Gettin’ My Groove On… May 22, 2011

I am no musical connoisseur. If I played a trivia game and needed to come up with who sang what, when…I would be out in the first minute. I just know what I like when I hear it, and have vague memories through the years of songs and genres I know I loved.

My introduction to music was 107.7 the “Q” on the fm dial in Columbus, Georgia. Of course mom had her 8-track player, with tracks by Neil Diamond and the like, but I listened to the radio RELIGIOUSLY. I knew every word to every song (or at least I THOUGHT I did) for example, I thought the song Dream Weaver, actually said “Jamie Weaver…I believe you can get me through the night”. I thought that Jamie must be some special girl. We used to burn up the phone lines making requests…Jungle Boogie was high on the list. My best friend during elementary school was Ginger and she and I taped Kasey Kasem on our tape recorders every Sunday. We memorized every word of the Grease soundtrack and then Sgt.Pepper with the Bee Gees and Saturday Night Fever.

When my brother got into music, it was the Eagles, Steve Miller Band, ELO,  and Waylon and Willie…so that stuff is definitely well-woven into my musical fabric…but in the early years, I was more attracted to top 40 pop. Favorite songs that stand out are “Undercover Angel”, and “I like Dreamin’”, later my all-time favorite was “Another One Bites the Dust”. When my dad came to town, he introduced other kinds of music. His favorite song was S-A-T-U-R-DAY Night! (I think it was the Bay City Rollers) so that became a favorite for a long time. My first concert in the 6th grade was Andy Gibb, whom I worshiped. I was in his fan club and everything. Tiger Beat magazine was my life line and any mention or photo of Andy went into my fan scrapbook. My second concert was KC and the Sunshine Band. In Junior High I was introduced to the Sugar Hill Gang and Rapper’s Delight. I memorized every word and can still recite the entire song (much to the horror of my children and friends who are lucky enough to hear a late night rendition).

That must be what led me to my affinity for…um…the politically correct term would be funk, or soul I guess,  in High school. But we simply called it “black” music and we LOVED it. I saw Lionel Ritchie, The Gap Band, Kool and the Gang, Rick James…if I could find the ticket stubs, I’m pretty sure I’d have one to every band like that, that had a song on the radio in the early 80′s. When Michael Jackson’s Thriller came out, we holed up in my room for days making up dance routines. He was destined to be a legend and we knew it. Ha, I also remember an obsession around this time with Hall and Oates! How they made the cut, I do not know.

Towards the end of high school it was more Madonna, and whatever else MTV was making popular, and all the Duran Duran, Billy Idol stuff took over. At this point, my dad’s favorite was The Cars and he introduced me to it. I was ahead of the times on that one in Columbus, Georgia. Our senior year Spring Break anthem was Der Kommissar by Falco. When someone burned a giant hole in the beach rental carpet, we changed the words to “Don’t burn the ground, uh oh oh!”

In college, there was more of the whole Flock of Seagulls vibe early on and then I guess we started into the more alternative stuff. R.E.M was huge, but also the Rolling Stones were at a peak. I was introduced to Reggae and was totally into Bob Marley and UB 40. We also started listening to older music–my favorite of all time was Van Morrison. We started to think of ourselves as hippies which is such a joke. We wore our tie-dyes and birkinstocks with cut-off shorts but we were in sorority’s and fraternities too.
Somewhere in there, the Grateful Dead took over, but simultaneously so did bands like The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, and Depeche Mode and then Tracy Chapman and 10,000 Maniacs…. I loved it all.

After college I went to quite a few Dead shows, and I fell in love with Little Feat but I was never a “deadhead” in the true sense. I enjoyed the experience way more than the music. Wide Spread Panic really took off when Jerry Garcia died but before they were so big, we used to see them at the Cotton Club in Atlanta whenever they were there. Now I have tons of friends who still, even at our age, travel to see them. I did just that recently and had a ball–there is just something about that atmosphere that is magic. I still, through these years, always went back to the old stuff…Crosby, Stills and Nash, Paul Simon, James Taylor, Eric Clapton, Carly Simon…and my friend Caroline made the most incredible mixed tapes ever of this kind of music. Then she married into the Capricorn Record family and we got to meet the Allman Brothers, hang out with Cake and 311, The Freddy Jones Band, and a bunch of others I can’t recall…but it was fun.

Somewhere along the way I fell in love with female vocalists…after Tracy Chapman, came Edie Brickell, and then I went back to some oldies but goodies like Carol King, Carly Simon or Phoebe Snow. Then there’s  Sheryl Crow, Everything But The Girl, Alana Davis, Natalie Merchant, Norah Jones, Amy Winehouse, Duffy, Nellie Furtado, Eva Cassidy (if you haven’t heard her, you need to listen up)…I even like Shakira…and I’m blanking now on the rest…but I still love female musicians. My favorite to date has been Joss Stone and I really love Adelle now too. Then came guys that had the same vibe as these women..like Jack Johnson and Amos Lee. In fact, Jack Johnson is my dream man

Bottom line, I love to dance, so if music has a beat that you can move to, then chances are I will like it. I like to sing too, but only in the closet. Something I will never like is Country Music. And Jazz bores me to tears. Blue Grass, I can do in VERY small doses but only at some sort of outdoor festival. I love old Southern Rock like the Allman Brothers, or good jam band music you can do the deadhead shuffle to, and yes, I like dance music (the cheesy stuff on the radio that uses all sorts of fowl language, but baby, it has a bangin’ beat). I love my girl music when I’m driving, and I do sing it at the top of my lungs.

I love music. Admittedly, now that I have children, I am into it less and less. And I hate this. I mean, I’m aware of the new hit makers, and have even purchased some of their cds in recent years. I download songs from itunes on occasion, when I hear something I can’t get out of my head and stick it on my ipod under “running music”. But more and more, as I get older, I go back to the stuff I’ve loved through the years and am less interested in the new stuff.

Simply put, when I’m listening to music that I love, I feel happy…..so turn it up!

Chickasaw Continued… May 21, 2011

So I crept up the stairs, amazed that so far I’d gone undetected. It was shocking really. Completely, totally miraculous. I made my way to my bedroom, bouncing from one side of the hallway to the other along the way, tore off my clothes and fell into bed. The room was spinning uncontrollably…it was awful, nauseating… and then a VOICE startles me. I literally almost passed out (or maybe that was about to happen anyway)…I slowly rolled over. I must be dreaming. PLEASE somebody tell me that Jack and Coke makes you hallucinate. PLEASE tell me that my GRANDMOTHER. IS. NOT. IN. MY. BED. WITH. ME.

But she was. It was slowly coming back to me. The A.C. was out. The house was sweltering. But my brother and I had window units in our attic floor bedrooms, and they were cranking. My grandmother was in my room, to keep cool. Which meant…oh no. My mother must be down the hall in MY BROTHERS ROOM. I had to be reallllly smart here. REALLY careful. But, oh my. The room was spinning, and spinning and spinning….I bolted out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. Just in time.

The floor was nice and cool. It felt good against my cheek. And the toilet was so handy-dandy, right there next to me. And, well…my other accommodations weren’t quite working out. Yes, this would do just fine….

As my eyes started to focus, I felt it. And I heard the VOICE again. Ouch! Stop! STOP nudging me with your FOOT. There she was in all her 80-something year old glory, standing over me. “Kathryn Ritch Vingi! Get up off that flow-ah (no body on earth had a genteel, southern accent like my grandmutha, a Georgia Peach through and through). She was dignified and proud…until now. She couldn’t have had an ounce of pride in that moment and she was mad too! “I SAID, get up off that flow-ah, right this very minute young lady.”

“Oh grandmother, I sniffed. I’ve eaten something horrible. It seems to have upset my stomach terribly. I think I must surely have food poisoning. Maybe I should stay here.” But she was having NONE of it. “Get back in that bed, NOW.” So that’s what I did. And I clung to verrrry edge of that bed, for dear life, and prayed that Jack and Coke would stay put.

Late the next morning I awoke. Could it be, I’d convinced my grandmother of my unfortunate stomach bug? This was GREAT. My mother knew NOTHING. Except, I wasn’t great. I felt awful. As in death- warmed-over awful. I carefully made my way downstairs. Ouch. My head hurt. Be veeewwwwwyyyy quiet. My mother greeted me with a sympathetic smile. “Mornin’ honey! I’m so sorry you’re not well. You poor thing. Would you like some soup?” I eyed my grandmother. She eyed me back. Stone cold eyes, dark as night.

All day it went like this. Mom pampered me, nursed me back to health. Grandmother said nothing. I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I’d broken all kinds of rules, and yet mom was none the wiser. It was looking like I’d be able to do it all over again the next weekend!

“So mom, think I could have some more Coke? I think it would help to settle my stomach….”

But she could take it no more.

Grandmother.

Had.

Had.

Enough.

She turned to my mom, fury in her eyes, voice trembling…”Kathryn does not have any stomach bug! And she does not have any food poisoning either! I found her on the bathroom floor last night in a DRUNKEN STUPAH!”

And that’s how it went down.

In history.

I probably lost a good month of fun. And I’ve had to endure the telling, and re-telling of that story, AT LEAST 200 times. At least now that it’s recorded for posterity, when someone starts to tell it again…I can say. “Ahem, excuse me. You can read all about it if you like, and we never have to mention it again”.

note: You’ll be glad to know that since that night in 1980-something, I have never. ever. not once. had another Jack and Coke.

Chick Chick Chickasaw! May 20, 2011

This is an old photo key chain that I unearthed. Kathy and I are in the top left corner. The guy below in the hat is my older brother, Robert.
The girl in the bottom right corner is one of the twins (Laura), and the girl on the left (two tiny faces) right above her, is her twin sister (Leslie).

This story has been told so many times over so many meals, so many drinks…so many occasions I needn’t worry any longer about my mom finding me out…or shaming her with the knowledge that her daughter was a fool in high school. The damage was done long ago, and I think I turned out okay (it’s all relative, right?) What happened 20-something years ago could be viewed as being partially responsible for the fabulous human I am today, right? Ha.

I’ve already introduced you to Kathy, my BFF and partner in crime in those days…remember, we climbed that barbed wire fence together at the cemetery? And fried ourselves on her trampoline all summer long? Well, there is a vault of Kathryn/Kathy stories waiting to be opened, so we are just getting started. (Yes, Kathy gave me her blessing…however, she may not have bargained for how good my memory is

Maybe it was because Kathy’s older sisters were hot tamales…gorgeous girls, adored by the boys, envied by the girls, fun….and yes, a little wild. The oldest, Kathy’s brother Johnny was a big, smiling hulk of a guy, affectionately nicknamed “Truck” (Kathy’s last name was Driver) and loved by all. We looked up to all three. Maybe it was because my mom was VERY strict, and I was born somehow, with a VERY rebellious streak. Or that Kathy’s mom Mary Frances, the good Catholic girl (as the name implies) had about given up by the time Kathy came along. The other three had worn her down to a nub. Kathy’s dad did lot’s of barking…but he too, was forced for the most part, to admit defeat, and his bark was far worse than his bite. At any rate, Kathy and I were bound and determined to have ourselves our own good time…regardless of age (meaning UNDER age), or the good values instilled in us up to that point in our young lives.

My mother hung this by my bathroom mirror. Next to the Tan Commandments (see Tanorexic post

Kathy’s family, and then Kathy and I our freshman year. We were still well-behaved at this point. As you can see, we are “Mutt & Jeff”

We didn’t have time for boys our own age. Older boys were way cooler (not), and in those days most of them were big, buff jock types. We thought they were our ticket to cooldom I suppose, (although in time we did come to realize that the boys our own age were actually the good ones–and they sure as heck turned out a lot better).

These are older boys…but they are also really good ones. Because my sweet brother (right photo) played golf, and wasn’t a cheesy jock–therefore he turned out fabulously
The one on the left was one of his cronies, also a great guy. You can see I was quite taken with them (on their way to the prom?)

Having said that, the older boys we favored weren’t content to “ride around” for entertainment, or go to the local pizza joint. They had moved on to NIGHT CLUBS. I guess you had to be 21 at that time to get in one (it could have have been a bit younger, I don’t recall) but we couldn’t have been more than 17. And if that’s where they were, well, then that’s where we were going to be. Our fake i.d.’s were pathetic. I was some girl from Middlebury College in Vermont at one point. No clue how I got my hands on this i.d. but I looked NOTHING like her. I’m not sure what Kathy used, but I do recall doctoring i.d.’s with finger nail polish or creating them from scratch with my moms old Corona manual typewriter.

This. Is. Embarrassing.

The Club was called the Chickasaw. The radio advertisement called to us in a high-pitched sing s0ng…”come on down to the Chick Chick Chickasawwwwwwww!” Kathy and I knew it well. We had actually gotten away with saying that we were going to the LIBRARY on a Thursday night (AS IF), and instead went there. I know. It’s shameful. But again, TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO. Everyone has some sort of past, right? We also went to “Laura and Leslie’s” house quite often, the twins we grew up with. I think the night in question though, was actually a weekend night. A hot summer weekend night. We started the evening rather innocently…at the Speakeasy. It used to be Shakey’s Pizza Parlour, but by then it was the newer, hipper Speakeasy where lot’s of us hung out. Because it was a restaurant we never had any trouble getting in…and always managed pitchers too–by sitting with those older boys I suppose. That night, I ran into my big brother Robert, and recall him telling me that the air conditioning had gone out at home and that the house was sweltering. Certainly not high on my list of concerns. I was trying to plot my way to the Chickasaw. Next I remember being INSIDE the Chickasaw, and seeing my brother OUTSIDE the Chickasaw. He mouthed through the window that he’d been denied access. He was two years older than me, mind you, so he was none too pleased. I couldn’t be bothered. I had ordered up some horrible Jack and Coke drink, and was well on my way (mind you, the most I’d had to drink at this point was a Miller Pony, or maybe some Boone’s Farm.  I didn’t yet know that liquor WAS NOT MY FRIEND). Now here’s where things get fuzzy. I maybe mixing up two separate evenings and merging them into one, but for the sake of this story, we’ll assume that this is how is all went down. Kathy and I are boogying on the dance floor, Madonna-style, to tunes like her “Like a Virgin, or perhaps Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, Shannon’s “Let the Music Play”,  or David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance”. Who can forget hits like Irene Cara’s Flashdance anthem, “What a Feeling”, or the Human League’s “Keep Feeling Fascination” or Men Without Hat’s “Safety Dance”? All I know is that we loved them all, and were there to dance the night away.

I think I even remember what I was wearing. Pinstriped, high-waisted jeans (with pleats and peg legs of course), a favorite blue sweater tank, and a matching blue-on-blue candy-striped blazer. My hair was “punk” or so I thought…cut way too short on top, feathered and sprayed, and long and permed everywhere else. Yep, just as you you picture it…a glorified mullet. Long dangly earrings, and best of all…jellies. Those were shoes made of rubber, but these were way cooler than the typical. The “jelly” was only on the bottom…the rest was a super long shoe lace, that turned the bottom into a gladiator-style thong. Of course, being me, I traded out the shoe laces for some matching trim that I found in my grandmother’s sewing box. Of course, hem facing  wasn’t meant to be used as footwear so it broke somewhere early in the night and I ended up barefoot on the dance floor.

Me in my “faux punk” phase…or whatever you’d call it. More older boys…and I have no idea how either turned out–
but certainly neither falls into the stereotype I mentioned earlier!
I will say that I had a massive crush on the top right one (sadly, I don’t think it was ever all that mutual)!

Just as the night was getting good, a frantic warning began to make it’s way through the Chickasaw. Mary Frances Driver was AT the Chickasaw, and she wasn’t leaving without Kathy. So naturally, we ran to the bathroom, hid in a stall, on TOP of a toilet. Someone either ratted us out, or Kathy realized defeat was imminent, and she surrendered. Mary Frances had come for me as well, per the agreement between she and my mother, but because MY mother wasn’t IN the Chickasaw, I felt no need to comply. I remained on my perch until the coast was clear and continued the revelry into the wee hours.

This was the major flaw in my judgment in those days. I think my curfew was around 11pm, but I tended to weigh the activities planned for one weekend vs. the next and go ahead and blow curfew on the chosen weekend. It meant the following weekend (and maybe the one after it too) I would be on “restriction” as my mom called it, and unable to leave the house…but I thought it was worth it. Clearly this night was one of the “chosen” ones, and I overstayed and over-imbibed. I don’t remember who brought me home, but I do remember asking them the turn off the engine, and the lights, in order to coast into my driveway without alerting my MOTHER. Mind you, I NEVER made it upstairs without my mother calling out from her room for me to come in a see her, ie. smell my breath, but only on nights when she was wasn’t sitting on the couch waiting to impose her sentence.

This was an exceptionally bad night because not only was I very, very late but I had enjoyed those yummy Coke drinks just a little bit too much. So much that by the time I got out of that car, the universe was spinning. I ended up in the bushes feeling less than stellar but at least cleansing my system of toxins (okay, tossing cookies…or in this case, Jack and Coke). I know, yuck. Good thing was, I was already barefoot so I didn’t make much noise coming in the house…and shockingly, mom wasn’t there to greet me when I came in. I even made it to the stairwell without a peep from her. Could it be? I had made it home scott-free? I crept up the stairs and….

to be continued

Hey Gene… May 18, 2011

I was a freshman in high school. Just beginning to emerge (not there, mind you, but starting the process) from total geekdom. I was scary-skinny as a young girl. As in Cambodian Refuge skinny. Knobby knees, ribs protruding, and a swollen tummy–but only right after a meal. I had reddish hair (mom kindly called it auburn), cut too short for many years (because I wanted a Dorothy Hamill “do”, against even the advice of the guy cutting it, who said with disdain, that using Prell shampoo was like washing your hair with dishwasher detergent, and of course that’s what I used. And also that he didn’t think I could “pull off” the Dorothy (could it have been that it would make my freckles or braces stand out even more? Or that it accentuated my long skinny face and dark under-eye circles?) But never one to listen to authority, I ignored him and left the place crying…and even dorkier looking than when I arrived. I digress.

As a high school freshman, I discovered sponge rollers (I’d finally grown out the dreadful bob) and makeup. WAY too much makeup, and I rolled those suckers TIGHT. It was also the height of the preppy era. We followed the Preppy Handbook religiously (I kid you not), and I had every color wide whale cords–many dotted with whales, anchors or some other symbol of ultimate preppydom, every ribbon belt (to go with my gold frog belt buckle), every ribbon trimmed cardigan, plaid kilts with knee socks and penny loafers…oh, how it pains me that I wasted my youthful appearance in this way…SQUANDERED IT. But I digress again.

Somewhere during this time frame, the cowgirl craze hit. Everybody HAD to to have a pair of Justin’s…with a high heel. I was no exception. I know I told you I was skinny, but I was also TALL. Taller than most boys still (some things never change). Mom begged and pleaded with me on the boot subject. “Kathryn, honey, you are lovely in MY eyes, but this may not be your best look”.

Did I learn ANYTHING from evil hair guy? Need I answer that question?

So now I’m wearing high heeled cowboy boots with wide whaled cords and a cardie. Wow. Then along comes the church ski trip (I promise in the end, the story will come full circle and you’ll understand why I am having story-telling A.D.D right now). We had a fun youth group…lots of kids from my school that I’d known all my life, kids from one or two other schools that I knew well through church, and we attended Sunday Night Youth Group without fail, went on the summer beach trips…and now the winter ski trip. I was beyond excited, even though I couldn’t ski (minor detail, right?)  We went to North Carolina– Boone, I think (Sugar Mountain? Does that sound right?), I took my lessons and ventured onto the bigger slope (not much more than a bunny hill, I am sure, but it seemed HUGE to me. You did have to ride the lift, so that’s sayin’ something, right?)  I was with my friend Robin, who was a year younger than me, so I felt all high and in charge, and somehow, shockingly, I could ski just slightly better than her.  It was all going swimmingly at first…I was skiing well enough to yell to anyone in earshot “this is my first time skiing so look out, I don’t know how to stop!” but only because the response was generally “wow! you are skiing really well for a first-timer!” Also, because I was such an accomplished skier, and of course  SO much more sophisticated and mature than Robin, a MERE 8th grader, I felt it was my duty to ensure her safety and well-being. So when she lagged behind, I kindly stopped (see, I could stop after all–does that make me a liar? And on a church trip, no less. Oh my) to wait on her. Maybe not the best decision.

The guy who was speeding along just behind me must not have realized that he was trailing Robin’s kind, and selfless caretaker, which is I guess why he mowed right over me when I stopped so abruptly. It was a funny thing, sitting there in a snowdrift feeling like my arm was no longer connected to my body. A bit shocking actually. Almost as shocking as the fact that the guy who’d just flattened me, dusted himself off and kept right on going. Someone asked if I was okay… I was not. Someone else asked if I needed help. I did. Did I need to ride down the mountain in one of those basket thingy’s being pulled by a super hot ski instructor? HELLO. I am cool, and in charge…so really? You think I want to humiliate myself in such a way? Long story short, I got down the mountain somehow, with the help of some kindly person, and my all-time, most favorite, most-perfect-shade-of -blue, dotted-with-pink, fair isle sweater, was CUT from my body. So was the sleeve of my BROTHER’S favorite long john shirt (or so it was deemed, AFTER I destroyed it). Then was the tortuous ride in a herky-jerky church bus, up–or down, who knows– a horribly winding, ice covered road to the pitiful little mountain hospital, with the SUPER dorky chaperone, the x-ray that revealed the badly broken arm (all the way in two, up near the shoulder, which explains the disembodied feeling I was experiencing, and why I was holding onto my arm with a death grip– so it wouldn’t fall off–much to the frustration of the doctor who was slapping plaster all over me) etc. etc.

Who the heck is Gene??? I’m getttttiiiinnnnnggggg to that.

Back home in Columbus, mom took me to the renowned Houston Orthopedic Clinic, (as I recall, it was Christmas Eve). There the doctor discovered what I guess my mom suspected. The arm was set allll wrong. When I left there, I had some crazy contraption around my NECK with some sort of post connected to the big, ugly plaster cast, at the wrist. Not a good look. Not a cool look. Not a look that went well with wide whale cords, high heeled cowboy boots and my brothers over-sized button down oxford  (the only thing that would fit over the monster atrocity attached to me). Makeup application and hair rolling was also an issue. As was the fact that I had to sleep sitting up in a chair, and said chair was in my GRANDMOTHER’S room, who not only snored, but talked in her sleep, and had nightmares that elicited screaming–and gave ME nightmares just recalling them, to this DAY). I was NOT getting my beauty rest and had all these other strikes against me to boot. Which wasn’t helping matters with my CRUSH.

Ah yes. My crush.

Gene. GENE.

A SENIOR. A tall, dark-haired, HUNKY senior, with soulful brown eyes. He was the older brother of one of my older brothers best friends. I knew nothing about him, I’d never talked with him, but that was irrelevant. I was IN LOVE. I was going to marry that boy, no question. If only he knew who I was. I passed Gene outside every single day, on the way to one of my classes. I grinned broadly at him, with my metal-covered mouth. He never noticed.

And now I had this GROWTH attached to me. This POST! This NECK thing…this big, ugly shirt! I was a FREAK. And the only way to get to my class was the same way as always. Teetering along in my high-heeled boots with my big, fat arm sticking out in front of me. And here comes Gene. Sauntering towards me in all his glory. Loping along in his Wallabies and faded denim. And finally, FINALLY, he notices me. His eyes widen. What the ?!

“hey gene” I squeak. I smile wanly.

He averts his eyes. The way you do when you see someone in a pathetic state. Someone drooling.

Later, I had a friend who shared P.E. with Gene, ask him if he knew who I was. His answer? “Is that the tall, skinny girl with that big thing around her neck and a broken arm?”

Gene and I never did get married. I know we would have if I hadn’t been being a good Samaritan that day on the ski slope in North Carolina. I’m sure there’s a valuable lesson there.

But I have yet to figure it out.