Who's Still Around The Morning After?

Why is it that the morning-after fatigue is so much worse when the night-before was spent wrestling a three-year-old to sleep rather than sitting in a smoky bar with 100 decibels aimed at my head? I guess perhaps it's because I'm not waking up with any fun memories of revelry, just a fuzzy recollection of tiny toes digging into my stomach while I traversed the Parenting Tactics spectrum between "Honey, hush," and "Shut it!" Or maybe because, when one of my friends starts whining "I'm hunnnngryyyy" at 2:00 in the morning, the next logical step is a trip to IHOP, not a thirty minute discussion about why we can't eat applesauce in bed.

Crazy Mama Coming Back To Me

Sometimes my worlds collide like a couple roller derby jammers (Angelina Roll-ie and Smashimi, to be specific), and nothing but hilarity can possibly ensue. Last night's case in point: my spontaneous trip to David Sedaris' reading at the Cannon Center. Granted, it's hard for there not to be hilarity when any Sedaris is involved in the scenario, but in this particular outing, more than 51% of the fun occured after the professional humorist left the stage. And the anthropologist/writer/zinestress/roller derby team captain took the stage. Like a ninja. It's all well documented over on Stacey's blog (1 of 3), but I need to state, for the record, how impressed I was by the fact that the most daring maneuver of the night was accomplished not by the wild, free, twentysomething, single people of the party, but rather the homebirthin', Peace Corp-ing mother of two.

Mama Don't Go

Well, it's not so bad really, this being thirty thing. Other than the abundance of vomit (the child's and the cat's) that greeted the change in years, this decade has gotten off to a decent start. I've already seen two movies, gone out to eat three times, and enjoyed a piece of cake with nearly every meal. If things keep up at this rate, it'll be the best (and enormousest) year ever.

Of course, things won't keep up at this rate, because as of 11:00 this morning, we went back to being the extended-family-less unit we were before my parents got to town five days ago. No more free, reliable, on-call babysitting, no more extra hands around the house or extra energy around the child. My dad even offered to put me up in a hotel room for a night, all by myself, and if I'd had the good sense to say yes he'd have done it in a heartbeat. Because that's what family does, they look out for you and step right up when they know you need some help. And also pick on you pretty bad when the situation calls for it. Or maybe that's just my family.

I'm sure that if my parents lived in town, I'd spend more time than I do now doing things that may not be at the top of my Fun List, like going to horse shows and outlet malls, but it would be more than worth it. When I see my friends with multiple children, I always wonder how they can possibly manage it all - child-rearing, marriage maintenance, jobs, outside interests - and then I realize that, in 90% of cases, those multi-breeders have close relatives nearby. And that's how it's supposed to be. That's why people spend their whole lives in ridiculous places like International Falls, MN and Marked Tree, AR. Now that I have offspring, I can see myself going back to ice scrapers and white-outs and air so cold it actually affects the genetic composition of your unconceived children, just for the benefit of sharing a seat on the constant roller coaster of joy and agony that is being a mother.

When Autumn Leaves Start To Fall

The daytime high in Memphis today isn't expected to get above 50 degrees, and I'm loving it. As a child of the Great Lakes, it's impossible for me to acknowledge that it's autumn when the temperatures are in the 70s. And I need it to feel like fall, because fall makes me happy. My Scandinavian genes should dictate a downward shift in mood along with the dropping mercury, but nothing brings an unexpected smile to my face more than walking outside and smelling the aroma of burning leaves carried on a crisp breeze. I've adapted somewhat to the Memphis summer, but I feel nothing but relief once it's over. I love wearing my favorite jeans without wishing I hadn't, making hot tea instead of iced, taking the dog for a long walk rather than a forced march. Oh and also, fall means my birthday. After years on the tundra, I expect a certain amount of cool weather before my annual festivities. If my birthday comes and goes without a dip in the thermometer, it's almost like it doesn't happen. A few weeks later, when it does cool off, I start thinking about chocolate frosting and updating my Amazon wishlist and then realize, "Gah! Too late!"

So thanks to the unseen meteorological forces for this properly autumnal day. The last of my twenties, as it happens. I guess there's some metaphor to be made about seasons and leaves and drying up and dying on the ground while people step on your crackling frame, but I'll just let it go. My tea's ready.

I Went To See The Doctor Of Philosophy

In an exciting confluence of my two favorite pastimes, two thirds of my roster will be performing at the Southern Festival of Books going on in downtown Memphis this weekend (specifically, at the convention center and Main St. mall). I'd tell you exactly when they're all playing, but in another, less exciting confluence, my lovely daughter practiced her scissor skills on the tiny slip of register tape where I'd written all the performance times. I know that Jimmy plays on Friday evening, Blair is on Saturday afternoon (1-2, I believe), Jamie's set is Saturday late afternoon (4-6 sounds familiar) and Kim is playing from 3-4:30 on Sunday. This is the type of event I'd normally pine to attend but would forego due to a total intolerance for dragging a pre-schooler through crowds of aloof intelligentsia, but since my parents will be on hand this weekend to help out with child-wrangling and it's my birthday, I may actually be able to make a go of it. And then spend all my commission money on books for Garrison Keillor to sign.

An Alright Guy

Not only did Blair get a coveted spot at last night's Folk Alliance party, he went ahead and won himself a showcase at the International Folk Alliance Conference, representing Memphis in front of 3000 industry types. The real kind, not just maternal posers. Atta boy!

Working For The Weekend

Now's the part of the week when I start looking through the Flyer to figure out which shows I won't be able to see this weekend. Tonight, Blair's got a showcase spot at the Folk Alliance's "No Boundaries" party, which is basically a party celebrating the exact quirky little genre in which I've found myself entrenched. The info says it's free for "members of the Mid-south music and media arena." I'm not sure how you prove that you're a member. Maybe by quoting Lucero lyrics or being able to tell what the "T" stands for in Harlan T. Bobo.

Then there's Jimmy's shows. My poor neglected Jimmy. He's playing Otherlands on Saturday, and then joining up with the most intriguing band in Memphis, The Cooking Hookers, at the Buccaneer on Sunday. But barring the sudden heavenly descent of Mary Poppins, it doesn't look like I'll be able to catch either one. Sorry, guys! Why can't you ever play anywhere with a ballpit?

Wake Up, Little Susie

I was going to throw out a quick post yesterday, summing up BC's crochety-yet-charming show at The Hi-Tone on Wednesday night, but I was just too dang tired. In this week's Flyer, Chris Herrington echoes the common complaint about the start times of live Memphis music, saying that it prohibits people with kids and jobs from attending weeknight shows, and I have to agree. Well, sort of. It is nice to know that I can still catch a show even after tending to all necessary bedtime duties, but it would also be nice to be able to use a reasonable start time as an excuse to get out of bedtime duty in the first place. In Wednesday's case, I planned to get there a little early so I could fill the despised job of Door Girl, but fortunately I arrived late enough that the task had already been handed off, so I was able to sit further than 10' from the monitors and enjoy my free water without having to hassle anyone for five bucks.

Wednesday night crowds are funny. It seems to be a good night to draw the respectful, songwriter-friendly folks, along with a decent helping of kindly nutjobs. Holly Cole got things going, and played some lovely stuff with Johna from Giant Bear. Then Blair hauled himself onstage and proceeded to ignore all requests yet make everybody happy for an hour, finishing his set with a rousing full-band number with Giant Bear. GB finished up the night, but I only made it through about 4 songs before my internal alarm went off. I got home, changed, brushed and into bed approximately 6 minutes before M woke up and started wailing for me (and 2 minutes after I'd fallen asleep). She was interested in the lightning, so it took a little while to get her to focus on sleeping. I got her settled in bed and we were both just drifting off when the curtains at the head of the bed suddenly came crashing down, along with the 6-foot long, 4-inch wide metal curtain rod. Wide awake again. 1:30 am. So goes the glamorous life of Secret Agent Mom.

My favorite part of the night was when the cigarette-pusher came up to Rachel, pointed to Holly and asked, "Is that Blair Combest?" Me and my gender-ambigious roster.

Let Me Ride On The Wall Of Death

I'm deeply conflicted by the entire fair concept. The expectation of fun is nearly oppressive, and the options for entertainment are so overwhelming that it sort of makes me want to go sit in an empty room and rock back and forth for awhile. And now that I have a child who is old enough to have her own tastes (for fried Snickers) and preferences (for rides that involve trucks or oversized fruit), it adds a whole new risk for decision-induced meltdown. Not to mention how difficult it is to explain that there are some things we just are not going to do, like spend $20 trying to win a dusty, oversized stuffed Nemo or taking a ride on the giant ferris wheel. (No, I'm not a total crank, it's just that we went on the humongous ferris wheel at Navy Pier in Chicago and I spent the entire ride trying not to throw up while M tried to squeeze out of the 6" gap between the door and floor.)

My biggest conflict of this year's fair outing, however, came in the beer tent. Someone - I'm not sure if it was Miller or Budweiser or if there's even a difference - spent some money bringing bands in to play for the ... well, crowd is too strong a word. Sparsely distributed collection of random strangers looking for someplace to sit and eat, or else possibly waiting in line for beer is a better description. It was a group of various demographics who all had one thing in common: complete disinterest in the people standing on stage with the instruments. We even saw one guy standing 20 feet away from the stage, trying to carry on a cell phone conversation over the 120-decibel Skynyrd medley going on behind him. As Kip Kilpatrick and the Kippers* rocked their little hearts out, playing Pink Floyd covers as well as original songs that all sounded like Train B-sides, the "audience" totally ignored them. Which was my first instinct as well, but then the singer mentioned something about their 10-hour drive from Virginia and I almost wanted to cry. I suddenly felt a deep sympathy for these guys, traveling halfway across the country in a ratty conversion van to play a three-hour set in the middle of a Monday afternoon so a bunch of half-drunk Memphians would have something to listen to while they ate their footlong Pronto Pups. So when they finished their hard rock cover of "Whisky In The Jar" and M clapped with all the enthusiasm her drained little body could muster, I clapped right along. I think I may have even hooted.

And then I got a Pronto Pup.


*I made that up. The frontman actually looked like Dave Navarro. Or thought he did.

After The Rain

Rain? We ain't afraid of no rain!

Thanks to the good folks at Strings and Things, we were able to hold Rock'n'Romp as scheduled, with only a few minor alterations to the plan (no beer and a little more paperwork - pesky legality!). But we still had the RnR mainstays, like fake tattoos and a bottomless cooler of Flav-O-Ice (am I the only one who wants to say that like Flava Flav? "Flav-o-IIIIIIIIIICE!"). And of course, some of the best of Memphis' ridiculously rich pool of musicians. Jeffrey James and the Haul got things going, and proved that there's no better way to warm up a room full of toddlers than a couple tuba solos. Sidewalk Talk continued the fun and even had the parents on their tired ol' feet by the end of their set.

But the biggest surprise - well, to me, anyway - was watching CB pull off a fully functional and totally entertaining show while surrounded - nay, ambushed! - by tiny rockers. Considering that he was near to nausea before getting onstage, it was impressive to see him not only warm up to the wee little fans but completely embrace the gaggle of itty back-up dancers. It also eased my guilt over booking him for a free show in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. I swear, I knew all along that he'd have a good time and it wasn't just a cruel booking joke, like when I sent him up for his first Minnesota show in January.



Photo credit: The Chockleyblogs

Rock'n'roll, baby!

I'm using all my mental meteorological powers to will good weather this way, because I've spent all summer looking forward to the upcoming Rock'n'Romp and it will break my icy little heart if it gets tornadoed out. The general RnR concept is a melding of my two greatest interests - Memphis music and watching my child shake her ever-lovin' booty. And since CB is scheduled to play at this weekend's event, it's an even deeper confluence of my double life. Miss M hasn't heard CB play since ... well, since she was in utero. (Someday I'll explain to her that she even got to hang out backstage at Letterman while a gang of Memphis boys played their guts out on big ol' national tee-vee.)

Ooh, this just in ... there is a serious-rain plan, so if you want to know how to get in on all the rocking and romping action, hit the link above to get on the evite list.

The Middle Child

My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
- Vladimir Nabokov

Happy birthday, Blair!

Nether Say Nether

I think the Dutch are lovely people (as well as at least 12% of my ancestry), but they really need to do something about their street names. I was late for work this morning because I was mailing out a few CDs to the Netherlands, and I had to write out "Ambtshuisstraat" and "Kwikstaartlaan" in triplicate. The buyers of these CDs have already contacted me wondering where the heck their orders are, and I've had to be very creative to avoid saying "sitting in my bag for the last few weeks." It's not that I haven't tried to mail them, but when the local post office is out of customs forms in the queue area, I very rarely have the time to wait in line and then fill out all the necessary, vowel-heavy documents. I left half an hour early just so I'd have time to get through them, and I still ran long. Not as long as those streets, though. Sheesh.

5 Steps to 12 Steps

So how does one become a secret agent mom? It's quite simple, really. First, you harrass the most desparate-seeming local musician until he can't help but accept your repeated offers of free assistance - website maintenance, mailing list missives, street team coordination, etc.

Then you have a baby.

Then you get laid off from your comfy corporate telecommuting job, around which you tailored your entire parenting style.

You scramble for a few months doing everything from freelance writing to hawking hemp lip balm, until eventually, your years of loyalty pay off and you're offered a chance to get compensated for some of that musical labor. The only catch is that it's for doing the most thankless, stressful, soul-bruising job in the music industry: booking out-of-town shows. It's sort of like going to a strange town and doing door-to-door sales of magic invisible fairy dust, except with the demand that you get paid in free beer.

But the chance to help out some friends, combined with the draw of getting into shows for free (you know, if you can sneak out after your child's bedtime), is too much to pass up. You fire up the Excel spreadsheet and get to work. And then thirteen minutes later, hit Ctrl+S and go find out what that strange thumping/scraping sound coming from the living room is.

Dichotomy (part 1)

It was 5:17 pm when I got a call from W*, my poker buddy, former ad salesman and local music magnate. He was on his way to a meeting with JR, and asked if I wanted to come along. W's sneaky like that.

He'd emailed me a few days prior, extolling the virtues of young master JR and casually mentioning that the poor boy was having a bit of trouble getting shows together. I tried to ignore the bait, as I generally do when I hear that valid but common complaint, and I busied myself by going over the 419 things I needed to get done for my current clients. But then, as I was innocently checking my MySpace messages, I ran smack into an email from JR's friend/manager-type-guy, chock full of links to JR's debut album. Curiosity got the better of me, and I clicked. I listened. I promptly sent an expletive-laden email back to W., cursing him out for having the gall to drop a really, really talented songwriter on me. Now what was I supposed to do, say no thanks and watch him wander off to another agent who would recognize his talent and set up a 50-city tour but pay no attention to whether or not he owned a decent parka?

So when W called, I was torn. Not only was I unsure if I could commit to another artist, but I also had to get to my daughter's PTA meeting half an hour later. The wardrobe decision alone was nearly enough to keep me at home - how could I possibly find something to wear that would suit both scenarios? Was there anything in my closet that simultaneously said "culturally aware" (read: young) and "maternally responsible" (read: able to locate Band-Aids in less than 3 seconds)? But I threw caution - and my mom shorts - to the wind and agreed to meet W and JR for coffee.

From the minute I saw his bedheaded silhouette, I knew I was done for. Maybe if all songslingers didn't look like 8-year-old boys, I'd have an easier time telling them that no, they'll just have to take care of their careers themselves. The meeting itself was as fruitful as possible, considering the normal level of awkwardness between two people who've never met yet have had other people trying to hook them up for the last week. Considering JR and I are both married, that's not a situation we're accustomed to these days. W earned his nickname of The Great Facilitator (okay, I don't know if anyone calls him that, but they should) and somehow managed to plan out the next six months of our lives, all in the course of one bottle of green tea. Of course, maybe he didn't realize he was planning out that far, but that's how long it takes to set up a decent tour. Just as I was about to issue my slow sigh of contented resignation, I realized it was time to pack up my briefcase/diaper bag and head off to the PTA meeting.

Life lesson of the day: the PTA doesn't recognize "club time"; they actually start meetings when they say they will. It's hard to be a very secretive agent when you're creeping in the squeaky front door right in the middle of the cookie dough fundraiser briefing.



* Look, I'm still deciding how anonymous to be, or at least how much privacy to give other people. Give me a week and I'll probably be giving names, cell phone numbers and SAT scores.

Introducing ...

All mothers have a double life: the one they had before offspringing, and the one that came afterward. But in my case, the split became even more pronounced when I simultaneously took on two full-time duties: 1) raising a daughter, and 2) trying to keep professional musicians in one, preferably employed piece. And this is how it goes.