In Defense of Bad Music

So I was watching American Idol (don’t ask) last night (which is incredibly boring, by the way, now that the bad(der) singers are gone) and one of the guys sings one of the quintessential power ballads of the last 20 years, Hold On to the Night, by that musical guru Richard Marx (also famous for writing Vixen’s one and only hit, Edge of a Broken Heart, during the glam metal days of the 80s—ahhhh I remember them well).

As this boy built up a crescendo towards the end, the drop screen behind him projected the crashing waves of the ocean (signifying the churning emotions of true love perhaps or maybe the constant barrage of memories of a lost love that rhythmically flood the mind). As I watched this spectacle in utter disbelief I was left wondering if there were actually people around the world moved by this.

These vastly different reactions to the Power Ballad (all visceral in their own way) have led me to wonder what is it about this musical genre that draws such intense responses? We either love it or hate it. There is no in between.

My theory is this: genetics. Just as a cat carries the gene that allows him to either get incredibly baked in the afterglow of catnip hits or to momentarily pause at a catnip toy before indignantly walking on, so do humans either possess or lack the ability to be moved by the emotional surges of Celine Dion. I see no other explanation.

So then the question arises, is this trait dominant or recessive? I would like to think recessive, hoping that both the dominant, homozygous genotype, let’s call BB, and the dominant heterozygous, Bb, both result in the Michael Bolton-hating phenotype. This leaves only the homozygous recessive genotype, bb, required for shmaltz-loving. In other words, going back to the recesses of high school punnett square probability, there would be a 75% chance of a couple producing a Power Ballad hater. (We will avoid more complicated genetic possibilities such as sex-linked characteristics, mutation, etc.)

So if my theory is correct, I must have more of a tolerance for this group of people. I must show compassion for they know not what they sway to. Beyond this I must show some admiration for the leaders of this community (the Richard Marxes and Mariah Careys) who have proudly embraced the genetic minority they belong to and have rallied other members to “Say it loud, we’re lame and proud.”

So the next time you see a 16-year old girl at a stop light in the car next to you with all windows down singing her heart out to Wilson Phillips’ Release Me, don’t roll up your window as would be your natural tendency. Raise your fist in solidarity and shout, “Power to the People” as you speed off to your destination.

Baby Shower Revisited

Ok, so we went to the baby shower my family threw for us this weekend. It turned out to be a lot of fun even though there were no special mommy rite of passage ceremonies I would like to be a part of. It was very girly (held at a tea house) and I dressed like a girly. No black pantsuits as is customary for me to wear to these things. That was ok, though. Cool girly is very different from lame girly (right?). I think I most enjoyed getting very practical advice from friends and relatives with children. I think if there is any occasion to share sage advice about babies it is at a shower. You know, I also REALLY enjoyed the attention, surprisingly. I usually HATE attention. Mommy-to-be attention is very different, though. It’s this recognition that what you are embarking on is a difficult and permanent and beautiful journey. I think people gravitate towards the life force inside of you. There is something very life-affirming (perhaps species-affirming) about it. Of course, the human species is not at any risk of dying out anytime soon, but, at the risk of sounding like a certifiable pro-lifer, to see a life that a woman is choosing to carry and to guide into this world, can bring those around her a sense of hope that things can be made better than they are now.

Families Old and New

The journey of getting to know my birth family continues. I spoke with my birth cousin and aunt for the first time. It’s amazing how the history of blood can play such a powerful role in welcoming one into a stranger’s life. These people who I would never have known have extended themselves so much to me.

My birth mother’s sister looks hauntingly like my mother. My half-sisters tell me she sounds and acts like her such that they couldn’t look at her at our mother’s memorial. I’ve been told my voice and mannerisms are similar to my mother’s as well.

She shared with me more stories of my mother and also of the time she was pregnant with me. What was it like to be a lonely, pregnant 16-year old in the late sixties in the Bay Area? There was no Summer of Love for her. There was only shame. Life-long shame, apparently. Her family instilled that in her very early on. My aunt told me she mourned her loss on every one of my birthdays, like the pain of a phantom limb. I blew out candles and celebrated while two states away a stranger cried and drank and wondered what could have been. All her life she wondered that, but was too paralyzed to move beyond wondering.

As I hung up the phone with my aunt I felt like a channeler emerging from a séance. In the movies you always see how fatigued they are. The burden of touching the dead. With each new image of my birth mother I am both weighed and liberated by the experience.

Pet Priorties

I WILL get comfortable on this oddly protruding mound!!

So does any other expectant parent worry about how the pet will take to a new baby? I suspect if you don't have a pet you will think I am crazy, but it is a big concern. My huge, lumbering baby is soon to be 11 and has lived his entire life being completely catered to by his pathetic parents. He sleeps (no kidding) with his body between us under the covers. His head is on one of our pillows. How can I possibly consider kicking him out of bed for a little peanut of a person? Newborns aren’t even that cute!

Does he suspect the imminent event? I believe he does. As you can see he has already begun asserting his dominance. He tries to climb on me every chance he gets (not what he used to do). He also recently threw up in the baby room. Coincidence? I think not.

We are trying our best to come up with strategies to minimize the stress of a new sibling. We’ve committed ourselves to getting the baby out regularly so that he doesn’t have to hear his screaming and so that he may get some “alone time” with one of us.

We are absolutely insane people and should not even be allowed to have a child let alone a feline.

Baby Shower Blues

So my family (my adopted family) are insisting on throwing us a baby shower. Why do I have such a hard time with this? I can't accept gifts well--feel very guilty about it. My therapist says go for it because you will use ALL of it.

I guess it would be better if a friend was throwing it. The last time a party was thrown for me (my wedding) dad asked for receipts! Besides that, though, I guess the consumerism of having a baby is getting me down. I know babies need stuff, but do they need crap? I refuse to allow my kid to play with toys that are filled with flashing lights and sounds of “the cow says ‘moooo’”. That is so not what they need. Why do shove barn sounds, colors, and numbers down young children’s throats? When has a child not grown up knowing that stuff? They pick it up, for God’s sake, without formal training.

Also, the "selfish" part of me doesn’t understand why we don’t celebrate the mother more during these little gatherings. I feel guilty registering for any mommy-related items. I feel that is my responsibility to buy such things. Why? There should be nothing wrong with asking for nipple cream, right? I’m reading Birthing From Within right now. Not offering me a huge amount of information yet, but I do appreciate the way the mother is celebrated. They touch on the heart of the emotional transition from parentless to parenthood. In it they say, “All ceremonies symbolically destroy one world to create a new one.” A., my husband, says this is a rather harsh way of looking at it, but I like the wording. Birth itself is a ceremony that leads you one way and one way only. Whether you keep the child or not, whether the child lives or not, you have profoundly changed. A ceremony should happen to acknowledge this imminent event. A gathering of women, especially, should address this, but so many women have lost their primordial connections with each other. One of the strangest experiences in my life was attending a baby shower. Every very feminine woman there was wearing a floral dress. I came in a black pantsuit. They couldn’t get past it. We also played a million games, which, I admit, can be fun, but there wasn't any wisdom passed on to the mom-to-be. That’s what I need right now. A matriarch.

Can you rent those?