I spend a lot of my days clicking. My “Sunday School shoes” click down hallways and on wooden floors. The remote control when I can steal it away from my roommate long enough to click the channel from Desperate Housewives to anything else. The cute little iPhone clicks as I’m texting all day long. My mouth click sounds as I failingly attempt to get a cute guy’s attention.
Two days ago I had a pretty significant click.
I was sitting at my desk, and I had about a zillion emails to proof, edit and agree to. Then a mysterious person up in New Jersey emailed and said he needed one final approval. I responded “I approve” and clicked enter on my computer. With that one little click, I wrapped up a year and three months of hard work, sat back in my chair and thought “The album is done.” I tried to cry because it felt right but I just shook my head and looked out the window. Last night I told a friend it was all done and she squealed “When can I get it?!!” and I said “Well, they told me 11 business days.”
And so it is. 11 business days. 5 years worth of songs. Mixing life and magic and reality and dreams. An email approval. Trudging up what seems like a never ending mountain then quietly clicking enter on a random Tuesday.
So. How can you get it? Well, I will have 10 dollar pre-orders available before the official release date in January in case you want a cool stocking stuffer for Christmas. You can email email@example.com for more info. And it will be up on the website and iTunes soon! Thanks for reading and have a happy Thursday. You never know what kind of significant clicks might happen today.
I’ve thought a lot about how to poetically and meaningfully wrap up the conclusion of a post about M&M’s in my dad’s safe. When I sat down to write last week it made COMPLETE sense in my head. Something about how we treat the lousy art we create like cheap candy and lock it up in our brain-safes and hold it FAR too close to our hearts because it’s a literal product of who we are. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE M&M’s. Do they nourish my body and soul and spirit? Well, I mean no. Then in my head I played around with how “valuable” and “meaningful” art takes time to create, like a baker that dedicates most of their time to finding the perfect balance of cream and sugar and butter, if only to find the perfect combination for the PERFECT dessert! Do I think about an almond croissant from La Boulangerie in New Orleans? Well yes. Does it nourish my body soul and spirit? Um. No.
Now I’m on my 3rd attempt to write and make sense of the chaos in my head, and there’s a saxaphone blaring my brains out at some generic coffee shop, and I had another week that was more on the discouraging side and tasted like golden calves hooves. I want to run away to France and proclaim “Oui! Oui!” as I judge all the different bakers’ almond croissants at the annual France almond croissant festival. (If artistry were to escape, I’d be the best escape artist in town.)
Well here’s the thing: art isn’t cheap. Or valuable. Or moving, really. It’s not most of the other dramatic adjectives I’ve used either. We attribute those things to art because of who WE are. And WHERE we are. Sometimes I feel so much for a song that I have to play it over and over again. Sometimes, I just need to hear Terri Gross interview someone interesting. What I’m saying is, we can’t live on M&M’s alone, people! We also can’t live on kale alone! It’s something I know but always have to remember. If I get too obsessed with something or someone or some way, it always goes bad. Too much of something overloads the system. Anyway. That’s my opinion. It makes sense in my head, which worries me for you, the reader. New Music coming soon, keep checking back!!!
Make sure to eat your M&M’s and Kale.
I come from a long line of emotional eaters. My maternal great grandmother was so eager to eat her chicken that she choked to death on a chicken bone. My paternal great grandfather started the company Blue Plate Mayonnaise and Wesson Oil (mother’s one-time heated and irrational statement on my failing social status was “I mean YOU are the Blue Plate Mayonnaise Heiress!! SHE (other, more successful debutante) is not!!” -no mother, claiming mayonnaise in your daughter’s blood doesn’t help her status). My aunt told me she ate all but 2 reese’s pieces in a 1 lb. bag because she was TOO JOYFUL one day. We were all rewarded or punished with sweets growing up, and between my 6 family members, an entire half-gallon of Blue Bell’s “Moollenium Crunch” didn’t stand a chance to rest in the freezer.
My sister just had her baby’s one-month check up. She found out that she produces enough milk for TRIPLETS. Quite literally, it is IN our blood folks.
Mom will not keep sweets in the house anymore because she got tired of having a sickness she invented called “the sugar shakes” which means her intake of sugar is making her hands shake, she needs protein and she needs it NOW before she faints (my sister will talk about her sugar shakes as well and I have to remind them this sickness is called hypoglycemia). Occasionally, when I’m visiting from out of town, we will finish dinner and I’ll ask for something sweet. Mom says “I don’t have anything but your father might have some peanut m&m’s in the safe.” That’s right: next to important papers, random valuables and money, there is the shining golden bag of goodness. Guarded by steel and a code.
The funny thing is there’s a huge world of desserts out there. Creme Brulee.* Heavy whipping cream.** Nutella. Stone Ground local Chocolates. Heck there’s a rice crispy treat in my kitchen infused with goo goo clusters. I’ll spare you any more desserts and long-winded side stories (plus I can’t really think of anymore right now: my coffee is miserably failing, and my blood sugar’s low wink wink).
In part 2 I will address these issues: why does my family lock up M&M’s and how can this possibly relate to music and creating? But first, I need something sweet, be right back.
*thank you Amelie for making it both sensual and absolutely adorable to crack the hardened sugar shell
**ridiculous side note: one time my father told us that Houston’s used real cream for coffee. I got the brilliant idea to blow bubbles with my straw in the ceramic cream cup until it turned into whip cream. My siblings and I continued this weird tradition for years after our warm 5-nut brownie plate had been literally licked clean and while my parents drank their coffee, until my mother couldn’t stand the humiliation anymore and told us to stop).