buddy?”

Him: “Mmm.”

Me: “Anything exciting happen?”

Him: “Mmm.”

Me: “We’re having your favorite: spiders and sand for dinner tonight!”

Him: “Mmm.”

But I go to school conferences and the teachers all say the same thing:

Teacher: “Oh, Mrs. Yoder, Will is such a pleasure to have in class! He’s an outspoken classroom leader, full of creativity and thought. He just exudes personality! But I’m sure you know all this already.”

Me: “Mmm.”

So mothering a son is definitely not as easy as I’d thought. Yet for all his quirks and boy weirdness, there is something about little boys (because let’s face it, no matter how big they get, they’re always our little boys, right?) He and I can sit and play cards for hours and just smile at each other and not talk much and I know he’s enjoying our time together. Even though hugs and kisses are becoming fewer and farther between, every once in a while he will come up to me and lay his head on my shoulder, very briefly, and I’ll smell that boy-smell that is outdoorsy and sporty and puppy-doggy and my heart just about melts. And even though his voice is deeper now and on the rare occasion I get a kiss on the cheek I can feel a little wisp on fine baby mustache, he will always be the little boy who used to sing along with me to “Foxy Lady” by Jimi Hendrix, pronouncing it FOKFEE. He will be the boy who pulled the neighbors flowers out of the ground to present me with a bouquet when he was 4. He’s the boy who cried and let only me hold him when he fell off the bed and busted his head open, requiring 10 stitches and ice cream sandwiches daily for a week.

And no matter how much he grows or what he accomplishes in his life, he will always be my sweet baby boy. But I swear he still has spider breath sometimes.

Does Reading Help your Writing?

I have always been a voracious reader.  Ever since I was a little girl I devour books as quickly as I get them.  My heart flutters when I step in the doors of a library, bookstore or even just the book section of Wal-Mart or Target.  And this love of books has, I think, made me a better writer.

I've read some great books lately, a couple of which I want to talk about here.  The first is a book about freelance writing by my personal freelance hero, Kelly James-Enger, called Writer for Hire: 101 Secrets to Freelance Success.  This book has really changed the way I view my career as a writer.  I learned so much about marketing myself as a writer, using social media to advertise my services and my blogs and just the basic tools I need to succeed at my chosen profession.  If you are considering freelancing as a career, or if you are an established freelancer who just wants to sharpen up your skills or move to the next level of your career, this great book is a must read.

The second book has nothing whatsoever to do with writing but has merit in a different way.  Destroy All Monsters and Other Stories is an amazing book of short stories by Greg Hrbek.  This book really examines the range of human emotions in a beautiful and moving way.  From love, loss and death to renewal and second chances, I absolutely could not put this book down.  Once I'd read it, I immediately read it again and that is something I don't often do.  I laughed at some parts and really, truly wept at others.  It was an amazing experience reading this book and I highly recommend it to anyone who loves a good compilation novel.

But the question remains, does reading help us as writers?  I believe the answer to that is a resounding yes!  Reading brings new worlds right into our homes; it expands our horizons in ways too numerous to count.  Some books really make you think, require you to question your own ethics and morals and most of all, entertain you.  Books give me ideas for my own writing; not plagiarism, mind you, but creative license to take an idea or a concept and run with it in a different direction.  The best of books stay with us forever; I used to lie in bed on cold, snowy nights as a child and pretend I was Laura Ingalls Wilder in The Long Winter.  I cried and despaired right alongside Holden Caufield in Catcher in the Rye.  To Kill A Mockingbird made me question some deeply held beliefs about right and wrong, black and white, and for that I will always be grateful.

I think reading is the best thing that a writer can do with their spare time.  We have chosen to earn a living using words and communication.  Keeping those skills sharp is vital to our survival; reading is the whetstone upon which to sharpen those skills.  So go on, read a book today.  Lose yourself.  You'll never be sorry.

Juggling: Not Just for Clowns Anymore!

If I had wanted to be a juggler, I'd have joined the circus.  Yet here I am, trying to find the best way (read: easiest and most painless) to juggle my two young teens, a military spouse, a dog, two cats, two hermit crabs, and a writing career on top of that.  Oh, and I'm also a new grandma of six-month-old Ben, thanks to oldest daughter Ellie and son-in-law Nick!

Sometimes I feel like I've got so many balls in the air at the same time that I'm just going to drop my arms and let them all crash to the ground.  But on the other hand we women are pretty amazing.  Just when we think we have nothing left in our energy reserves we begin to catch a second wind and before you know it, the juggling act looks flawless yet again.

I think the hardest part that I'm going through is trying to get my writing business, WildWordz, off the ground.  I've been working on my website, I've got a Facebook page and a Twitter feed and I'm trying like hell to figure out Google+ (harder than I'd expected!)  I'm sending queries to editors, volunteering my services to local non-profits to build up the business writing side of my portfolio; basically I'm juggling like a mofo, and it seems to no avail.

I have been working some side jobs on Elance and oDesk but they are low paying gigs and I can't truly contribute to the support of my family on what I'm making on these content mill sites.  It's just been difficult trying to keep my spirits up while maintaining balance.  Thank God for a supportive family!  They are really behind me all the way in this quest, and for that I truly feel blessed.

Anyway, that's it for now.  Just needed to rest my arms a bit before I start up again.  More tomorrow and happy reading! :)