Where are you?

Okay, I know I've mentioned it before, but my SEWING LIFE is currently eclipsing my SINGING LIFE. (Don't judge me, Bill. ) I know this makes me sound evern dorkier than I have before. Which is quite a feat, of course. But I'm having a great time. So if you're looking for me, check over here. I'll be back posting about songs of one of these days soon. I mean, Lucy's only a year or so from preschool, and it will all happen again . . .

In the meantime, if you're looking for really really good music, go over to Lunch Money. I'm forever standing on my dining room table with a lighter in my hand when I hear their music. And you can't go wrong with Frances England either. She's good people with good music. If you're absolutely CONFUSED by where to start, then head to Spare the Rock because Bill is the Godfather of Good Times.

And come say hi over at the dog some time.

Tune Tidy.

Okay--it's time to share a truly tested idea that works at our house for getting everybody to pitch in with the pick up. We do "tune tidy"--I made that up. A little dorky, but it's working. We play a song we love (ours is The Gap Band's "You Dropped A Bomb on Me") and then run around the house putting things away for the duration of the song.

The game is that you're not ALLOWED to do any more pick up after the song ends. So we (the boys and me) can pick up all our front rooms in about 3 1/2 minutes.

There you have it: song-ish housecleaning wisdom from a woman who no longer has to say annoying mom-ish things like, "You know, if we're all going to be in this family, then we really should pitch in with the work that has . . . ."

Now I just say TUNE TIDY! put on the song and we all start running.

The Song I Won't Be Covering in Celebration of My Daughter's First Birthday.

"Here's Your One Chance, Fancy, Don't Let Me Down," by Reba (coulda sworn it was Dolly) herself.

Chords and lyrics here for a good time.

Also, this:

Do you miss me?

It's myoootch.

Here's the thing: if you want to see what I'm doing these days, head on over here, to my OTHER blog, Wiener Dog Tricks. (I know: please don't be all "of course she has two blogs--because why wouldn't a woman with three children and a job also have two blogs?") It's because all this blogging makes me crazy happy.

I set up Wiener Dog Tricks because I realized that I was working on all sorts of stuff outside of music that I wanted to write about. This other blog, let's just say, covers all my other stuff-making bases.

I'll be back here sometimes too. I haven't stopped writing songs. (Sometimes it's like being kid song possessed, actually, but that's the sort of information I'll save for my therapist.) One of these days I'll share the next batch. In the meantime, I'm sewing, thrifting, gardening, baking and being hallucenatingly domestic in my own crabby way.

See you over there. Wave when you come.

The thing about DIZZY

Okay, I know I'm late to the party. I'm totally the girl who was supposed to bring the appetizer who comes as you're cutting the cake. I'm that girl. But just because I'm late doesn't mean I want to miss the party.

I'm just going to be one of the many others who have already yelled "Ooooh! Ooooh! Pick me!" Horshack-style to answer the question, "WHAT DO YOU LIKE ABOUT THE NEW LUNCH MONEY ALBUM?"

There's a lot I like about it. Here's a beginning list:

1. Molly always sounds like she's just about to laugh when she sings. And I think that almost-laughing-singer-voice is the best kind to have. Seems particularly terrific to have when you're singing the background (or foregound) to a little kid's everyday life.

2. The lyrics are really good. And I mean that in this way. But also I just mean they're funny. And really good lyrics are the best part of a really good song (for me, I mean, of course, because I already know some people think it's about the music more. Whatever. Lyrics Rule.) Please tell me you can come up with a better line than babaganoosh in a kid song. Right. I didn't think so.

3. It's a family project. And that just gets a big fat high five from everybody here at the Hendrix house. Yes, it would be better if Molly and Jay adopted J.P., but we are big believers in Chosen Family and so can settle for this minor discrepancy and still consider it a family-made album.

4. I keep wanting to push play again after it's over.

Well, now I'm gushing. And I didn't even tell you that "Tiny Dinosaurs" is my favorite song.

p.s. Here's the link to the get the album since I know you want to buy it now that I said all that.
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Singin' It

When I think about my son leaving for college, I imagine setting up a stage in front of his brick (apparently, he’s going ivy league) dorm hall—three mics for well-dressed back-up singers, some guy with sunglasses on synthesizers, a not-too-mean-looking drummer and me on the front mic. Everybody else—all those other college students and their parents—will be walking back and forth lugging boxes and ugly futon sofas and those Pier 1 chairs that take up too much room.

And I will be singing a KC & the Sunshine Band song: “Please Don’t Go”

It would be the very best-ever way to celebrate a passing and commemorate my own sadness without being grotesquely morose. I could wear a tight-fitting dress and a big wig and sing it all like I mean it even more than I do. I could jive my neck and belt out “Babe, I love you so—I want you to know. . . that I’m going to miss your love the minute you walk out that door: so please don’t go . . don’t go—don’t go away . . . Hey hey hey.”

If my son doesn’t go for this option—his standing in the grass with his foot up on a box, shaking his head a little and rolling his eyes maybe—but not in a disgusted sort of way, more in a “she’s always like that, but I love her” sort of way. If he doesn’t let his head bob a little while I’m singing and doing Diana Ross and the Supremes hand motions. If he doesn’t sway a little with his little brother (who will be thinking at that moment about which song Ill choose when he leaves for college the next year) If he doesn’t grab his little sister—an 11-yr-old by then—and high five her or throw her on his back or sing into his thumb with her.

If he sees me and pretends to be taking boxes out of some other family’s car. If he does then what he does now when I fall into emotion-balancing goofiness: stamps his foot, yells “Maaaaawm” with that growl that comes with the middle vowel sound. If his father shoots me that little look he does now—knowing, smirky, kind—when I miss the mark in an emotional moment.

If the band stops playing and we don’t get much past that tricky little hi-hat intro, never get to the psychedelic background work, never utter a head-swirling ”hey, hey, hey”

And nobody ever joins in with us—there are not other mothers working out moves together on the grass by the second verse, no fathers looking on and laughing or air-synthesizering. If I never get to the talking part at the end—the unsung pleading with the fade-out . . .

Well then, I’ll be sad. And only sad.

There will be no moment to offer up my sadness as a gift—as a celebration of having something worth being sad about: that we will have all loved being a family together for the years that we were all here on the planet at the same time—especially those ten where everybody was born and we were five working out life together in one house.

And I’ll carry that unsung sadness with me. And I wonder who I’ll be if it stays inside of me.

I hope he lets me sing.

Lucy Rae Hendrix

Well, friends, she's here! Our little Lucy has arrived--just two weeks old now and we're still not finished staring at her . . . when the Dr. said, "It's a girl!" I said, "It's a WHAT?" I was completely ready to continue this all-boy adventure and--even though we didn't find out before--I somehow felt sure we were staying on that road.

Apparently not! And this one's a sweet cutie. Sleeps a lot (I've always liked that in a newborn) and is generally agreeable. Sometimes even crosses her eyes, which I find very creepy and entertaining.

So there's our news.

Some of the best of it all has been sharing it with our guys--and the sing-a-longs have been my personal favorite moments. They've been a little OVER singing with me in the last year (no news flash there--how many times can a boy sing about pasta?) So hearing their little boy voices belt out SKIP TO MY LOU for their sister has been a small (almost teary--give me a break, I've still got lots of extra hormones) joy.

We're all glad she's here. (And she's got really long fingers, so now we've got our KEYBOARDIST for the band. Score.)