Luv Songs.

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Love: Hard to describe.

So hard, in fact, that the Greeks have four different words for it: Storge (love of family); Philia (affection between friends); Eros (sexual attraction) and Agape (unconditional love).

That linguistic breakdown helps, but it still doesn’t get it quite right. Love is too large and nuanced to divide into simple quarters. Each relationship would need to pick and evolve its own title to represent itself fully.

Consider: How is your relationship like anyone else’s? It isn’t. Therefore, let the writers in the room line up and shoot me for saying this: Words are too pedestrian to do the job.

That’s where music steps in as the great, bold communicator of the heart. With the right lyrics, composition and requisite bass drum, it can trap you in an emotion like you’re seated in a room, thinking eerily: “I’ve been in this place before. I’ve been here, and everything is exactly as I left it.”

So. On this great Hallmark Holiday of love, I give you a Valentine’s Day soundtrack of the most universal “rooms” I can think of. (We’ll stick with the Eros/Agape wings of the house today—after all, they’re the fussy little architects behind the strange confection of February 14.) May you find a room that suits you so you can sit for a while. Then may you stay put or move on as Cupid dictates.

~*~

Hopeful risk taking

Or, sullen denial

Elated discovery

Wistful Longevity

Unraveling

Getting the bad news

Stunned heartbreak

Low-down, busted dejectedness

Obstinate resolve

loneliness, longing and regret

Moving on

(Happy Valentine’s Day to All)

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Love and Idiocy (Or, What NOT to Give on Valentine’s Day)

(google image)

It’s February 13, 1993. I’m 19 and finally ready to acknowledge the crush I have on that Sigma Alpha Epsilon boy I’ve been talking to. We’ve been on a few dates, had long late night phone calls, met up at bourbon-soaked parties…clearly, things are going well. I don’t yet know about his long-term girlfriend or the furious embarrassment I’ll endure when I find out about her later that spring, so at this particular moment, all systems are “go.”

I bum a ride from a friend, and together we head to that shining beacon of light we small-town Danville, KY, Centre College students call “Walmart” to hit the candy and card aisles as hard as we can. I buy lovely amounts of chocolate—some for me, some for the boy—and pour his share into a glass jar I’ve tied with a festive curl of red silk ribbon. Pièce de résistance: the painting of his name across the front of the jar, followed by the spraying of perfume so I can wave his Valentine’s Day card through the falling mist. (Oh, le sigh.)

On my way to cheerleading practice, I stop by the campus post office and hand my gift (and all my pride) to the postmistress. She looks at the name on the jar and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You don’t say…” she says and smiles knowingly as I wave goodbye.

I spend the next 24 hours in fits and knots of anxiety. The phone rings, and it’s never for me. My campus mailbox is empty at dinner time. I cover my head with my pillow and commence the practiced art of indignant sulking.

At 9 or so, the telephone rings, and it’s the boy. My roommate winks and discretely leaves the room.

“Did you send me a jar of chocolates today through campus mail?” the boy asks without saying hello. He sounds like he’s smiling, but I can’t quite tell for sure.

“Maaaybe,” I say. I hope I sound coy enough to disguise my dripping, crawling, aching swirl of nervousness.

“Did you also maaaybe spray that chocolate with perfume?” he asks.

There is only the slightest pause. And then, at least five males erupt with laughter on the other end of the phone line. I picture them all, yucking it up at my mortified expense.

“Whatever scent you wear,” I barely hear him say, “It tastes a lot like bug spray.”

~*~

And so: Valentine’s Day was not always my favorite holiday. There are many, many disastrous stories akin to the one above. You’ll either have to serve me a few shots of tequila and cross your fingers or wait until next Valentine’s Day to hear more.

In the meantime, let’s just leave it with this public service announcement: Don’t be an idiot on Valentine’s Day. It’s only a few short days away, so be sure to come to the breakfast table prepared to woo your sweetheart. It’s up to you to make sure he or she is pleased (rather than poisoned by 1990’s-era-“Rapture”-by-Victoria’s-Secret-coated chocolates) on Monday morning.

CNN.com posted Time Magazine’s “What NOT to Give” guide, and for the sake of preserving your own pride and embarrassment, I’m posting it now.

10 Ways to Say \”I Love You\”: The Most Ridiculous Valentine\’s Day Gifts on the Market

(Personally, I’d be fine with a chocolate Smart Car. The Snuggie-sutra is good for a laugh, but that’s probably all. Too much cotton-blend.)

Now, tell me: What’s the worst Valentine’s Day gift you’ve ever given or received? Sound off in the comments below. Let the embarrassing stories fly!

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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All Pipes Lead to the Ocean

Each morning, after I brush my teeth and make myself presentable and wake my husband and rouse the boys and muddle through hair- and teeth- brushing time, I make my way to the kitchen to mix a batch of pancakes.

Before I start, there are two things I can count on: that the Columbus Dispatch is on our front doorstep, and that our betta fish is awake in his tiny, green-lidded aquarium.

I peer sleepily through the tank and sprinkle breakfast across the water’s surface. “Hi, Racer,” I say. “Good morning, buddy.”  He darts around a bit, and I watch while he eats. We spend our next few minutes keeping each other company.

But not today. Not any more. It’s sad to admit, but It’s true: I said goodbye to our routine when I accidentally washed my slippery friend down the drain.

~*~

Poor Racer. I’m bereft. This was not supposed to happen.

It’s Saturday morning and a good one, too. The boys doodle cheerfully at the kitchen table while I clean Racer’s tank and listen to them play. I love mornings like this. Not a thing can go wrong in a cozy little scene like this one.

So I tip the tank slowly, spilling the old water in a trickle before sliding it back beneath the lukewarm tap. When I look away to see what the boys are up to, my little blue buddy escapes his overflowing bowl.

“Ohhhhhhh.” I say lowly. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” I pull myself together enough to dive for him, but he is already on his way down the drain.

Both boys look up. Their eyes dart from the tank to the sink then to me.

“It’s nothing, guys,” I say lightly. “I just remembered I need to do something.”

I wait for them to return to their drawings before I stuff my hand down the drain. I feel only the dull, jagged blade of the garbage disposal and the damp, aching throb of rising guilt.

I hear GB on the staircase, so I meet him at the bottom step. “I just washed Racer down the drain,” I whisper sadly. “Is there anything we can do?”

I watch his shoulders sink as he marches down to the basement. He returns with a crescent wrench in his hands and a face drawn down in grim resolve.

I watch him dismantle the plumbing, but Racer is not in the catch. Instead, he’s taking the sewer line bypass to that Great Pond in the Sky.

I take a deep breath because I know what must come next: a swift confession to Racer’s rightful owners, who are now watching Saturday morning cartoons. They take the news badly for a moment, then insist on a speedy replacement. When I agree (with a lump in my throat), they go back to watching a song about hot dogs.

I pitch the rocks and scour the insides of the tank before hiding Racer’s home in the basement. “You killed that fish!” I tell myself heavily. “You killed that fish.”

~*~

I guess that’s how it goes, this cycle of life. This is what destiny serves. You swim around your plastic plants and watch the passers by until some giant hand pours you down the sink. You know the giant hand is sorry; that it loved you and it’s sad you’re gone. But that doesn’t change the fact you’re swimming blindly, hoping all pipes really do lead to the ocean.

I still look for Racer in the morning. I’ve found nothing to fill his old spot. The Chia Pets my boys got for Christmas don’t do much, so pancake mixing is now a sullen event.

So maybe I’ll make a trip this weekend to the pet store…surprise the boys, perhaps, but mostly, cheer myself. We’ll get a gecko, maybe, or a pair of toads that want little to do with the water.

~*~ Find Maura on Twitter @36×37
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JayZ and I have something in common…

JayZ (from drwizard.files.wordpress.com)

We have a running joke in our house about rappers who disappear from the scene, then appear on some glitzy awards show a few months later with an “I’m Back!” tribute to themselves.

It drives GB crazy.

“Back from what?” he asks the TV. “Where did he go? Did he go somewhere?” We both scoff happily because please, how ridiculous.

So. [Clears throat.] How’s it going.

Raise your hands in the AAAAAAAIR. Because I’m BACK!…from 36×37 assignment #24. [Cue backup dancers.]

(I’m also back from assignments #25 and 26, which I’m hoping to write about later this week.)

While I’m putting those thoughts to screen, I hope you’ll enjoy the guest-post I wrote last week for my wonderful and esteemed writer-friend Amanda (of Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages). Special thanks to Amanda for publishing it, and for introducing me to her loyal readers, all of whom I look forward to visiting in the blogosphere as soon as I catch up from being away.

(If you haven’t had the chance to stop by Amanda’s blog, please do. Not only is she a fantastic and inspiring writer, she’s also a cool chick with a quick sense of humor and a salt-of-the-earth personality. She’s an excellent read, and I do hope you’ll visit her often.)

(Also, my warmest thanks to last week’s guest bloggers. Sunshine, Todd, Wendy, Jane, I’m truly grateful you were willing to share your words on these pages last week. You were exemplary house guests, and I’m glad you ate the ice cream, although I’m not surprised you left the Riesling poached pear sorbet. I’m with you…it sounds better than it tastes.)

Anyway, without further ado, here’s the piece I wrote about finding inspiration in unexpected places…

~*~

The Cub and the Ad Girl ~ by 36×37

I remember meeting Jennifer. I liked her right away. When I walked into these sprawling corporate offices for the first time, there she was, tapping her pen against her notebook. She was short like me, with curly hair, a friendly, bespectacled face and an opening for a position I really wanted.

We shook hands and chatted about the summer heat as she hustled toward a table. We talked about the job, of course, but mostly we talked about writing. Tone. Style. Voice. Pace. Active voice vs. passive voice. In her notebook, she sketched an organizational diagram and told me how writing played a part in this corporate culture.

My ears hummed happily. I sat up straighter and tried to look professional.

“We follow the AP Stylebook,” she said brightly. “I know you know what that is!”

I had no idea what she was talking about, although I suspected it had something to do with the Scripps School of Journalism. We were both Ohio University J-school brats: she’d spent her years there as a journalism major; I’d spent mine in its advertising program. Until now, I didn’t really need to know AP Style, but given the look on her face, I could see it would be best not to disclose that.

So I think I nodded a little.

She grinned. “Good. We live and die by the AP Stylebook here. It’s the corporate communicator’s bible.” She said my second interview would be a series of writing tests, so I bought the Stylebook that day and studied it feverishly.

I received the job offer over the phone while I was on vacation, eating sugar cereal at a beach house on Hilton Head Island. After shrieking my acceptance, I hung up, walked onto the balcony overlooking the sea, and dialed my then-boss. “I resign, Bill,” I said. Then I laughed and wished him luck.

It was a proud moment. I quit a horrible job for a great one, and I did it while gazing, suntanned, at the dunes and rolling tide. Everyone should have that experience at least once.

~*~

Jennifer cut her teeth as a cub reporter at a suburban news publication here in Columbus. When I say she was gifted, that’s what I truly mean. One local community loved her so much that it hosted a celebration in her honor. (I’m not kidding. They called it “Jennifer W______ Day.”) She’s the only person I know who actually has the key to a city. When she left the newspaper for a corporate gig, she brought her reporting sensibilities with her.

Everything I learned about corporate writing, I learned from Jennifer. And trust me, she had her work cut out for her. When I started the job, my writing was a mess, both on the job and off. It—or maybe more accurately, I—was trite and undisciplined. I hated everything I penned outside of the office, to the point where I’d stopped writing altogether.

So Jennifer set to work. She established a rigorous “EYES2” program, which involved reviewing every single last thing I wrote under her tutelage. My pages came back bleeding under the merciless scrape of her flowing red pen. My skin was thin. Those critiques ripped me open.

Over time, though, my pages stopped hemorrhaging. The bleeding slowed to a gush, then to a trickle. Occasionally, Jennifer would stop by my desk, hand me a client letter I’d drafted, and say, “Fabu!” Then she’d nod and walk away to grab some tea.

If the page was completely ink-free, that was the best compliment I could ask for.

~*~

That was eight years ago. After three years, we both left the department for jobs with more reasonable hours. We still work for the same global bank, but I manage a small team of editors now, and she oversees a large team of writers. We had the chance to work together again last year. Now that she has moved on again, I miss her even more, because this time, we parted as friends without hierarchical boundaries.

In April, I started a blog because I wanted to write for myself again. After 10 years of packing away my creative side, I donned the clothes of a creative writer, just to see what would happen.

It was strange. My old voice was gone, murdered in its sleep.

The new voice was patchy and unsure of itself, but still it was there. I pulled it over my head, snuggled into it and liked how it felt. And so I wear it a little more each day.

Writing feels better these days. It feels familiar, like stepping onto a sunlit balcony and watching the tides while you say to someone nameless, “I quit, and now I’m free of you,” then hang up the phone to write some more.

It’s a proud moment. Every writer should have that experience at least once.

~*~ Find me on Twitter: @36×37
~*~ Visit http://36×37.wordpress.com

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New Year’s Roadside Shoe!

Check out what my father-in-law spied just 10 hours into the new year:

It’s a little girl’s pair of pink shoes sitting curbside at the new Market District.

Surely it’s some kind of sign, although what kind, I don’t know. I just like that my father-in-law spied these Roadside Shoes!, and he made sure we all saw them, too.

Have a Roadside Shoe!? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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It’s 36×37 Assignment #23 Eve!

(…)

Well, it is.

I’m announcing 36×37 Assignment #23 Eve rather than Christmas Eve because you already know Christmas is on the horizon. Why would I tell you something you know I know you already know? One of these events is obviously more important than the other, and we both know which one that is.

Even so. Here’s what’s going to happen today:

1. Make giant grocery list
2. Drive to Market District and fill said grocery list
3. Start cooking, and keep cooking—taking breaks only for church and Aunt Kathy’s Giant Christmas Eve Feast—straight through to Christmas Dinner

I’m doing the whole thing myself. Not a single other pair of feet is welcome in my kitchen.

That’s the assignment. Cook Christmas Dinner, ’60s style.

(courtesy of AMC Studios)

Here’s the thing: As a Mad Men fan, I tend to romanticize the 60s. It might have everything something to do with Don Draper. Or Joan and her fabulous sass, or Betty and her fabulous wardrobe. It might. Because that’s the pretty surface of things.

But here’s the other thing: Do you think Don Draper ever did the laundry? Or cleaned the bathrooms? Or sat on the floor for hours playing Legos with his kids? Or did any of the really incredible things my husband does to make sure we’re equal partners in our marriage?

If you answered “yes” it’s clear you’ve never seen the show. Because Don Draper would instead be out wooing some tripped out artist or foxy elementary school teacher or under-aged niece of the woman whose husband’s identity he stole.

At any rate. I don’t like to take things for granted. And since I’ve never tackled The Feast of the Year on my own before, I want to give it a try to remind myself how good I have it. Because maybe I’m a little bit spoiled. And maybe I’m looking for a way to say thank you to the people I love most. Just as importantly, my epicurean parents with their incredible cooking talents deserve a year off.

Come back Tuesday, when all the sordid details will await you. In the meantime, Happy Holidays to you and yours. May the greatness of the season bring joy to your heart, comfort to your spirit—and warm deliciousness to your belly.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

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The World’s Most Ridiculous Vocal Duets

We all have our prejudices. Here’s mine: I cannot tolerate vocal duets.

It’s hard to explain. Even if the musical arrangement is perfect, and the first vocalist is spot-on, a second vocalist is too much for me. I can’t process the sudden distraction of a singer appearing out of nowhere, grabbing the mic, and interrupting a good thing. It’s too Kanye-West-Imma-Let-You-Finish for my taste, and I seriously cannot take it.

Plus, more often than not, a duet is attached to some sort of melodramatic love story. Trust me, I’m a sucker for a good love song. But two people singing about love to each other? Preposterous. Get a room, already.

Do me a favor. Don’t admit that your favorite song is “Islands in the Stream,” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, or I will judge you for that, and I won’t judge kindly.

~*~

Here’s why I’m wasting your time with this issue: While baking Christmas cookies on Saturday night, this track popped up on Pandora’s Christmas channel…

David Bowie/ Bing Crosby – Little Drummer Boy

For the record: I dig Bowie—including the Ziggy Stardust years—so I swallowed my loathing for vocal duets and listened intently. Truly, I gave it the old college try.

As my colleague Jim said, “You can even see how uncomfortable it is on the video.”

He’s right. And so I got angry.

“This will not stand,” I thought. “I must do my part. I must forge a campaign to make sure this kind of travesty never, ever happens again.”

That’s why I’m here. I’m here for the cause.

~*~

There’s not much I need to say to state my case. I’ll let Exhibits A-C speak for themselves.

Magnet featuring Gemma Hayes – Lay Lady Lay

GB has a great recording of the Bob Dylan original. It’s saved on his Sirius satellite radio, and I think I love it because of how the DJ introduces it: “And now: The sound of Bob Dylan trying to get laid.”

Ha!

But this version? I can’t…I don’t… (Sigh.) I’m just speechless.

I like Magnet’s contribution to the project. But what’s this Gemma Hayes business? What a quick way to ruin a really great rendition.

Bob. How could they do this to you.

Jesse Malin/Bruce Springsteen – Broken Radio

Funny thing about GB—he knows my hatred for vocal duets, and so he has started to collect them.

The first time he played this track for me, he grinned the whole way through my horrified, confounded reaction.

When Jesse Malin kicks off the first verse, you think, “Meh. Let’s change the station.”

But then? Out of nowhere? The Boss! And he’s perfect. He sings, and you don’t want him to stop. But more importantly, you pray to all things holy that Jesse won’t grab the mic again.

When he does, you’re left with no choice but to question right from wrong, up from down, and the whole sorry state of the universe.

Wyclef Jean/Maxi Pries – Wild World

This is my very favorite example of musical collaboration gone wrong. Again, it’s part of the GB collection.

“You’ve got to hear this,” he said when he first found the track. “I like Wyclef, but what is he trying to do here?”

It begins with Wyclef setting the scene. I’m thankful for that, or I would never have figured it out for myself:

[Wyclef]: Wyclef is sitting here playing the guitar/Rhyming with Maxi Pries/Maxi Pries you need to tell her a-geh-hen.”

[Maxi]: Don’t go…

[Wyclef]: Tell her, Maxi…

[Maxi]: Don’t go…

[Wyclef]: Tell her …

Oh, friends. It gets worse. So much worse.

[Maxi]: Oooo, baby, baby it’s a wild world…

[Wyclef]: Oh ho ho ho ho ho ho

[Maxi]: It’s hard to get by just upon a smile girl

[Wyclef]: Yeah!

Honestly, it’s absurd.

I want to call Wyclef. Text him. Tap him on the back and say ruefully, “Wyclef. What exactly is your goal? Just what do you want to accomplish with this?”

I tell you, it’s more tragic than the Rob Thomas/Carlos Santana catastrophe of 1999.

~*~

Granted, I will make concessions. Take this track, for example.

Stevie Nicks & Tom Petty – Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around

As much as I want to protest this song in theory, I can’t because it’s fantastic.

But the rest? I’ll insist that a boycott is in order. If you doubt me at all, allow me to remind you of this:

Frank Sinatra & Bono – I’ve Got You Under My Skin

Bono. You know I love you. But it should not be like this. No, never like this.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Side Story: Fun Facts About Robots. No, I’m serious.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to write about, because actually I do. I completed a big 36×37 assignment this weekend, and I’m still working on the angle I want to take with the story.

So. Since I’m mulling things over, I asked the boys to come up with a topic for today’s post, and here’s what they gave me: Weird facts about robots.

Fine.

• In 1939, Westinghouse made Elektro, the world’s first humanoid robot. That seven-foot-tall walking machine had a whopping 700 word vocabulary. Hot, right? It must be, because it was featured in the 1960 B movie Sex Kittens Go to College, featuring Conway Twitty.
• Robots have their own trade union in Japan.
• By the way, here’s what the Japanese are working on:

google image courtesy of jeffkatz.typepad.com

(See other photos and videos of giant robot statues.) 

• A table tennis robot is your fastest way to an improved table tennis game. One week of steady practice with a robot equals about six months of practice against, say, a human. Do you know what this means? It means that robots want to play table tennis with us. Game on, Optimus Prime.
• Speaking of Transformers, Megan Fox is not real. She’s C-3PO in drag, and that explains why she’s so shiny and irritating.
• Robots don’t celebrate their birthdays.
• But they should. Because, wouldn’t you want to go to Plex’s (from Yo Gabba Gabba) birthday party? (DJ Lance Rock would be there.)

google image courtesy of coachhousegifts.com

• “Robot” comes from the Czech word “robota” which means “forced work or labor.” However, the name “Robert” means nothing of the sort.
• Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android” is fantastic.

• Hans Moravec, founder of Carnegie Mellon’s Robotics Institute, believes that robots will emerge as their own species by 2040, complete with feelings and expectations. Unlike those bitchy Fem-bots.

Ta da! Whatever the boys want, the mama delivers. Be sure to stop by tomorrow. Assignment #20 was a good one, and I can’t wait to tell you about it.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Pssst. Americans. Do your job today.

I almost forgot to say "Please."

I hit the polls at 8 AM sharp. Aside from a table full of volunteers, I was the only one there.

I’m puzzled by the apathy. In my neighborhood, I’m surrounded by attorneys and physicians and marketers and engineers and professors and people who really should be interested in the electoral process.

Where were they this morning?

I’m not going to lecture you. If you’re 18 or older, you already know you’re supposed to vote today. And I really hope you will. 

(I also hope you’ll vote for the same party I did, but if you don’t, that’s fine. As long as you do your job–as long as you cast your ballot–then you and I are in good standing.)

Just vote. It only takes a few minutes. And in the end, you get a sticker and free coffee and the right to speak for yourself. Who could ever say no to that?

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: One Last Thing About the Weekend…

Granville, OH

One last thing to say about Granville: I’m in love with it.

 

There are multiple reasons why. For instance:

Pies!

Spices!

Fresh flowers!

Dried flowers!

Pumpkin trucks!

The library!

The Buxton Inn

Haunted hotels!

Candy!

Stickers of candy!

Pretty sidewalks!

And my dream home, where my family will live one day—as soon as I find $998,000 in my pocketbook.

 

The streets are languid and familiar, like the cool side of a pillow—which should be strange, since I’ve driven through Granville only a handful of times. It’s just that it looks and sounds and smells like the tiny suburb where I grew up. It has the soft and lovely sleepiness of home.

 

There’s so much of the world to see, and I want to see it all. But at the end of the day, just give me this.

 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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