I have a confession that I have to make. It's really time, I think... I've been lying to a lot of people for many years now and events have come into place so that I can no longer keep up the facade. Please, please don't judge me.
I have brown eyes.
There, I said it. It's out in the open now!
I was born, like most babies, with milky blue eyes. I think a lot of people thought my eyes would transform into a kind of blue/green, like my dad's eyes. But no, they darkened. My eyes are brown, like my mom's and my sister's. Except not. I have on multiple occasions looked closely at my mom's and sister's eyes and they are a pretty light brown shade, almost green in the sunlight- close to hazel at times. Am I so lucky? No! My eyes are brown. Not "chocolate brown". Not a dark, "mysterious" brown. Brown. Like dirt. Fecal matter. Beavers!
Anyway, when I began to wear contact lenses, I jumped at the chance to wear the colored kind of lenses. The "Fresh Look" brand, if you're wondering. Over the years I tried like four different shades of blue lenses, grey, and finally green. I loved them all.
Unfortunately about two months ago I started having some issues. When I put in a brand new pair of contacts I had no problems, but when I put in a pair that I had worn already, put in solution, then back in the eyes, my left eye completely rejected the lens. It stung and itched and wouldn't stay in place and ended with either tearing or me taking it out because it was so annoying. Therefore, I have been wearing my glasses almost constantly. I like the ease of wearing glasses but I don't like how I look in them, so I knew it was time to go see my eye doctor. Optometrist? Ophthalmologist? Optician?
At the risk of giving away confidential medical information, I go to Dr. Hagen in Trinidad. I don't go often-only when necessary- but it seems like every time I go it's almost exactly the same: the cool, quiet office with the same faded, framed printouts of optical illusions and the locked display of expensive sunglasses on the wall. One of the receptionists who has been there a very long time always remembers my name and that I'm from Raton and that I'm connected with the ACE store there. There's the same small coffee table with the nearly obsessively straight stacks of almost-current magazines. And the carpet! How many medical offices do you go to that has carpet? Sure, maybe in the waiting rooms there will be a little carpeting- the very short, easy to clean stuff- but at Dr. Hagen's office there's this really thick nice carpet that runs through the entire building. Very luxurious!
Anyway following routine, one of the women who works there took updated medical information and left me alone in the exam room (with carpet!!!!)
I must pause here and be honest. Every time this happens in any doctors office I have to completely fight the temptation to go digging through drawers and playing with the medical equipment, especially in Dr. Hagen's office! He has this great humongous model of an eye and all these eye drops and little plastic things all over the office, not to mention all the crazy equipment he uses to check eyesight and eye health. I love just looking at the machines because they almost look like implements of torture.
Luckily I wasn't kept waiting long. Like just about everything else there, Dr. Hagen seems unchanged. Same bright clean doctor's coat and friendly demeanor. He checked my eyesight (got worse!) and after hearing my troubles got out this crazy eye measure-er thing I'd never seen before. Turns out, and I'm very sorry if this is like TMI and makes you uncomfortable to hear such personal things, but I have abnormally flat corneas. This, paired with the colored lenses I've been wearing all these years, is not good.
After talking options, I'm trying two new kind of lenses: one is good for my flat corneas and the other is good for continuous wear, since I hate putting them in and taking them out. I have an appointment in a week and I will then decide which I prefer. Neither, however, is colored.
I'm actually not that bothered. This may sound stupid and jokey but in all honesty my favorite thing about the colored lenses is that they are so hard to lose!
Right before I left, Dr. Hagen offered me those cheap, cardboard, dorky sunglasses since my eyes were dilated. I thanked him but turned them down, telling him I had some in the car. I actually had no intention of wearing them since it was kind of overcast today. But when I stepped out of the office I almost fell over. It was like staring at the sun! Eyes squinted shut, I blindly groped for the door handle of my car and jumped inside, panting. I dug around until I found an old dusty pair of sunglasses and wore them over my regular glasses, pointedly ignoring the looks I got from other drivers.
Anyway, next time you see me, whether I'm wearing glasses or contacts my eyes will be brown. It will be simpler in the long run, like when I renew my driver's license and they ask what color my eyes are. Nevertheless, I would appreciate your support. Love me and support me in this new life of truth and self-acceptance.
Hey, you know what I just realized? You know what is also brown? My dog! Maybe it's not so bad after all...
Sarah
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Lessons From an Ex-Metal Band Bassist
Whoever appeals to the law against his fellow man is either a fool or a coward. Whoever cannot take care of himself without that law is both. For a wounded man shall say to his assailant, "If I live, I will kill you. If I die, you are forgiven." Such is the rule of honor.
If you don't already know what this is from, click here and enjoy:
http://youtu.be/vJu7fhdVMb8
If you do know, click it and enjoy it anyway :)
.... word of WARNING, though: If you are at school or work and you're not supposed to be surfing the internet, you may want to make sure the volume is down. Otherwise, BLAST IT
A few years ago I was bassist in two (count 'em, TWO!) metal bands.
Granted, they were more or less the same band minus our vocalist (due to marriage) and one guitarist (he "wasn't contributing"). We found a replacement vocalist and added a few guitar players and, thus, a new band was born.
Being in these bands was without a doubt one of the coolest experiences I've ever had and gave me the opportunity to do crazy, incredible things and meet absolutely awesome people.
Last night I got out my bass and played a while and all sorts of memories came flooding back to me. I thought about it off and on all day today and I wanted to share the memories and lessons with you guys!
Yes, they're mostly for fun but every lesson rings true to me.
If the cops show up, you're playing just loud enough.
Over the years and countless practices, we had the cops called on us many, many times. This varied on our moods, where we were, what time it was, and if we had our vocalist rehearsing. For whatever reason, the irate neighbors seemed to specifically dislike our screaming vocals. We met many members of the Raton Police Department and the kind of reactions we got from them varied. Many were irritated, broke up the practice immediately and left us with threats and warnings. A few actually listened to us play for a couple minutes, asked us friendly questions and left us with the request that we keep it down. It probably goes without saying that the latter kind made a better impression but, to be honest, either way we waited for them to leave, then went right on playing where we left off.
The best instrument is the one in your hands.
We all lusted after the expensive, kick-ass, brand name, musician-endorsed instruments, absolutely! Alexi Laiho's electric guitars were always much admired and I personally had my eyes on Tom Araya's ESP basses. But nothing can beat the actual bass or drum set or guitar you have your hands on, one that you have and can play and love and have all sorts of memories associated with. I think your first instrument is kinda like your first love: you spend all this time with it and thinking about it and even if and when you grow out of it, I think you'll always remember it.
Good friends share memories. Good band mates share amps.
And I was lucky enough to have both! Years later, a lot of us have grown apart but I still value the memories really highly and I think some bonds will never be totally broken. I especially treasure the memories I have of Johnny Ray. If not for the band, I might never have known him well and I would have really missed out.
To be honest, yes, image is part of it.
We all wore a lot of black band T-shirts, several of the guys had pretty long hair, I always had my hair dyed crazy colors and for about a year I wore only bondage pants.
I always felt pretty honored that they all let me be in the band, because metal is pretty heavily male-dominated. I wasn't the best bass player around but they were always really patient with me and helped me learn a lot.
Good metal lyrics are deep and have fancy words. And profanity.
I remember taking a stab at writing lyrics. I came up with what I thought was a pretty good song and called one of the guys in the band and read it to him. He was quiet for a moment, and seemed to be searching for a nice way to put his opinion. He finally said, "It's, um, good, but, uh, it sounds more like an... uhh.. Evanescence song or something." I probably don't have to tell you this was not a good thing for a hard-core metal band.
We did have a good lyric writer in our band. He came up with these deep, meaningful lyrics with lots of advanced, complicated words. To be honest, I read them, complimented him, then went home and looked up half the words in the dictionary.
As for the profanity, fuck yeah! No shit! Why the hell wouldn't you put fucking profanity in every goddamn syllable? It emphasizes your every fucking point, bitch!
Hahaha, no but seriously. Profanity does give a desirable sort of edge.
The sign of a good musician is one who can play his instrument and headbang at the same time.
I still feel this is true. To be honest with you, I can play, and I can headbang, but not that well at the same time. It was a talent that I aspired to, but lacked. Once we were playing a show and I was head banging like crazy and I almost fell over. Luckily only one or two people saw but it was still really embarrassing.
You kinda have to have at least one or two bands you idolize.
At the time for me, these bands were Children of Bodom and Lamb of God. I sometimes read interviews with musicians and they'll talk about the albums that changed their life. I'm not a professional musician but at this time in my life two albums totally changed everything: Children of Bodom's "Hate Crew Deathroll" and Lamb of God's "Ashes of the Wake." I had these two CDs and basically lived and breathed them. I went to sleep at night with my headphones on listening to them. Every practice we'd warm up by playing the first five tracks off "Ashes of the Wake" in order. I knew every lyric and every guitar riff. I talked with my friends and bandmates about all the musicians by name and knew all their biographies. I argued with with other COB freak in my band about who could copy the band's font better.
This actually turned into a bit of controversy in the 8th grade. The aforementioned other COB freak and myself were so obsessed that we wrote "COBHC" (Children of Bodom Hate Crew") on everything: our binders, our lockers, our skin. Somehow a bunch of other kids picked it up without even knowing what it meant or stood for and for a while "COBHC" was found on EVERYTHING. Graffiti everywhere! Desks, doors, floors, marker boards, walls.
Ooops.
Johnny Ray was always in love with Pantera and to be honest, it was one thing that made his death a little easier: I have no doubt he jams with Dime now.
Behind every good metal musician is a good support system.
This was especially true at the time because we were all pretty young and had to depend on parents and older siblings to drive us around, to have places to practice, to listen to us play, etc. Also, I think behind just about every musician is a parent who is a bit of a rocker themselves.
Awesome band names are nearly impossible to come by.
The first band I was in was called "Asunder", then transformed to "Dead End Philosophy". After I left, they became "Ascending Darkness". I don't know for sure that any of these names were absolutely stellar but they served their purpose. I remember sometimes we'd be out somewhere and someone would ask what our band name was and we'd all get kinda quiet and look at each other, waiting for someone else to say it.
You don't play in a metal band because you should. You play in one because you need to.
The guys I played with lived and breathed music. It wasn't a hobby, it was a way of life. And to turn a passion into a lifestyle? I think everyone can learn from that.
COBHC, bitch!
haha
Sarah
If you don't already know what this is from, click here and enjoy:
http://youtu.be/vJu7fhdVMb8
If you do know, click it and enjoy it anyway :)
.... word of WARNING, though: If you are at school or work and you're not supposed to be surfing the internet, you may want to make sure the volume is down. Otherwise, BLAST IT
A few years ago I was bassist in two (count 'em, TWO!) metal bands.
Granted, they were more or less the same band minus our vocalist (due to marriage) and one guitarist (he "wasn't contributing"). We found a replacement vocalist and added a few guitar players and, thus, a new band was born.
Being in these bands was without a doubt one of the coolest experiences I've ever had and gave me the opportunity to do crazy, incredible things and meet absolutely awesome people.
Last night I got out my bass and played a while and all sorts of memories came flooding back to me. I thought about it off and on all day today and I wanted to share the memories and lessons with you guys!
Yes, they're mostly for fun but every lesson rings true to me.
If the cops show up, you're playing just loud enough.
Over the years and countless practices, we had the cops called on us many, many times. This varied on our moods, where we were, what time it was, and if we had our vocalist rehearsing. For whatever reason, the irate neighbors seemed to specifically dislike our screaming vocals. We met many members of the Raton Police Department and the kind of reactions we got from them varied. Many were irritated, broke up the practice immediately and left us with threats and warnings. A few actually listened to us play for a couple minutes, asked us friendly questions and left us with the request that we keep it down. It probably goes without saying that the latter kind made a better impression but, to be honest, either way we waited for them to leave, then went right on playing where we left off.
The best instrument is the one in your hands.
We all lusted after the expensive, kick-ass, brand name, musician-endorsed instruments, absolutely! Alexi Laiho's electric guitars were always much admired and I personally had my eyes on Tom Araya's ESP basses. But nothing can beat the actual bass or drum set or guitar you have your hands on, one that you have and can play and love and have all sorts of memories associated with. I think your first instrument is kinda like your first love: you spend all this time with it and thinking about it and even if and when you grow out of it, I think you'll always remember it.
Good friends share memories. Good band mates share amps.
And I was lucky enough to have both! Years later, a lot of us have grown apart but I still value the memories really highly and I think some bonds will never be totally broken. I especially treasure the memories I have of Johnny Ray. If not for the band, I might never have known him well and I would have really missed out.
To be honest, yes, image is part of it.
We all wore a lot of black band T-shirts, several of the guys had pretty long hair, I always had my hair dyed crazy colors and for about a year I wore only bondage pants.
I always felt pretty honored that they all let me be in the band, because metal is pretty heavily male-dominated. I wasn't the best bass player around but they were always really patient with me and helped me learn a lot.
Good metal lyrics are deep and have fancy words. And profanity.
I remember taking a stab at writing lyrics. I came up with what I thought was a pretty good song and called one of the guys in the band and read it to him. He was quiet for a moment, and seemed to be searching for a nice way to put his opinion. He finally said, "It's, um, good, but, uh, it sounds more like an... uhh.. Evanescence song or something." I probably don't have to tell you this was not a good thing for a hard-core metal band.
We did have a good lyric writer in our band. He came up with these deep, meaningful lyrics with lots of advanced, complicated words. To be honest, I read them, complimented him, then went home and looked up half the words in the dictionary.
As for the profanity, fuck yeah! No shit! Why the hell wouldn't you put fucking profanity in every goddamn syllable? It emphasizes your every fucking point, bitch!
Hahaha, no but seriously. Profanity does give a desirable sort of edge.
The sign of a good musician is one who can play his instrument and headbang at the same time.
I still feel this is true. To be honest with you, I can play, and I can headbang, but not that well at the same time. It was a talent that I aspired to, but lacked. Once we were playing a show and I was head banging like crazy and I almost fell over. Luckily only one or two people saw but it was still really embarrassing.
You kinda have to have at least one or two bands you idolize.
At the time for me, these bands were Children of Bodom and Lamb of God. I sometimes read interviews with musicians and they'll talk about the albums that changed their life. I'm not a professional musician but at this time in my life two albums totally changed everything: Children of Bodom's "Hate Crew Deathroll" and Lamb of God's "Ashes of the Wake." I had these two CDs and basically lived and breathed them. I went to sleep at night with my headphones on listening to them. Every practice we'd warm up by playing the first five tracks off "Ashes of the Wake" in order. I knew every lyric and every guitar riff. I talked with my friends and bandmates about all the musicians by name and knew all their biographies. I argued with with other COB freak in my band about who could copy the band's font better.
This actually turned into a bit of controversy in the 8th grade. The aforementioned other COB freak and myself were so obsessed that we wrote "COBHC" (Children of Bodom Hate Crew") on everything: our binders, our lockers, our skin. Somehow a bunch of other kids picked it up without even knowing what it meant or stood for and for a while "COBHC" was found on EVERYTHING. Graffiti everywhere! Desks, doors, floors, marker boards, walls.
Ooops.
Johnny Ray was always in love with Pantera and to be honest, it was one thing that made his death a little easier: I have no doubt he jams with Dime now.
Behind every good metal musician is a good support system.
This was especially true at the time because we were all pretty young and had to depend on parents and older siblings to drive us around, to have places to practice, to listen to us play, etc. Also, I think behind just about every musician is a parent who is a bit of a rocker themselves.
Awesome band names are nearly impossible to come by.
The first band I was in was called "Asunder", then transformed to "Dead End Philosophy". After I left, they became "Ascending Darkness". I don't know for sure that any of these names were absolutely stellar but they served their purpose. I remember sometimes we'd be out somewhere and someone would ask what our band name was and we'd all get kinda quiet and look at each other, waiting for someone else to say it.
You don't play in a metal band because you should. You play in one because you need to.
The guys I played with lived and breathed music. It wasn't a hobby, it was a way of life. And to turn a passion into a lifestyle? I think everyone can learn from that.
COBHC, bitch!
haha
Sarah
Monday, September 2, 2013
Mystery Melon on Labor Day
To be totally honest with you, I have almost no idea whatsoever what the story behind Labor Day is. I can only surmise it's a day celebrating us laboring folks but I don't know why it gives us a day off or why it's the first Monday in September. But you know what? I'm not one to argue with a good thing. I got two whole days off in a row and it. Was. Sweet.
On September 7th, my cousin George is getting married to the very awesome Miss Samantha Jo Staggs and for their wedding, the female guests are encouraged to wear Kentucky Derby-style hats to the ceremony. Well, it probably won't surprise you to hear that my sister Emmy and I don't exactly have a closet-full of these decked out hats but Emmy looked 'em up online and found that they can get pretty crazy and creative, and you know what? Crazy and creative is right up our alley. We decided to make our own!
It took a few lengthy trips to Walmart but we finally found passable hats to serve as the canvasses for our creations, plus a whole lot of decorative elements. I want to save the reveal of the hats for the actual ceremony but I will say that the hats came out completely incredible and totally... uh.. unique! Mine is quite gaudy and artsy, but my sister's is pretty much guaranteed to steal the show.. absolutely electrifying :)
So anyway, Em and I spent a good portion of our Labor Day weekend working on said hats at her house. Before we started working on them Sunday evening, we swung by Dairy Queen to get some ice cream first and ate sitting in her living room watching the Syfy channel. (She told me, "I used to laugh at David for watching this channel but now I watch it all the time!")
It was then that the scandal took place.
We were getting a fair bit of rain and Em and David's dog Pickles was inside, along with their two cats, Flo and Beans. Picks always has a ton of energy and likes to run around and play with toys and water bottles and... other things. I was watching TV when Picks shot by my chair, dropping something by my feet. I paid no attention but Em looked down and gasped. I looked down too, and saw... a cat turd, fresh from the litter box.
"Pickles!" Em protested. "Bad dog! You know you can't play with the cat turds!" Picks looked back at her, the picture of innocence. I felt the need to defend her.
"Oh, she was just giving me a present" I said.
Em looked dubious. "It's possible," she conceded, "but I actually think she's trying to blame it on you."
I looked at the turd in question, then the dog. The dog looked back at me with a look that said, "How vulgar! Have you no class?" I frowned.
"You see, she knows all too well that she can't but maybe she figures that you don't come here enough to know the rules. You're the perfect target," she added with a smile.
I couldn't decide if I was appalled or impressed.
This afternoon the Record family had our annual Labor Day picnic. We had it up at The Point, a piece of property where my family likes to shoot guns and eat. Shortly after arriving, my grandma realized she had forgotten something and headed back to her house with my cousin Brian in tow.
They were gone a strangely long time and we began to debate what had happened and where they went.
"She said she was headed to her house..." I began.
"Maybe she meant the Greenhouse," offered my cousin Danny as he dug through a cooler my Grandma had brought, full of cokes and, inexplicably, a tub of butter.
But soon after, we heard the roar of the gator coming up the road. My grandma drove up and began unloading the back of the gator. Brian helped, then approached the table we were sitting at with a strange look on his face and a large dark melon in his hands.
"She said it's a watermelon," he whispered. He set the mystery melon on the table and we all examined it. It was almost exactly the size, shape, weight and color of a bowling ball. The finger holes were the only things missing.
We conjectured for a while about what strange kind of gourd it was, but couldn't come to any conclusions.
After a while we ate dinner, sitting in the shade of great big pine trees at old metal picnic tables that are much older than I am with a light breeze blowing our hair and the edges of the table cloths my grandma had put down. We talked about school and work and Em and I bragged about our kickass derby hats. The sun sunk lower, elongating the shadows. We began to pack up the food and plates.
"Wait!" yelled Dan, and produced a large knife. He grabbed a spare bit of tinfoil and plunked the mystery melon on top of it. With the precision of a surgeon, he made an incision in the melon, carefully and slowly splitting it in two. Then, with a sudden motion, he pulled the melon apart.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.
It was, unmistakably, a watermelon.
It was unappetizingly mushy, though, and instead of dessert, became target practice.
But, teach us to doubt Grandma!
Hope you had a good labor day, too!
Sarah
On September 7th, my cousin George is getting married to the very awesome Miss Samantha Jo Staggs and for their wedding, the female guests are encouraged to wear Kentucky Derby-style hats to the ceremony. Well, it probably won't surprise you to hear that my sister Emmy and I don't exactly have a closet-full of these decked out hats but Emmy looked 'em up online and found that they can get pretty crazy and creative, and you know what? Crazy and creative is right up our alley. We decided to make our own!
It took a few lengthy trips to Walmart but we finally found passable hats to serve as the canvasses for our creations, plus a whole lot of decorative elements. I want to save the reveal of the hats for the actual ceremony but I will say that the hats came out completely incredible and totally... uh.. unique! Mine is quite gaudy and artsy, but my sister's is pretty much guaranteed to steal the show.. absolutely electrifying :)
So anyway, Em and I spent a good portion of our Labor Day weekend working on said hats at her house. Before we started working on them Sunday evening, we swung by Dairy Queen to get some ice cream first and ate sitting in her living room watching the Syfy channel. (She told me, "I used to laugh at David for watching this channel but now I watch it all the time!")
It was then that the scandal took place.
We were getting a fair bit of rain and Em and David's dog Pickles was inside, along with their two cats, Flo and Beans. Picks always has a ton of energy and likes to run around and play with toys and water bottles and... other things. I was watching TV when Picks shot by my chair, dropping something by my feet. I paid no attention but Em looked down and gasped. I looked down too, and saw... a cat turd, fresh from the litter box.
"Pickles!" Em protested. "Bad dog! You know you can't play with the cat turds!" Picks looked back at her, the picture of innocence. I felt the need to defend her.
"Oh, she was just giving me a present" I said.
Em looked dubious. "It's possible," she conceded, "but I actually think she's trying to blame it on you."
I looked at the turd in question, then the dog. The dog looked back at me with a look that said, "How vulgar! Have you no class?" I frowned.
"You see, she knows all too well that she can't but maybe she figures that you don't come here enough to know the rules. You're the perfect target," she added with a smile.
I couldn't decide if I was appalled or impressed.
This afternoon the Record family had our annual Labor Day picnic. We had it up at The Point, a piece of property where my family likes to shoot guns and eat. Shortly after arriving, my grandma realized she had forgotten something and headed back to her house with my cousin Brian in tow.
They were gone a strangely long time and we began to debate what had happened and where they went.
"She said she was headed to her house..." I began.
"Maybe she meant the Greenhouse," offered my cousin Danny as he dug through a cooler my Grandma had brought, full of cokes and, inexplicably, a tub of butter.
But soon after, we heard the roar of the gator coming up the road. My grandma drove up and began unloading the back of the gator. Brian helped, then approached the table we were sitting at with a strange look on his face and a large dark melon in his hands.
"She said it's a watermelon," he whispered. He set the mystery melon on the table and we all examined it. It was almost exactly the size, shape, weight and color of a bowling ball. The finger holes were the only things missing.
We conjectured for a while about what strange kind of gourd it was, but couldn't come to any conclusions.
After a while we ate dinner, sitting in the shade of great big pine trees at old metal picnic tables that are much older than I am with a light breeze blowing our hair and the edges of the table cloths my grandma had put down. We talked about school and work and Em and I bragged about our kickass derby hats. The sun sunk lower, elongating the shadows. We began to pack up the food and plates.
"Wait!" yelled Dan, and produced a large knife. He grabbed a spare bit of tinfoil and plunked the mystery melon on top of it. With the precision of a surgeon, he made an incision in the melon, carefully and slowly splitting it in two. Then, with a sudden motion, he pulled the melon apart.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.
It was, unmistakably, a watermelon.
It was unappetizingly mushy, though, and instead of dessert, became target practice.
But, teach us to doubt Grandma!
Hope you had a good labor day, too!
Sarah
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