"Talking about music is like dancing about architecture."

“Talking about music is like dancing about architecture.”  No one seems to know the origins of this wise quote about love and music, but it doesn't make it any less true.  Angelina Jolie’s character Joan said it best in the movie Playing By Heart, “He may be right, but it ain't gonna stop me from trying.”

I've tried rather unsuccessfully to write about love and music, and my love for music.  I've also tried to write about my love for the music of Pink Martini, a mini orchestra from Portland.  This last Wednesday, Sheena and I adored their performance with the Colorado Symphony Orchestra from the 5^th row at Boettcher Concert Hall.

The band takes the stage to roaring applause, picking up their instruments. Thomas sits at the piano.  China and Timothy take their microphones.  The music begins and my soul is lifted from my body, transformed into a weightless cloud of bliss.  This is what I imagine heaven must be. 

I believe everyone has a musical soul mate, an artist that gets you high just with their own unique sound.  That’s what Pink Martini means to me; the perfect combination of vocals, horns, strings, piano, percussion, guitar, and bass. 

What band, artist, or composer does that for you?

My Two Favorite Words: Book Sale


This weekend is the annual Denver Public Library Gigantic Used Book sale. I decided to brave the heat, the piles of books, and the ant hill of people to find some cheap reads. It is an understatement to say… I’m so glad that I did! Lillian and I stumbled away with as many as we could carry, and we only spent $19!

Right before leaving, I decided to check one last table of hard covers, to see if there was something that I just couldn’t live without. I rested my box on some books and scanned the titles. Nestled in the middle, with only the spine exposed, was a book that made me scream. Yes. I screamed! Everyone stopped browsing and turned to see the crazy-ass woman screaming in the corner.



This book has eluded me for SIX YEARS. It’s not that it’s a rare book or anything like that. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the title or author. I tried Google searches, talked to librarians, and scoured shelves to no avail. I didn’t think I would ever find this book again. Here it was, amidst stacks of random titles. It was the first book I picked up.

I read this book when I was at a crossroads in my life. I immediately related to David, a reclusive poet facing the loss of his girlfriend and causing the loss of his parrot by throwing him out the window to face the wild. Feeling guilty, he learns all he can about conures and goes out into the world to find the feathered friend that he abandoned. If you ever read this book, don’t read too quickly. This book is one to be leisurely enjoyed. Ride along with David on a cargo ship to the mangrove swamps of South America. There you will fall in love with the Aratinga erythrogenys, best known as the cherry headed conure.

If you live in the Denver metropolitan area, go to the book sale and browse awhile. It’s on through Sunday at the Denver Central branch on Broadway. Find a book to savor in the shade with a cold glass of lemonade. Hell, at these prices you can store up for winter reading while you’re at it! I will be going back tomorrow. But this time I will park closer and bring a bigger vehicle!

Global Thanks for 2,000 Views

After I post this, my humble little blog will hit 2,000 views. I am proud of that. What I find particularly cool, is that I have readers all over the world. This week alone I have been read in France and many times in Russia, as well as the United States. I have been read in India, Croatia, Brazil, Australia, the Netherlands, Germany, China, the Philippines (Hi Amy!), and many more.

This gives me such a warm feeling of a global community. I invite those of you in other nations to PLEASE leave a comment on my blog. I’d love to hear from you about life in your corner of the globe.

Going forward, I’d like to give Reflections by Ronnie a more focused approach. In the past I’ve written about random musings on my day to day life. I will continue to do that, but in each new post I will be covering one simple pleasure of life on this big blue marble. We are all so busy working, caring for our families, dealing with stresses that it’s sometimes very difficult to enjoy simple things.

This blog will be just that, my reflections on simple things. I hope it’s as fun to read as it is to write.

Thanks for visiting my blog in the past, the present, and the future.

Ronnie

iPanic

To see me is to see my iPhone. It’s quite literally an extension of my hand. It goes everywhere with me.

A few nights ago we ate dinner at Taco Bell. (Don’t judge) Afterward we went to the adjacent King Soopers to pick up a few things. Aside from the Taco Bell slip, we’re trying to eat better. (Hey! I thought you wouldn’t judge!)

I wanted to scan a package of whole grain bread to see the nutrition info. I reached for my phone. It wasn’t in my pocket. I checked every other pocket on my person and probably looked like I was publicly groping myself in the bakery. No phone. “Honey, is it in your purse?” Sheena found hers, but not mine. “I gotta check the car!” I knew I left it unlocked and if my phone was in there, it was on the center console in plain view.

I whizzed through the chip aisle and made a bee-line for the door. It was already dark out and I ran for the Jeep through passing headlights, dodging moving cars. I pulled open the door to find. . . NOTHING. It hadn’t slipped to the floor. It wasn’t beneath the seats.

PANIC.

I checked the ground around the vehicle. I must have left it on the table when we ate. I lurched forward toward Taco Bell and started to run. No! I’ll drive! I stopped on a dime and pivoted around toward the Jeep. No! I should tell Sheena I’m leaving! I jerked back toward the store. With my arms stretched forward I must have resembled a zombie from Michael Jackson’s Thriller. (Never thought THAT name would surface in a blog entry) No! There’s no time to waste! I climbed in the Jeep and sped through the lot toward Taco Bell.

They didn’t have my phone. I felt like a fool for even asking at the counter. Like someone would really turn it in. My shoulders slumped and I drove back to the store to get Sheena and Lillian.

When we made it home, my smart little iPhone lay obediently where I left it: On the bed where I rested this afternoon to play Doodle Jump. (Don’t judge!)

The Food Critic

My nephew Connor is not your average 9 year old. Oh sure, he likes video games and he fights tooth and nail with his brother. But he has an unusual desire to finish his homework immediately and he’d rather be reading than playing sports. Sometimes I think he’s my kid.

Connor is particular. Some might even say picky. This is especially true when it comes to his taste in food. He won’t eat anything below his standards. My sister suggested Taco Bell for lunch one afternoon. Connor refused. “Mom, they slap it together with absolutely no effort and have the nerve to call it food!” How can you argue with that? Don’t suggest McDonalds either.

Since he was old enough to eat he has always been a food snob. It was Christmas 2002, Connor was less than 2 years old and barely old enough to talk. We were downtown to view the Parade of Lights and stopped on the corner of the 16th St mall. Starbucks was giving away free samples of hot cocoa. I took one and bent down to the stroller to give Connor a taste. “Mmmm. Chocolate!” I was blown away. I had no idea that he knew what chocolate was, let alone be able to pronounce it so clearly. When I was 19 months old my tastes barely reached apple sauce.

Anton Ego

Some kids know from an early age what they aspire to be in adulthood. I knew that I wanted to be a writer when I was probably about 6. Last year Connor revealed his dream occupation. “I’m going to be a food critic.”

Yesterday morning I noticed that my sister prepared pasta for Connor’s lunch. Wendy noticed my raised brow and told me that she was out of bread. I asked Connor why he didn’t eat school lunch. “School lunch is disgusting. I won’t eat it.” I asked what type of ‘disgusting’ foods they serve. “Burgers with tasteless meat, disgusting macaroni and cheese. There’s absolutely no fruit.” No fruit? What kind of school lunch is that? “They give apples and oranges, but nothing else. Worst of all, they won’t even let us talk to each other during lunch.” Connor enjoys good conversation with his food. It brings enjoyment to the meal.

His dad mentioned a friend of his with a son Connor’s age, named Conner with an ‘e‘. Kenny told him that the kid has dreams of being a chef and opening his own restaurant. Our little food critic said, “Well if his food is bad, I’ll give him a bad review and have him shut down.”

Recently Connor revealed his Top Ten list of sauces while in the car with his dad. Like any true critic, Connor treats his opinions like fact. The list goes like this:

1)Ranch dressing
2)Marinara
3)Honey Mustard
4)Ketchup
5)Barbeque
6)Teriyaki
7)Worcestershire (which he said is moving up)
8)Soy
9)Orange Chicken glaze
10) A-1 (but only with pork chops)

What I told Connor is this simple. Who says he has to wait until he’s grown-up to be a food critic? He’s old enough to eat, right?

The Irony of my Ironing

“Ronnie, get in here. It’s your week to clean the kitchen. Wendy had last week.” Mom trumpeted through our small house. An awkward 12 year old shuffled through the living room and groaned looking at the stack of breakfast dishes in the sink and grimy pans stacked on the stove. “That’s not fair!” I said. “Why doesn’t Danny ever have to clean?”
“Because he’s a boy and cleaning is women’s work.” Mom’s words infuriated me. The burning started in my feet and rose quickly through the rest of my body, finally shooting out my mouth like a shift whistle.
“That’s bullshit!” I screamed! “Since when does having a penis count as a free pass from housework?”
“Since the beginning of time, garbage mouth. Now get busy or you’ll be here all day.” She handed me a rag and slammed the dish soap on the counter.
There was no use fighting her. I set to work rinsing egg yolk from dirty plates. Scrubbing the pans coated in bacon grease and cooking oil seemed to drag on forever.
Just when I thought I was finished, Mom would come stomping in there and point out the burned-on food on the stove top.
“Get an SOS pad from under the sink and clean these burners. Don’t just wipe down the counters, move the appliances and clean under and behind them with bleach. Clean the refrigerator handle and door. Sweep the floor when you’re done and then call me so I can come and check it. You know, one of these days when you have a husband and kids, you’ll be thanking me for teaching you how to properly clean. If you settle your ass down and watch me, I‘ll teach you how to cook.”
My mom’s 1950’s mentality made my jaw hurt, most likely from gritting my teeth. And once again, my adolescent rage came bubbling up and out. “It’ll be a mighty COLD DAY IN HELL when I cook and clean for ANY man!”


As it turns out, nearly 30 years later I only ate most of my words. My morning begins with making breakfast, getting my girls ready to meet their day, and shuttling the kid to school. I come back home and have a quick cup of coffee before… wait for it… CLEANING THE KITCHEN.

I find myself comfortably stepping into the role of wife and mother, but certainly not for a man. It’s Sheena that I wait for at the end of the day.

I do laundry, I do toilets, I do dusting and vacuuming. Hell, I even do windows. My favorite task is grocery shopping followed by home cooking. I love the game of budgeting, meal planning, and preparing a delicious meal. I hear my mother’s voice when I both encourage and discipline the kid. I am happy and proud to ultimately be choosing the same life my mom did. And now I understand that she did it because she loves my dad.

I’m sure my parents knew what took me years to understand. You can’t put a price on a solid home life when it comes to marriage and raising children.

Valarie's Home Table

Stuffins. That’s what Valarie called them. It was the night before Thanksgiving and she was trying a new twist on an old tradition. The stuffing was made with spicy sausage and apples. I helped her chop the apples and Val mixed the ingredients. When she was done the mixture went into the cups of a muffin tin and the tray was popped into the oven. The end result was a savory taste explosion in each muffin.

What do you call it when someone creates something so deliciously fantastic but can’t repeat the dish again? Culinary amnesia? Whatever the affliction, my sweet cousin suffers from it. Actually, those of us waiting at her table are the ones who suffer. But wait! The suffering is short-lived because Valarie will instead make something so tasty that you forget what you were wanting her to repeat. Culinary amnesia in reverse??

I remember an omelet she made that was so special, Adam, Amanda and myself were speechless. Yes, my cousin has a gift. But those of us who have been blessed to be guests at her table, are the ones reaping the sweet, and often savory, rewards.