You Could Have it so Much Better

I was reading a friend’s blog earlier today. She is in the middle of pursuing what can only be described as a life calling. As she nears the resolution of whether or not this dream of hers will come true she wrote out the question that, no doubt, haunts her throughout this process: what will I do if it doesn’t go the way I want? The simple honesty of this question did not strike me as much as the sentence she wrote immediately after it. She told us, her readers, that the question was only rhetorical and that we shouldn’t respond with answers.

As someone who has received a lot of advice lately, I couldn’t help but empathize most with that second statement. At times, it seems I can’t utter a sentence without someone immediately offering me a suggestion. In complete fairness to my friends, most of the sentences to come out of my mouth lately have been complaints and laments. Such statements are open invitations to the world that I need help, are they not? The fact that my friends are so quick to offer me solutions only shows that I’ve communicated my problems well.

I truly believe this free advice is given to me in love, because I was ready to answer my fellow blogger’s question as soon as I read it with that same sense of love. I know exactly what I would say to her had she not, so helpfully, pointed out that she didn’t actually need a response to her question. In fact, the more I consider the topic of advice giving I am aware that, in happier times, I was the grand champion of advice giving! I couldn’t wait to hand out my oh-so-useful knowledge to anyone who needed it, whether they knew they needed it or not.

Happy people love to give advice. Why shouldn’t they? They want to spread the happy! We all want to lose weight, make money, find a trustworthy contractor, answer the big philosophical questions. We all know this, so, if one of us is successful, we want to share it with the others. Yet, somehow the sharing of our happiness ways transforms into instructions. “I found Jesus!” becomes “He’s right over here!” “Joe does my tile work,” evolves into a “Have you called Joe yet?” “I went back to school,” eventually leads to, “There are plenty of online classes available, you just have to look.” “Weight loss is hard,” sympathy can even turn into the accusatory, “You’ll never use that gym membership, will you?”

In a life naturally filled with ups and downs are we doomed to conversations that are naturally filled with complaints and suggestions? Is your level of happiness defined by what side of the advice you are on? I know I gave people a lot more of my opinions when I had more confidence in my own little space in the world. As I struggle now with doubts and worries and, evil so horrible, boredom, I don’t spread my philosophies so freely. I moan and bitch a lot. I get a lot of advice.

The happy try to spread their joy to the not so happy. What’s wrong with that? As my friend so succinctly stated in her own blog, the advice is not always required. Sometimes the statement of doubt is enough. Sometimes we just need to voice our worries and woes to the world, without comments. Sometimes we just want to be understood, not rescued. I know the obvious, but do you know the frustration?

I had two conversations with two different friends. I told both of them the same thing. My job is unfulfilling. One gave me a list of tasks to fix my problem and ended this list with, “There, I’ve given you your homework assignment.” The other one listened. When I was finished she said, “That sucks.” Both of them love me and said what they said because they care. They both said what they thought I needed to hear. One I walked away from still frustrated and slightly resentful. One I hung up the phone with, feeling better and missing her presence in Texas terribly.

Is one friend better than the other? Of course not, that’s not what I learned. I learned what made me feel better. I’ve been given some wonderful advice in my life and using it has led me to happiness. At this particular moment, though, it didn’t make me feel better. The next time my life is all sunshine and flowers and I’m happy as can be in my little space in the world, I’m going to try and keep some of my oh-so-useful knowledge to myself. I hope I’ve learned to be a better listener.

Very Superstitious

A few years ago I broke a mirror. It was May and I was moving and in my packing rush the mirror paid the price. Did I as well? I remember thinking to myself with a slight laugh, “Well, there goes the next seven years.” Then I froze and realized that, as I was 23 at the time, I would be suffering bad luck till I was 30! That seemed like eons of time at that particular moment.

Am I superstitious? Not really. Well…

I read my horoscope everyday. I talk about things as omens. I often say things like, “Well, that just means it’s fate…” I don’t really believe these things though. I mean, not really. I’ve never based a major life decision on which house my moon is in or anything like that.

So, why am I so interested? Why do I know things like you don’t want the ace of swords to come up in your tarot card reading or that if you want to sell a house you should bury St. Francis upside down in your front yard? I suppose I’d like it if these things were true. It’s somewhat comforting to believe that when I bit my friend’s head off this morning it was because of the position of Mars, not that I was too tired to be polite. There is a certain amount of hope that the good luck symbols on my bracelet are strong enough to keep that one particular coworker from finding yet another flaw in our product. It’d be nice if all I had to do to make my life easier was wait for May.

Little superstitions help dull one’s sense of responsibility in other areas as well. I often have trouble making decisions. Whether big or small, it seems every change in my life has to be held for a standard internal debate period. It’s nice when my horoscope reassures me that today’s the day I should confront a loved one, or that this week isn’t the best to establish a new habit. Even as I read the words, though, I know they’re self-fulfilling prophecies. The only days I nod in agreement with my numerology report is when it already agrees with my established agenda. On the days where it in no way meets my expectations I laugh at how silly such things are and go about my way.

It’s like flipping a coin when you have to make a decision. Either it really doesn’t matter and both options are equally good and the coin flip will decide for you; or, as soon as you see which side comes up, you’ll know for sure which way you really wanted it to land based on your reaction. Plus, there’s the added benefit that if everything goes wrong with the choice you make, you can blame the gods of coin flipping.

Do silly little habits make me a better Anne? No, but after a really awful morning it’s nice to know there’s only four months till May.

Neo: “Morpheus, the Oracle said…”

Morpheus: “The Oracle said exactly what you needed to hear.”

2010

I was out celebrating New Year’s Eve when my friend Rae asked me, “So, any resolutions?”

Well, no.

I didn’t make a conscious decision not to have resolutions, it just didn’t occur to me. I suppose it is because I didn’t really keep any of the ones I made the previous year. I’m not sure I accomplished anything terribly momentous in 2009. If any word describes 2009 for me, it’s unresolved.

I’m not trying to be dramatic. I have some great memories from the past year, but as I switch calendars I can’t help but notice that all the things that were bothering me at the beginning of 2009 are the same things that are bothering me at the beginning of 2010. My job is still unfulfilling, I still feel like I should be more ambitious, I still feel unhealthy in some of my habits, I still have this nagging doubt that I’m the one that’s getting in my own way.

I’m a big believer that the only one who can change me is me. I’m the only one who kick my own ass into doing something positive. I’m the only one who can kick my own ass and beat myself up and keep me from changing. I know this because I’ve changed myself for the better before. I’ve also talked myself out of a lot of good things due to fear and doubt. It’s a bit frustrating to find myself here again listening to the same internal dialog: I’ve got to do something, but it’s so hard, but I’m unhappy, but it could be worse…

At midnight the bar handed out cups of free champagne to toast the New Year. We all cheered and toasted one another and then swallowed some of the cheapest, nastiest if-you-want-to-call-it-champagne ever. I put my cup down and turned to one of my fellow partygoers, “I resolve to not drink cheap champagne in 2010!” She laughed and said, “Yeah, me too.”

That’s my resolution. I’m going to stop doing the stuff that makes me unhappy, and do stuff that makes me happy. It’d be a nice change.

Happy 2010!

Happy Holidays

There’s a simple joy to food. It is a universal joy. We all need food. We all find certain foods pleasing. We all eat and share food. Food has its own special timeline: want, preparation, consumption, contentment. It can appeal to all the senses; though it doesn’t always have to appeal to the eye to taste good (oysters come to mind). It is such an understandable joy.

Perhaps that’s why it is such a dependable gift during the holidays. Who doesn’t love fudge? I’m sure the neighbors would like some pie. Let’s get together over tacos and reminisce about meals of yore. Food can be wrapped and portioned out and shared and appreciated by anyone. It is such a basic joy.

When the annual holiday potluck came along I signed up for a dessert, because you can never have too many desserts. I chose a new recipe, something a bit out of my comfort zone. If you can’t experiment on your coworkers, who can you experiment on? The recipe announced itself as apricot mishmishya. I modestly introduced them as apricot almond sweets.

A good holiday treat should be beautiful, sweeter than sweet, and easily shared. I am so happy to say I was successful on all fronts. Rather surprised at how pretty they turned out I showed them off to coworkers long before the potluck. Their sugar seemed to sparkle, their paper wrappers sounded like crinoline, their almonds were perfect accent pieces.

Could they taste as good as they looked? I watched carefully during the party to see how quickly they moved. A nice pick-up pace with a comforting “mmmm” now and then let me know that I had done well. My contribution to the soiree was appreciated.

As we were packing up the remnants of the feast, I only had a few left. Not bad for a five-dessert party. As I was about to close up my tin of sweets, our host said, “Oh Anne, did you make those? They are delectable!” With my heart glad I offered him the remainders. He happily accepted.

As I drove home, full and happy, I wondered if our host knew how much we appreciated his annual potluck. His home is always cozy and well-decorated. He provides the drinks, napkins, utensils, and comfortable surroundings that make a potluck lovely. Every year we happily await his party as a favorite way to celebrate the holidays. Does he know this? Do we show our gratitude properly? Do we say thank you enough?

I decided that a candied apricot thank you was, indeed, enough.

After all, food is a universal joy.

Ooh, ooh, she likes it!

Did I mention I like instructions?

In one of my Internet forays for more information about my bourgeoning guitarist ways, I found About.com’s guide to guitars. While my blind-stumbling-wild method of teaching myself guitar held a certain amount of charm, I’m very happy to have found Mr. Dan Cross and his font of guitar knowledge featured at about.com.

It’s everything a new guitarist could want: beginner lessons, chord library, tuning guide…all in clear, easy-to-read instructions with illustrations. I especially appreciate the MP3 sound files, which let you know things like what the heck E is supposed to sound like anyway. There are even occasional words of encouragement for the weary-fingered.

I now know how to tune a guitar to itself and how to play six distinct chords, two scales, and a ridiculously simplified version of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”

Yep. Rock star.

The most pleasant surprise I have discovered since beginning this guitar voyage: I really like playing guitar. Remember, mostly I’m playing finger exercises and limited chords, and yet, I really want to play them. I see my guitar and pick it up just to practice that C Major chord one more time. I keep playing that chromatic scale for the nth time even as my fingertips go numb. I’ve even trimmed down the fingernails on my left hand so I can play clearer chords. My fabulous lovely fingernails are a source of vanity for me (and they’re much prettier than yours). I trimmed them down! More than once! Seriously, this is a big deal for me. (This is also a good time for us all to consider just exactly how Dolly Parton manages to play her guitar with her long brightly-colored nails.)

I like when one of my experiments turns out and trying something new really does bring a sense of accomplishment, of joy. Maybe, someday, I really will sip my morning coffee as I strum my latest poetic folk song. Until then, I kind of like sipping my coffee along to the strains of G, G, G, G, C, C, C, C, D, D, D, D, D, D, D, D. (That’s the “kiss me and smile for me” part, in case you didn’t know.)

A Little Love

My guitar was made in a small village near Patzcuaro, Michoacán, Mexico. My father bought it during one of his travels with the intent of teaching himself to play. He never did get around to the playing part and the guitar ended up sitting on one of his bookshelves, looking quite artistic if a bit dusty. When I mentioned that I had always wanted to learn to play guitar, my father was only too happy to pass it on to me. I think, perhaps, he grew tired of the artistic nature of a guitar propped on top of his bookshelf, or thought to himself, “That thing is really getting dusty,” or he felt bad that no one had gotten around to playing the guitar.

Musical instruments should be played after all. I’ve seen quite a few of them end up as dusty decorations in various places. Restaurants, especially, seem to have a fondness for parts of dented trombones and splayed accordions. It seems a shame. That wasn’t their purpose after all. I’m not sure anyone went to the trouble to make a functional instrument with the hopes that some day, just maybe, it’d grace a Chili’s. I imagine that several years ago, an older Mexican gentleman polished the new lacquer on my guitar with a slight smile of pride. A simple but nice guitar. Not so cheap to be a child’s toy, not so expensive to be passed over by the Americano who thinks he might like to learn to play. My father wiped all the dust off that guitar and happily handed it to me.

I didn’t know what to do with it, besides not put it anywhere near my bookshelf. (It’d just be embarrassing if we both let it become a dust catcher.) Luckily, I have friends who know about guitars. I gave it to my friend Ess and asked for his honest opinion. After restringing it, he propped the guitar on this knee and played. (Effortlessly. Just a random little song.) “It’s got a nice sound,” he announced and suddenly by guitar was a musical instrument again.

He did advise, however, that if I was going to play this guitar seriously, that’d I’d have to replace the nuts. (That’s what he called them.) Well, I have every intention of playing this guitar seriously so I determined it was time to go to a music store. First, I looked up online to see if those things were actually called nuts or was Ess just messing with me. I did find a couple of other websites where musicians referred to them as nuts so Ess isn’t full of it, he’s just one of those musician types. However, according to official encyclopedic-looking diagrams of guitars, the first fret is called the nut and the nuts are called tuning keys. Thus armed with new knowledge, I walked into Guitar Center and asked for turny-nobby-thingies for, you know, the strings.

The nice Guitar Center man sighed a little.

“What type of guitar is it?” he asked.

“It’s from Mexico,” I said.

“Is it classical, acoustic, electric?”

“Um…” (Did you know there was a difference between classical and acoustic? Me either.)

“Does it have a plug?”

“No,” this one I knew! “It does not have a plug!”

“I don’t suppose you brought it with you.” He sighed again.

“Yes, it’s in my car.”

A glimmer of hope gleamed in the nice Guitar Center man’s eyes.

“Okay, go get it and I can help you.”

After retrieving my guitar, telling its colorful past, and explaining that it was actually my friend who knew about guitars that told me I needed new turny-nobby-thingies, Mr. Guitar Center looked over my guitar and began turning the tuning keys.

“Did your friend say what was wrong with them?” he asked just as one of the keys came off in his hand. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I think that was it,” I said, very helpfully.

Mr. Guitar Center took me over to the counter told them what I needed and left me in their care. Behind the counter, the wall was covered with an array of guitar parts in plastic packaging. A very young man began pulling parts down and holding them up to my guitar. He would squint a little and then pull another part down and hold it up to my guitar.

“You have to find one that fits,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. I looked up the unending wall of parts and got a little dizzy.

The very young man was joined by, remarkably, an even younger woman who began to also stare at parts at the wall.

“How about that one?” she would ask and point at the wall towering over her.

The young man would reach to a part nowhere near where she was pointing.

“Yeah, that one should work,” she would say.

It’s at this point they began talking some bizarre guitar language. It reminded me a bit of when Ess told me I should get some new nuts. It was all English yet I really didn’t know what was going on. Remember, I was in a Guitar Center at the time so I was surrounded by cacophony and the towering walls of guitar parts. (In case you didn’t know, Guitar Centers have musical instruments that they just let people play willy-nilly. They’re quite noisy.) There was just too much going on to really pay attention to what they were saying. Instead, I just smiled and nodded and considered the child labor laws.

“Here. This should work,” the young man said finally.

“Oh, that’s going to look awesome,” the younger woman said.

I looked at their find. It was a set of some of the gaudiest looking tuning keys I had ever seen—which admittedly is not very many, but still. My guitar is a humble instrument with modest silver and off-white keys. The tuning keys in the package were shiny gold and pearlescent odes to Liberace. I was just about to ask for something less mariachi-pants, when I looked up to see the young people’s faces.

They just seemed so pleased with themselves, so proud they could help me so effectively. I realized that when they had been talking in that guitar-speak they had been praising my little dusty guitar. They didn’t see a bookshelf adornment; they saw a musical instrument that was in need of something shiny to catch the limelight.

“That’ll look so good,” the younger woman said nodding.

“It’s a good little guitar,” the young man said, “it just needs some love.”

I realized that gold mariachi-pants enthusiasm is just what this endeavor needed. If you’re going to teach yourself guitar at 30, if you’re a self-respecting feminist buying yourself a new set of nuts, if you’re going to replace tuning keys on a guitar you don’t even know how to tune, if you’re going to rely on the expertise of teenagers—you just have to go with these things. You just have to be a little silly, err on the side of Elvis, and embrace your inner Guitar Goddess.

With new tuning keys and a new attitude, El Senor Pantalones-de-Mariachi and I are ready go.

"A Modest Guitar" by Anne

"El Senor Pantalones-de-Mariachi " by Anne

Whole Lotta Love

How does the saying go, “Life is what happens when you make other plans”? My little projects are generally more fun than laundry or dishes, but they don’t start to smell if I neglect them for a week. Consequently, it is my little projects that suffer. Occasionally I need to remind myself why it’s important to make time to devote myself to a project and not just to going to the grocery store.

My cool friend Mr. A.C. invited to me go see It Might Get Loud. It is a documentary featuring Jack White from the White Stripes, The Edge from U2, and Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin. The three talk about their favorite electric guitars, their love of electric guitars, how guitars changed their lives, and then they play some guitar. I mean, they play some guitar. It’s a guitar love fest and a love fest of three great guitarists and if you have ever liked listening to any rock song ever, you’ll enjoy this movie.

My favorite part is when Edge gets up and walks around the stage so he can get a closer look at Jimmy Page playing the opening riff to “Whole Lotta Love.”

I want to make time to teach myself guitar because I love this stuff. I love music. I love creation. I love that one good guitar story makes me itch to go home and strum a guitar.

No matter how many dishes there are in the sink.