I Ran (So Far Away)

I am a confessed co-dependent runner. I really like to have a partner to distract me from the run itself. Alas, there are times when I must run alone and for those times I depend on my tunes to keep me going. Over two years ago I created a playlist based on beats per minute. Apparently if you run between a 9 and a 10 minute mile you should be running to songs between 140-160 BPM*. So Mike and I sat around with a metronome and our music library and put together the ultimate running playlist, which I loved. Again, I do most of my runs with a partner and don’t use my ipod shuffle too often, still two+ years of the same old playlist was enough to eventually leave me ready to toss my little ipod shuffle into the road and watch it get run over again and again and again and again.

So this week after much research I created a new playlist that meets all my music requirements:
  1. The aforementioned BPM thing
2. Music I actually know and like (IE No Taylor Swift or Kenny Chestnut)
3.Songs that I wouldn’t quickly tire of

This time I didn’t even have to do the metronome thing as, lo and behold, other people in the world have already done it and have been kind enough to place their songs on the good ol’ net. So, I thought why not share these jazzy beats with you,my loyal followers (and take credit for other people’s hard work), and help you get off and running (if you aren’t already). And of course if you aren’t a runner you might enjoy this playlist for other activities such as cleaning your house, driving in your car, making dinner, hosting a super fun party, dancing in the shower or dancing in the shower while making dinner and hosting a super fun party. Yes!

And while I’m at it I’ll post the tunes on my previous list, which I used to love, but now can’t bear to listen to and will likely poke someone’s eyes out if they ever play them in my presence. Yippee! It is important to note that some of these songs have (gasp) explicit lyrics. Yes, even a clean living girl like myself enjoys hearing a naughty word here and there while running.

Of course I cleverly title all my playlists. This new one is called…wait for it, wait for it… “It’s Gotta Good Beat 2012”
Alone Together –The Strokes
American Music-Violent Femmes (not sure if this is in the BPM range, but it’s a necessity)
Blue Orchid-White Stripes
Change Your Mind-The Killers
Come Dancing-The Kinks
Crazy-Gnarls Barkley
Dog Days Are Over (which incidentally I thought were the Dark Days-oh well)-Florence & The Machine
Dream On –Aerosmith (you didn’t think I’d skip a classic did you?)
Float On-Modest Mouse
Funky Boss-Beastie Boys (I never run without my Boys)
Get on Your Boots-U2
I Melt With You-Modern English
I Ran (so far away)-Flock of Seagulls –Oh yes I did my friends!
It’s On The Rocks-The Donnas
Jacqueline-Franz Ferdinand
King of Rock (this is an exception to the BPM, but still too fun to overlook-put it in the beginning for warm up or end for cool down)
Lady Killer-Flash and the Pan
Like Clockwork-Boomtown Rats
Lump-The Presidents of the United States of America
Nine in the Afternoon-Panic at the Disco
No Rain-Blind Melon-honestly one of my all time faves-judge away
Ooh La- The Kooks
Piece of My Heart (this is slightly over the 160 BPM, but whatevah)
Rehab-Amy Winehouse
Strawberry Swing-Coldplay (sorry Coldplay haters)
Stronger-Kanye West (another not quite 140 BPM but had to throw it in there)
Talk to Ya Later-The Tubes
Veronica-Elvis Costello
We’re Going to Be Friends-White Stripes (again one of my all time favorite tunes)
What I Like About You-The Romantics
  Approx 1:45 mins.

Playlist # 2 "Fall to the Beat" (Named after the Season it was created and not after my well-known grace and agility)
Animals-Nickelback (don’t judge it has a good beat-not for innocent ears please)
Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown-Jim Croce
Beat on The Brat-Ramones
Beautiful Day-U2 The Beautiful People-Marilyn Manson
Born to Run-Bruce Springsteen
Dropping some NYC-Blues Traveler
Everlong-Foo Fighters
Fight For Your Right To Party-Beastie Boys
Hard Day’s Night-Beatles
I Get Around-Beach Boys
I Wanna Be Sedated-Ramones
Longview-Green Day
Looks That Kill-Motley Crue
Love Shack-B-52s
Material Girl- Madonna
Mr. Jones-Counting Crows (I pretty much hate this song, but there it is)
Peggy Sue-Buddy Holly
Pretty Fly-Offspring
Pump It Up-Elvis Costello
The Red-Chevelle
Runaround Sue-Dion
Shake it Up-Cars
Sugar Magnolia-Grateful Dead (one of my happy songs :))
Sweet Leaf-Black Sabbath
25 or 6 to 4- Chicago (least favorite Chicago song ever btw)
Approx 1.5 hours

So there you have it, friends. Enjoy….

*If you consistently run faster than a 9 minute mile I’m too jealous of you to give you playlist advice. I suppose you could google it and I guess I can give you the hint that you want songs around 160 BPM and faster

Say What?

As a general rule human beings aren’t too fond of aging. Well, here’s a tip to staying young my friends, watch your language. Different words and slang can be attached to different generations, right daddy-o? So adopting a few catch phrases from the younger generation could possibly give you some youthful bliss. But before you decide to swap chillax for settle down, you better think long and hard.

Take the 40 something woman from Greenwich, Connecticut who decides to spice up her vocabulary with a phrase like, True dat. To this woman, actually this whole club of women, I say, Sweetheart this is the equivalent of wearing a bright green belly shirt and a pair of Victoria Secret sweatpants with hotty written across the butt. You’re too old. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for you. When confronted with the urge to emphatically agree with someone please, try these phrases- I emphatically agree or if you want to go more casual I hear ya or even an amen sister, if you must. If you are in your twenties and have ever been out of Whitesville, USA true dat to your heart’s content, otherwise, it’s off the table.

I understand the urge to speak like the kids, believe me. I work with a twenty-two year old who has some great little phrases. But they belong to her and her generation. When she says “I like that guy, he’s chill.” It means that guy is relaxed, laid back, good temperament etc. , if I said “That guy is so chill” it means I’m 38 years old, I’m teetering on some kind of middle life crisis and I desperately want you to think I’m cool, but obviously I’m not. And frankly I don’t really like that guy, he’s kind of lazy.

I also notice she says things like that’s kind of sketch…where in my generation we say that’s kind of sketchy or he’s kind of sketchy. I know it’s only the difference of the letter “y”, but apparently that y goes a long way. Again, if you are of the sketch generation it makes perfect sense to be Y free—but if you are my age, dropping the Y is just some delusional anti-aging mechanism, like I can’t drop these love handles I acquired in my thirties, but I can drop the Y in sketchy and sound like a hip chick. (and here’s your problem –a hip chick? What are you your mother?).

Speaking of mothers, somewhere along the line my mom heard a particular word which was a combo of a strong swear word and the word ugly, and got the gist of what it meant, but didn’t realize its exact meaning. She used it a lot when referring to things that were unattractive-cars, outfits, hairdos. Eventually we had to let her in on the details (the deets as my younger friends would say) and she dropped that from her vocabulary like a hot potato. She then buried that hot potato and probably forgot about it until her darling daughter brought it up in this blog—sorry mom.

So you need to beware of using too many words from the younger crowd, but you also don’t want to sound like a granny. So you have to pay attention. There are words that are outdated, but somehow we hang on to them anyway. I am fond of dude, and I hear it now and again, but I think it might be one of those words that people aren’t really saying anymore, yet no one quite has the courage to tell me. Kind of like when no one told me scrunchies were out of style. I’m still bitter, about that and you know who you are, but that’s a complaint for another day. There are regional colloquialisms & oopses, too, my wicked awesome friends, but again, I’ll leave that for another day.

Maybe you are reading this and finding you say all sorts of things that don’t quite suit you, and maybe you want to crawl into a hole right about now. But before you burrow into that fissure of language embarrassment, allow me to let you in on some good news. Words they sometimes make a comeback and sometimes they cross the ages. Take super. When I was in elementary school super was a word of our parents’ generation. Think Leave it to Beaver- “Gee, that’s super, Wally.” It was also a teacher word, reserved for spelling quizzes and history tests. 100%-Super! Super was not a word we would use out on the playground. “Oh gee, Lisa, your jelly shoes are super!” Nope, that would never happen. But now Super is everywhere. It rolls off my tongue with such enthusiasm you’d think I was born to say it. And, here’s the great part, it’s a cross-generational phrase. It’s relatable whether you are 6, 16, or maybe even 60. Your hair is super-cute! Your sister is super-nice! That party was super-fun! You get the picture.

Language is both simple and complicated. It’s a good indication to where you are from, how you were educated, and your place in time in space. Language is fun and words are great to play around with. I think you should take risks and toss a new word into your vocab(ulary) here and there. But remember the rules of moderation my friend. Too many words from the past make you seem like you should be walking around with blue eye shadow and teased hair. Too many words from the younger generation cry out “I’m having a midlife crisis, but can’t afford a sports car.” It’s all about balance my language touting friends. And if you have to look it up in the urban dictionary before using it, it just might be better left for the kids.

Madder than Old King Cole, Meaner than a Junkyard Bug

This just in…that Paul McCartney is slipperier than you thought. Warn the authorities. It’s not just one Man on the Run. It’s a whole band of them. Including the jailer man and Sailor Sam and they were hurting everyone! And still, with all that new information to my ears it’s still just one man on the run. The man was on the run.

And if this new piece of info rocks your world as much as it rocks mine, here are some other things you must know. And -full disclosure- I JUST found this out about a month ago. It appears that Steely Dan is not reassuring a fallen star that Fame will come back to him and they aren’t even clairvoyants issuing a warning of the pain coming back either. Both of these things make sense, but instead Old SD is more concerned with talking to some girl Peg. Peg? That changes everything. I mean Peg is a too-perky girl with a long ponytail a yellow sweater and a poodle skirt. Not some favorite foreign movie buff. I like the song better when I sing it in the shower, Pain it will come back to you. Or the alternative version Fame it will come back to you. Not that I sing it all that much.

I understand the idea of singing of a woman, but you usually picture the woman to be sultry, seductive, not goody-two shoes Peg! Maybe Steely Dan should take a lesson from Nirvana. Anastasia, now there’s a temptress. When the lights down it’s less dangerous, here we are now, Anastasia. Sure sometimes she gets a little out of control-- Acting stupid and outrageous, here we are now Anastasiaaaa! But still that’s a woman worth writing a song about.

And some women just leave a man speechless, like in the Stones song:
I’m so uh-uh-uh; I’m so uh-uh-uh; I’m so uh-uh-uh and she’s so cold! I’m a burning bike, I’m a burning fire, I’m a bleeding volcano. I’m so uh-uh-uh I’m so uh-uh-uh and she’s so cold. I tried rewinding her, I tried reminding her….

And of course, songs aren’t always about women, sometimes they’re about nature. Like the Who’s big hit:

Blue water, blue, blue, blue blue. Blue water , Blue blue, blue, blue. Now tell me who are you? Now tell me who are you? (then apparently the water replies) Blue wa, blue wa, blue wa, blue wa. Blue wa, blue wa. Blue wa. Blue water. Blue, blue, blue, blue.

And sometimes songs are about cute fuzzy, woodland creatures. Like when Madison was three she sang that famous Ramones song again and again, the one about the frisky Easter Bunny playing his favorite sport:

Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit with a baseball bat! Oh yeah, oh yeah oh oh.

Bottom line, there’s a song out there for everyone and if you can’t really find something that suits you, just change the words (along with the artists intentions) and sing your heart out. But be careful, some people take these things pretty seriously. So always look over your shoulder, watch your back and stay clear of punk rock rabbits carrying aluminum bats.

The Kind of Day...

It is a beautiful snow covered day in the Pacific Northwest. Everything is white, from lawns to sidewalks to trees to rooftops. It’s the kind of day that makes romantics swoon- cold snow outside, warm fire inside. This is the perfect day for you to sit quietly in the kitchen, take a small, dulling pencil to an unlined piece of paper and just write. From time to time you will be glancing out the windows, inspired by the tranquil snowscape.

It’s the kind of day that if you didn’t have report cards due in less than a week, and you didn’t have to share your computer with your husband, and you didn’t have the world’s fattest starving cats mewing constantly at your feet, and you didn’t have children with mini-icicles hanging from their eyelashes trudging snow through your house in desperate search of hot cocoa, then it’s the kind of day that you could decide to become a serious writer.

It’s the kind of day that you will reflect upon later as you sit on the couch of the Today show with a tiny microphone tucked into the lapel of your new suit. That snowy Thursday in 2012 when you were so taken by the beauty of the world and the stillness of your soul that you tossed aside all else and wrote. You will talk about this very day while giving commencement addresses at certain fine colleges. You will recall the background whirr of laughing children as they soared down the sledding ramp your husband built before he threw out his back. And you will give a little chuckle at the memory, because his back will be fine at that point and you will only remember how funny he looked on the ground in the snow.

Later in your memoirs you will refer to this very snowy day. The day you decided to stop being a dreamer and instead be a writer. The day you glanced out and saw snow weighing down the limbs of the evergreens, the slushy lake, the sound of frozen rain hitting your rooftop and then the silence as the rain turned back to snow. You will remember your hands wrapped around a mug of something warm, you might remember it as creamy hot chocolate, but it was really just a mug of steaming tea.

It is the kind of day that you serve homemade cinnamon rolls to your children and their friends as they take yet another break from sledding. It’s the kind of day that if you hadn’t been on a diet, you, too, would indulge in a warm homemade cinnamon treat. No, wait, it’s the kind of day that you shrug your shoulders and forgive yourself the indiscretion, enjoying the sweet taste of cream cheese frosting and warm cinnamon on your tongue.

It’s the kind of day that you need to move from room to room to room to find a quiet place to write. And as you move, with your writer’s eye you notice laundry that needs to be folded, bags that need to be unpacked, toys and shoes that need to be put away, lists that need to be crossed off. You allow yourself a few more minutes to write. Your pencil is getting duller, your paper is full of words, scratches, scribbles, and is that a sketch of a tree?

It’s the kind of day that you realize you are not a professional writer; that your commas are all wrong and you dislike flowery descriptions almost as much as you dislike birthday cards that rhyme. You remind yourself that you think it’s cliché when writers write about writing, but then you forgive yourself because you are writing about snow days after all. It’s exactly the kind of day that you will find yourself laboring over report cards, eating a little too much of everything, tediously folding laundry, giving hugs after minor sledding crashes and maybe sneaking in a run down that sled ramp if you can. It’s the kind of day that you will find yourself, eventually, snuggled on the couch reading a book written by someone more talented than you. But your heart still feels happy and your life still feels full. It’s just that kind of day.

It's in the Mail

My friends and I used to be big letter writers. Way back before texting and emailing, we used to be huge fans of passing notes in class and sending letters via the USPS. It really was a fun treat to go to the mailbox and find a letter with my name on it. Now it’s rare for me to send or receive a long email, never mind a handwritten letter. It’s not a big deal really. I have no hard feelings about it. I do quite well with facebook, texting and phone calls. And maybe it makes this time of year all the sweeter. Money and jewelry aside, there’s nothing I love receiving more than a Christmas card. I am especially fond of the photo cards that people send. I love to see everyone’s children or their pets. Even some of my friends who don’t have kids, or whose kids have long since left the nest, send cards. I love to look at pictures of my friends and family and see how they’ve chosen to represent their life this year. And, it makes me happy to know that these people thought of me, even if the thought was “Why the heck are the Allens still on our card list?”

Having made so many moves in our Coast Guard life, we have the good fortune of knowing a lot of great people. Our walls are covered with these Christmas card treats, which makes me very happy. This year we haven’t received as many cards as we did in the past. I have a couple of theories. The first and most logical theory is that several so-called friends now hate me because I’m so darn cute and perky. In a jealous rage they have decided to blackball me from their Holiday Cheer. Theory two-the Jen theory-is that anyone named Jennifer is banned by the government to send mail to anyone named Aimee, and since 65% of my friends are named Jennifer, I have received only 35% of the usual mailings. The next theory, though less likely, is that fewer people have sent cards out this year. According to this particular theory it’s because they have other things in life they are trying to manage and can’t balance it all (as if). The final theory, the one certain people are calling “THE TRUTH” is that they have the wrong address. Last year all of our mail was forwarded because it had been less than a year since we moved in, but this year the post office is returning to sender. So supposedly a bunch of my friends have received their original cards and will be re-mailing them ASAP. (Right). Oh as I re-read this I suppose the last two theories have some merit, but not much.

Wow, it looks like I am basing my self-worth and popularity on a bunch of cards. That would just be weird and a little desperate. I mean it’s not like I texted my friends, and casually mentioned that I didn’t receive their cards. Okay, since they are probably reading this anyway, maybe I texted one or two or even three friends, but I just didn’t want them to be left out of my Christmas card book.

Oh yes, you heard me. I save photo Christmas cards in an album that we can look at year after year. I’d like to say I do this because I’m clever, creative, organized and a little nostalgic. But really it started because my mother believes, and has passed this neurotic belief on to me, that it is bad luck to throw away a photo. Yes. I am serious; I do not throw away photos. If we have ever had a photo of you it’s still here somewhere. We’ve moved these photos from house to house to house. Heck, we’ve even lugged these photos across the country. We’re like our own little Smithsonian (if the Smithsonian catalogued photos of ordinary people putting bunny ears behind their friends’ heads). If it’s a Christmas letter photo in our possession you’ll have the honor of making the book. If it’s anything else your photo will sit on the fridge for a while and then eventually be tossed into a drawer along with trinkets, hoozy-whatsits and thingamajigs. Look at it this way, if you ever run for political office and are afraid that less-than-savory photo of you from college might surface, well it will…oh sorry that’s probably not reassuring-especially for those of you who didn’t send me a Christmas card this year.

This year my obsession with the Christmas cards seems to be teetering on the verge of Charlie Brownness. Go ahead and think back to the Valentine’s Day Special when Charlie Brown relentlessly checks his mail in hopes of receiving a Valentine. Now keep that image in your mind, throw some curly hair and some mascara on old Chuck and you have the perfect image of me at my mailbox daily. Unlike Charlie Brown, though, my mailbox isn't always empty. Boy oh boy, when a card arrives I am giddy. Some days several cards arrive, I can barely breathe thinking about it. It’s so exciting!

As the holiday season draws to a close I feel a tinge of sadness. I know soon the only thing filling my mailbox will be bills and catalogues. The best I can hope for is a wedding invitation or a baby announcement. I look forward to next Christmas season when I am almost guaranteed to find a card in my mailbox every day. And just to be sure no one forgets me next year, I’ve decided to send out self-addresses stamped envelopes.

Awesome

She looked like a cross between Cleopatra, Cher and maybe the Mona Lisa, too. She sported a classic late 60s look with dark blue eye shadow and long, thick, black hair that she would painstakingly straighten every day. He was short in stature, and had been compared to every decent looking actor on the shorter side, from Jack Nicholson to Bob Newhart. She was a Jewish girl from the suburbs of Boston; he an Irish Catholic boy from the Midwest. She still listened to Malt Shop music; he was a Motown boy through and through. Perhaps they would agree on the brilliancy of the Beatles, though he would surely prefer the psychedelic version of the Fab Four, while she would stand by their clean cut boy image of earlier days. He had left Ohio to see the world via the US Navy and though he did have fun in cities like Paris, there really was no place like Boston for a young sailor, at least in his eyes.

They met at the Enlisted Man’s Club in Charlestown, Ma. My mom’s friend Paula had persuaded my mom to go there. My mother always described her younger self as a “Goody-Two-Shoes”, so I imagine it took some convincing on Paula’s part to actually get my mom out the door. But out the door she went with her long black hair tucked into a blonde wig.

He spotted her at the club and wanted to talk to this curvy blonde woman. It took some nerve and probably a couple of cans of Schlitz for him to saunter on over. He started chatting and when he felt the time was right, put his arm around her. Of course, old Slick ran into a little glitch-as his arm went up and over her head, he hit her wig and knocked it off.

I like to imagine my mom giving him a good slap at this point, but I know her well enough to know that wasn’t the case. Good thing to, because Dad gallantly threw his jacket over her head and escorted her to the restroom!Somehow this goofy character managed to make mom smile and she actually talked to him when she came out of the restroom. Soon they were on their first date together. He wasn’t like other guys, for example, most guys didn’t take their own transistor radios with them on dates. Dad did. He put it right on the table in the middle of their first dinner together. Mom’s friend Paula was surprised that he got a first date, but a second date, well that was baffling. Paula and the gang warmed to my dad, but it took many months. “He was just so goofy, but your mom really saw something in him…”It took some time for this strange Midwestern boy to win over Mom’s family, too. But somehow he did. And now he’s a family favorite. Everyone loves him.

My dad saw something in my mom that was a mixture of smarts and naïveté. Though he was no bad boy, he’d been out in the real world. Yes, she was a girl of the 60s, but she led a fairly sheltered teenhood. Once on a date at the drive-in my parents were approached by a couple of hippies who asked if they “had any papers.” My sweet mom said, “I think we do.” She got out of the car, opened the trunk and handed the hippies a copy of The Boston Globe!

On November 28, 1971, the Motown loving sailor and the Goody-Two Shoes married in Marblehead, Ma. Dad moved out of his roach infested bachelor pad and Mom left her parents’ home in Malden. They took an apartment where I’m sure the transistor radio figured prominently. I picture them in their youth-her long, black straight hair and his long sideburns, thick mustache and polyester shirts-in my mind they are the iconic 70s couple dancing the nights away in their small living room. Whether they were dancing to The Commodores or the Carpenters doesn’t really matter, what matters is that they were, and still are, awesome.

*************************************************************************************
-Inspired by the book My Parents Were Awesome: Before Fanny packs and Minivans, They Were People Too. By Eliot Glazer

Also inspired by my parents of course!! Happy Anniversary. :)

Guest Blogger Max A. Presents....

I have a treat for you guys! November is Guest Blogger month here at the Squeaky Voice-okay made that up, but whatever-and so today I present a crisp and funny piece of fiction written by one of my all time favorite wordsmiths, my son, Max A. Ladies and Gentlemen enjoy this story entitled...

The Pickle Scientist

Once there was a scientist. He made a potion. It was green. It bubbled. He got more stuff and set it aside. He drank the potion. He got small and green! He turned into a pickle!! He ate the stuff he set aside!!!He grew arms, then legs then a face!!!! He knew what reversed every potion. It was called nignith. It was in an underground forest. It was under the Sahara desert. He wanted to go to the airport but pickles can’t drive. Even living ones. Reason number one is that they are too small. Reason number two is that they are too light for the gas pedal or the brake. So he walked.

The airport was 20 miles away. He walked and walked and walked, when he finally got to the airport he felt like he had walked 500 miles.He ran through the airport. He looked up. A few seconds later a five year old kid looked down and said, “Mommy, someone dropped their pickle!” The little boy’s mom picked the scientist pickle up. She put him in the garbage!!! It smelled horrible in there. He managed to get out. “Yuck,” he said. Gum was stuck to his back! To make things clear abcdefg! That means already been chewed definitely eaten fat gum. He took it off and threw it into the trash. H ran and snuck onto plane B3.

He didn’t know where they were going. They were flying over the Sahara then the pilot made an announcement “We are low on gas!” When they were only a few miles away from the Sahara when they ran out of gas. The pilot said “Attention WE ARE OUT OF GAS, I REPEAT OUT OF GAS! Please use emergency exit!” Everyone ran to the closest emergency exit, but the scientist just hid under a chair. He had a plan! He had a plain plan on the plane.

As he hit the ground the plane split in half. He took everything a vehicle needed and made a broken down car. He wasn’t a mechanic so he could not fix the mini- car. He walked until the Sahara was just a mile away. Just then someone from the plane crawled by. Why did he crawl by? Because he was so hungry. He saw that pickle and chased him. Then he stood there confused. The scientist dug a hole and quickly buried himself. Then he dropped! He landed on moss. “This is it “He said. I can find the nignith here!

He walked, then skipped, then ran, then jogged. He looked everywhere in the forest. At the end was a wall with poison ivy all over it. He wondered what was behind it. He got an idea. He dug with his hands under one wall. He found the nignith, ate it then teleported back home.