Jan 12, 2012 |
I like to make CD’s of my favorite songs. Some are themed for inspiration, or upbeat for those roadtrips I keep getting lost on. There’s always at least one each year that seems to become my Soundtrack for the year: that CD that holds songs that inspire and move me.
Some of the songs are repeats each year. Sometimes, it’s the singer that remains the same. There are songs that remind me of friends. Songs that help me dream big. Songs that bring back memories. And songs that are just great to boogie-oogie-oogie to.
So far this year, I’ve made one CD. (I know, we’re less than two weeks into the New Year, but still…)
The music that so far inspires me is (as always) an eclectic collection. And because I like order, the songs are recorded in alphabetical order by title.
On this year’s first soundtrack, I have the following tunes:
1. “You’re Never Fully Dressed (Without a Smile)” from the Broadway Cast of Annie. This reminds me of my friend Lisa who is always playing the movie, and music, for her kids. Also because it takes place in NYC which is where I’ve got a girl date set up in 4 years with her and Lara. Finally, it makes me smile, just like it implores.
2. “All I Need is the Girl” by Frank Sinatra. I renewed my love for this song when it featured last year on So You Think You Can Dance. Frank is always on my soundtrack in one form or another, especially now that I’m being an Orange.
3. “Beautiful Music” by Barry Manilow. Usually I pick “Copacabana” but this year, I picked something more inspirational. Because that’s just how I feel. Like I was just going through the motions of living until I really began to focus on my writing. And now the World is my inspiration and I can’t get enough of it.
4. “Beyond the Sea” by Bobby Darin. I like the movie with Kevin Spacey. I like Bobby Darin’s music and drive. Mostly, I just really like this song.
5. “Brand New Day” by Ryan Star. This was the theme song for the now-cancelled TV show, Lie to Me. What a great show! What a great song. It’s about someone who won’t settle for being what others think. He goes for what he wants, and he makes it. Love it!
6. “Don’t Mean Nothing” by Richard Marx. When I was in high school, I was the first of my friends to even know about this song and singer. I loved it. It’s so true: people will chat about useless stuff, they’ll use you to get what they want/need, and forget any promise they made to you. But that didn’t keep him down. He fought through the ranks to become a great singer/songwriter. Keep your head up!
7. “Extreme Ways” by Moby. This song features at the end of The Bourne Identity. I just really love the music.
8. “Forever in Blue Jeans” by Neil Diamond. My dad loved this song! And I’ve always loved Neil Diamond. He is a fantastic performer. He never compromised himself, never settled for celebrity status. He’s just a wonderful performer. I also love this song because it puts things in perspective: money isn’t everything. Love is.
9. “Get It While The Gettin’s Good” by Eddy Arnold. Eddy Arnold is my mom’s favorite singer. I can remember sitting out on the porch on warm summer Saturday mornings listening to the record playing on the Hi-Fi. This song reminds me of those days. And my daughter loves it, too. That alone makes this song worthy of being on the soundtrack.
10. “The Girl I Knew Somewhere” by The Monkees. I grew up on the Monkees. In the past, my soundtrack song was “Daydream Believer”. This year I opted for something a bit different. A friend and I went to their reunion concert in 1988 and by sheer luck literally ran into two of them backstage (we snuck in before the concert). Sitting behind us at the concert was Maureen McCormick (Marcia of The Brady Bunch), Robert Pierce (Bingo of Joanie Loves Chachi), and several other actors. We were invited backstage after the concert but then they reneged as it was a “private party”. We were almost in the right place at the right time.
11. “Haven’t Met You Yet” by Michael Buble’. Great song of faith and hope in love and life. Great singer. ‘Nuff said.
12. “I Think I Love You” by the Partridge Family. Another group that I grew up with. And who doesn’t love this song? I can’t separate my love of coffee from this song. It doesn’t hurt that David sang it directly to me in Vegas (See above coffee link for that story!).
13. “I’ll Be There for You” by the Rembrandts. Who doesn’t know this as the theme song for the long-running show, Friends? My daughter is addicted to the reruns on TV, and we watch them every day. Every. Day. It’s a great catchy upbeat tune, and the lyrics say it all. It really is all about Friends.
14. “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley. Just a quirkly little song that nobody expected to go anywhere. But really. If you know the 80’s, you know this song. And you’re already singing it in your head, aren’t you? Yeah… my job here is done.
15. “New York Minute” by the Eagles. First, it’s got NY in the title. So there’s that. And it features at the beginning of The West Wing Season 2, Episode 16, aptly titled “Somebody’s Going to Emergency, Somebody’s Going to Jail”. I don’t have very many Eagles songs on my iTunes, and it’s not like I want “Hotel California” to be prominent on my soundtrack. But this song I love. The connection to Rob Lowe’s character, Sam Seaborn, I love. So it’s on the List.
16. “New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra. Someday this will be my theme song; even if just for a day. From the man who loves orange like I do. From the ultimate singer. How could this not be on my soundtrack?! Seriously?!
17. “One/Finale” from the Broadway cast of “A Chorus Line”. Now who doesn’t want to be that girl. Am I right?!
18. “The Rockford Files Theme” by Mike Post. From the TV show. My dad loved loved loved this show. And it was created by Stephen J. Cannell. He was an awesome writer who encouraged and inspired me to write every day. I had to include him on my soundtrack.
19. “That Thing You Do!” by the Wonders. From the movie of the same name. I’m pretty sure I drove my family crazy when I first got the movie on VHS. I played it over and over and over, day after day after day. There’s some great lines in that movie. My favorite is, “Hey. Hey guys… Chad fell down.” Hilarious scenes, great music. What’s not to love?!
20. “Together Forever” by Rick Astley. To be honest, I couldn’t remember which Rick Astley song was more popular, and since they sound similar, I decided to add them both to the soundtrack.
And there you have it. My soundtrack for 2012. Or, at least, the first part of it.
What does your music sound like?
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Nov 29, 2011 |
My writing partner and I got together today. It’s always a hoot when we do. Thankfully, today was a day filled with more real-writing and less let’s-talk-about-everything-but-writing.
I love it when we get together. We have the same ideas for our characters and the plots. She finds inspiration in pictures and drawings; I find mine in nature and poetry. We get together, talk out the themes and ideas and what if’s…
And after three hours together today, what has been planned as a three-book epic story has now grown into (at least) five. (Just to give you an idea of how colossal that growth is, we started this project a year ago as one novel. Within the first week we knew it would be a trilogy. Now we’re planning to retire on this series.)
We’ve pretty much signed an oath in blood to not reveal any details; but I can tell you that writing with Megan has been the highlight of my life. We balance each other out wonderfully. She brings great dialogue to the table, and let’s me hammer out the descriptive details.
There’s been some wonderful moments, some stories behind the stories that are hilarious to only the two of us. But I can honestly say, no one gets my humor like she does (and no one holds onto these jokes longer, either!). Our first edits resulted in some bad writing, but great moments. [“Wait! Why do *I* get to be *her*?”] [And my personal favorite to date: “She had an affinity for his masculinity.” “We are not trying to be Gilbert & Sullivan, here!”]
In all my other writing endeavors, I’ve flown solo. This is my first attempt at collaborating. And I really love it. I love how Megan and I had the same story idea before we even got together. I love how our sub-themes and characters and visions for the details are the same. They relate to each other, feed off each other, grow with each other.
It’s true when they say characters are like your children. We have given birth to some amazing characters: good, dark, helpful, mischievous. Prince and Pauper. Significant and insignificant. And as we grow them, they have a life of their own. So often have we sat around our laptops or Denny’s and said, “He would never say that!” or “She would so-o-o act that way, it’s perfect!” So many little inside jokes that will never make it into the books, but we’ll hold on to forever.
I wish I could share the story with you so far. I really do. Because it’s an amazing story. There’s action and romance and fantasy and suspense and good and evil and Darkness and Light and so much more.
We’ve got the first five books written out. Well, planned out, at least. We’ve got the sketches and napkin notes to prove it. But now it’s time to really sit down and type it out in detail. Not skipping a beat or missing a breath. Now it’s time to Write.
Good thing I have The Best Writing Partner Ever … and bonus for me, she’s a Barista at the Starbuck’s just two miles away. How awesome is she? That’s what I’m sayin’…
Now it you’ll excuse me, I have some dragons to slay.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Sep 16, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
My mom and I and Dot are all pretty close. Three generations of women living in close proximity (don’t forget the five female felines!). Mom lives alone, just down the street, but we’re at each other’s house often enough. We talk every day, often. Our houses even have the same floor plan, but reversed. (That explains why we zig when we think we should zag.)
It’s pretty hilarious when I call my mom and we both have the same topics in our heads. We both want to make mac-n-cheese on Saturday. We both watch the same news, listen to the same music (Charlie Rich, Jimmy Dean, and Sinatra… now that’s music!). We both order the same QVC kitchen product, at the same time. We both have the same ideas about home decor, although her theme is Country Spring and mine is Coffee House Autumn colors. Even some of our furniture is the same (she likes white, I prefer dark mocha colors). Not all of this is planned. We just like the same things. We just have the same views on life. We are distinctly different, and wonderfully in sync.
Now, I’m not saying we’re identical. She won’t go to Disneyland with us. I don’t read the papers like her. She doesn’t rock out to the Backstreet Boys and I’m not too successful at gardening. We don’t spend every single moment together. She kicks me and Dot out of her house when she’s tired, and I send her packing when it’s time to watch “Friends” with my daughter. We do separate and have our own lives. We just share them with each other. A lot.
My mom’s turned into my best friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without my Mom. She instilled my love of words. I can’t remember her not reading to us as children, or giving books as toys.
I remember once when I was about seven, she came home from the store and gave my brothers toys. Things they could play with, interact with. And I got a Golden Book, something about a puppy. I was so upset. You can’t play with a book. You can’t make it climb things like a stuffed animal. You can’t build with it like Legos. And so I cried.
Until Mom came over and opened the cover, and asked me to read the first page. Aloud. Without realizing it, I had been swept into a world of saving the puppy, or the puppy saving something else, I forget. What I do remember is the feeling of freedom. While my brothers were confined to the physical attributes of their toys, I had the whole world in my hand. I had an adorably soft little critter who looked at me with his tiny eyes. I had the power to help him on his page-turning journey. I had imagination. I went to sleep that night holding my book. I dreamt of the puppy and our adventures together. The next day, I took out my stuffed animals and reenacted the story.
Indeed, my Mom gave me much more than words on paper that day. She gave me life.
There is no greater thrill I have then my mom’s daily phone calls after she’s read my blog or whatever other writings I’ve sent her way, and to hear her say, “You did good today.” It’s those little backpats that make it worthwhile. Because while I write because I can’t not write; and I write because I was born to write; it’s not her approval I’m after. It’s because I love her and the way she raised me that I write, and try to write well. I’m proud of my mom. I love my mom.
And this is my way of returning the world to her. This is my way of saying, “Yes, I can be the person you raised me to be.” This is my way of letting her know she did good, too.
Thanks, Mom. I heart you.
Aug 27, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Life is like a garden: many different species living together; some harmonious, some hurtful. Pesky weeds try to strangle the fruits and flowers as birds steal seeds only to drop them somewhere unplanned.
I don’t know what made me think of all this, except that it’s been exceptionally hot here in the desert and I’m worried about my potted garden dying on me. As the caretaker of my garden, I do my best to nourish it and enjoy it. To accept its beauty, individually and collectively. To prune when necessary, and to give it room to grow. And as my mind wanders, I soon found myself wondering about other plants and their survival traits.
The corpse flower is a strange thing. It grows to great heights, and some consider it to be exceptionally beautiful. With its variegated shades that blend from almost ivory to green to purple and red, I find it absolutely stunning. It’s one of those things that I’m not sure I like, but I can’t stop looking at it. It’s mesmerizing.
Of course, that’s not what piques the most interest. Some varieties bloom once a year, but most corpse flowers open only once every few years (some take more than a decade!). The aroma they reveal is what gives its common name: the smell of, well, rotting flesh.
People are like plants. Some are herbal: they serve not only to keep fresh greenery to look at it, but they spice up a recipe, and can be medicinal (good for the soul) as well. Others are decorative as well as useful. Roses, lavender and mint make great tea and potpourri. Good to look at, and soothing.
Still others are like the corpse flower: They hide behind their beauty, never letting anyone in. They open up to the world only once in a great while, and when they do, it’s offensive. They tower above the rest of the garden, and scream for attention. When they get it, they offer nothing in return but their stench. They bloom for two or three days, then they go into hiding until they have the courage to come out and roar again. It’s fascinating. And ugly.
In my garden, I would desire to be sage: a culinary herb, or a wise person. I would even like to be the aforementioned lavender: soothing to the sight and smell. Whatever I am, I choose to be alive, and share this life. Not to hide it behind false beauty, or release it upon the world with an ugliness that causes so many to turn away.
What you see is what you get. Sometimes I’m reaching, sometimes I’m done for the duration. Sometimes I close up for the night. Sometimes I last for a season. But there’s always some weeding that’s necessary, and always new growth to show for it.
If life is a garden, what kind of plant are you?
Life in the Desert
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 4, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
August 4th is always worth remembering. At least in my family. It’s not a holiday. No anniversary or birthday. It’s much more somber. It’s the day my Dad died.
And this time, it’s been thirty years. It just happened; it happened a lifetime ago.
I was young, then; in age and in mind. I was 13 with no mind to chase boys but less desire to play with dolls. I was in that stage. I sat at the kitchen table looking through the brand new JCPenney’s winter catalog. The one that every kid waited for. The pretty girls in sweaters on the cover. The hundred pages of toys in the back. The catalog was delivered in that afternoon’s mail, and it was always a treat when Mom said we could open its pages. She knew it meant wishlists and yearnings for things we could not afford, and days of begging for early allowances. But she was good about it all; taking it in stride of being a parent, and let me look.
It was hot. Hot the way August is always hot in the midwest: sticky and stifling. The air conditioner lent itself to a damp cooling inside.
Dad had come home from work early that afternoon. I was the only one around. It was a pleasant surprise, he wasn’t due back in town until that evening. Dad was the manager for a tri-state sales route. His team looked to him for leadership. He was good at what he did. I think it was in his blood.
He drove up, and I was thrilled. Just me. Just him. Some quality time. Unfortunately, at 13 years of age, a girl’s idea of quality time with her dad doesn’t typically mean house cleaning or mowing the lawn. But that’s what Dad had in mind. He wanted to do for my mom, what she always did. He wanted to take care of house and home.
I wish I would have known… I wouldn’t have complained. I would have helped, I would have been happier. I would have… done anything.
It was a few hours later when my brother walked home from his “business” of selling sodas to thirsty golfers two blocks away. It was his best day so far that summer. He was excited that Dad was already there to share in his accomplishment.
Mom’s coffeepot had a plug-in timer (before pots themselves were manufactured with them built in). The timer was defective, not always working. Sometimes the coffee would brew too early, or worse, not at all. So Dad had brought a replacement. “Shh,” he smiled, hiding the packaging after he installed the new one. “Don’t tell Mom. It’s a surprise.”
Mom came home shortly after and got busy making dinner. Corned beef and cabbage boiled on the stovetop in her old green pots and pans ~ the same green pots and pans that were mimicked in my kitchen playset. The aroma was Irish. Every so often, she’d ask me to put something on the table, or move something from it. As long as I could keep dreaming with the catalog, I was content to earn my pages.
Dad was in the Front Room. That’s what we called it back then. The living room. The TV room. The sitting room. All rolled into one. The Front Room. He was sitting in his black BarcaLounger, and it stuck to his arms and legs with a sticky ripping sound every time he moved for his ice water.
My brother was in the room with him; they were catching up, watching TV, being guys.
I heard my Dad call for Mom. She went to him, and I heard the panic in her voice. He wasn’t responding. I tried to look at the catalog, but it was confusing. The pictures blurred, but I didn’t want to look away. I didn’t want to be pulled from my dreaming into reality.
The neighbor-husband came. Did my brother get him, or did he just hear our screams? There was talk about phone calls, and people on the way, and more yelling.
This isn’t real. I stood between the Front Room and the kitchen; between before and after. I saw my dad laid on the floor, I saw the neighbor breathing into him. And I walked away. I went to my room and knelt and prayed.
This is my fault. I wasn’t happy to see him earlier. But, God, I’ve learned my lesson. And if you let him stay, I promise to love my dad more. I promise to do the chores without complaining. I promise…
But God had his own plans. Dad had a massive coronary. And at 6:04 that evening, I wrote in my vinyl-covered kid diary, “Dad just died.”
And my life was split between “Before” and “After”.
Before Dad died, we swam in the pool together. He took my brothers camping, but not me because I was a girl. I baked play-doh pies for him. We played Atari together.
After Dad died, we moved to California. I grew up. I had a daughter of my own. I take her to Disneyland. She paints. We play Wii together.
And I write. I remember, and I write.
I remember fireflies caught in spider webs along the highway. I remember backyard camp-outs and Sparklers on the Fourth of July. I remember the garden and big tomatoes. I remember teaching him how to read to us like Mom does, “with the voices”. I remember long drives to Grandma’s house, and beer-batter smelt, and a yard overwhelmed by dandelions which he always claimed was a weed but we didn’t believe him. I remember the story of the Bear Rug, that I still have. I remember the Rockford Files. I remember whiffle balls and crooked swingsets and building cardboard forts. I remember going into hysterics that night when Mom went to plug in the coffee pot timer; and I revealed Dad’s last act of love for her.
I remember you, Dad. I remember you like yesterday. I still miss you that much. And I know you’re proud. I love you back.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
