The Eagles and Other Family Connections

I am sitting at my computer, sipping a Spanish white wine, listening to the Eagles. Not listening to a CD or a concert on TV; they are 2 blocks away playing a concert at Lansdowne Stadium. I have my windows open and I can hear them perfectly. If I open the front door the sound is even louder. FFS and I had gotten a preview of this new house benefit a few weeks ago when she came over for an extended breakfast. You really haven't lived until you've had 20,000 rugby fans cheering while you read the paper and have coffee. We wondered if, when the summer concert season rolled around, we'd be able to sit in the back garden instead of paying to go the concerts. Theory proved correct. It's actually louder than I'd have my stereo at this time of night.

So, as I finished dinner tonight, they fired up and as I sat down to write (having nothing better to do on a Saturday night) as they played Witchy Woman, which is the name my sister suggested for this blog when she suggested it. I hauled my sorry self upstairs to grab my address book and dialed Arkansas as fast as I could. Sadly, aging rockers beat me and by the time she answered, the song was over. Being the good sister she is, however, she celebrated the moment appropriately. Good Sister. Just as she was hanging up, my sister-in-law called, who decided that I was listening to my stereo. When I moved outside she decided I was listening to my stereo loudly, because she could hear everything perfectly. In California. Thru our crappy phone. Lovely... just after my brother hung up, his song came on. A few months ago, we (you and I, not my brother and I) had a discussion about how music transports people back in time and place, generated by hearing the Corrs song that will forever remind me of my sister. My brother and I went to high school and early college together, (he in both, me in just high school much to the dismay of most of his friends) so his taste in music was my taste in music. Still is, actually. Which explains my love for heavy metal (Metallica rules) and early hairspray bands of the 80's. I associate my brother with many, many songs. For instance, I was shocked he didn't have White Wedding by Billy Idol played at his wedding reception. Or anything by Judas Priest for that matter. But overwhelmingly, and by mutual consent of pretty much everyone who knew him when, Dan's theme song has always been "My Maserati does 185... I lost my license so now I don't drive". Whatever that song is called. And they played it. Just after he hung up, but again, I was too slow on the re-dial to call back. I've got to figure out how to program the phone.

What I actually intended to sit down and write about, before the whole Eagles Discovery (and incidentally, time will now be marked as BE and AE) was my mother. Or, more specifically, how I am turning into my mother. That statement is usually accompanied by the music from Western Gun fights, shocked silence and culminates in a hissed "You take that back", divorce optional. But here, it's actually uttered with a fair dollop of wonder and astonishment. It was early this week when I realized that I am, slowly, turning into my mother in ways I could never have predicted or, sadly, have remembered.

It will come as no great shock to anyone who knows me that I have a crap memory. I blame it on all the sleep deprivation in architecture school, but really, who am I kidding? My college friends have several times said to me "you never talk about your life before you moved to Texas. It's like you didn't exist before then." Which might explain all the theories about my move to Texas that involve jilted lovers, stalker, and the police. Sadly, the truth is much more mundane than that. I simply don't remember much of my childhood. You can't talk about what you can't remember.

*******First Encore of the Eagles? Hotel California. Hate this song, thanks Kent.**********

So I have a crap memory, long established fact. Which makes it all the more surprising exactly how I am turning into my mother: it's things that I didn't remember until I did them. It must be said, before we go any further, that I like my mother. We get along quite well in fact. Our phone bills will corroborate this. Granted we get along much better when there is at least another state between us, but whatever works. I have a much closer relationship with her than most of you do with your mothers. So, to find that I have similar habits, horror is reserved after dissecting the individual act rather than issued carte blanche. I like to think this is a sign of maturity on my part. It's probably not, but since so few of you ever comment on the blog, that means no one to contradict me, so we'll go with mature.

So, for the entertainment of my brother, my sister, my father, and lastly, my mother:

I was on my way out to work the other morning and looking in my handbag for my keys. Upon not seeing them, I tilted my head, lifted the back to my ear and shook the bag. Mom always does this because her handbags have, traditionally, always been full of Mom Crap. So she was looking to see if her keys were in her bag in the first place. I carry small bags with 3 or 4 items in them. Why I shake my bag, looking for keys, is a mystery.

Although I feel naked without blue polish on my toes, I cannot abide by color on my fingernails. Nothing looks worse than chipped nail polish and I only do my nails on the weekends. So if I'm going to have polish on, it's got to be clear.

I clear my throat before I answer the phone. And take a sip of water if it's available.

I tip my head to one side and say "well hello there" when it's an ironic situation to be greeting someone.

When I get into a car, the first thing I do is put my seatbelt on, careful to insure my handbag strap is inside the loop (in case anyone tries to grab it at a stop light, it's safe). The second thing I do, is straighten out my pant legs so they won't be as wrinkled when I get out of the car.

I turn the TV /stereo down "just a notch, to take the edge off"

She was right about two things (well, more than two, but that's all I'm willing to give her right now): I should never have to cut my salad with a knife in a restaurant and I refuse to advertise for clothing companies by overpaying for tee-shirts with their names on them; they should be paying me.

The thing is, I'm young still. The women in both my families live very long lives. I've still got 50+ years to continue turning into my mother; in spite of the years of effort on my part to rebel. And she's still got 30+ years to watch it and laugh. I think that's the reward for growing old.