Often referenced but seldom written, it’s here: the “post for another day.” It’s the one where I talk about an uncomfortable truth.

I’m losing my singing ability.

It’s been bothering me for about a year now, and though I’ve referenced it on a couple of occasions here and there, I’ve never really talked about it in a public manner until now. Whether it’s caused by advancing age, genetics, too many years of rock and roll, I don’t know — but my singing days are pretty much over, and this time, for good. If I told you there haven’t been many, many private tears and general anguish about it, I’d be lying. If I told you that I don’t seethe with sad envy when I hear singers my age (and older, like Tony Bennett, Sting, Daryl Hall, others) still knocking it out of the park, I’d be lying.

If I told you this doesn’t terrify me, I’d be lying. Performing is all I’ve really ever known since about the age of 11, when I started singing with my sister and our friends in a tiny little Baptist church in Milwaukee. There hasn’t been a single day since then when singing hasn’t been at the forefront of just about everything I do.

This morning, I read an article about Bono of U2, facing the possibility that he’ll never play guitar again. I couldn’t imagine not doing the one thing you love the most — until now. My hope is that I can adopt a healthy attitude about it all, and arrive at a sane balance between remembering the voice I had, and dealing with the one I now have, which is decidedly weak in two major areas:

1. I can no longer control the quality of a sustained pitch. Fine motor control over the laryngeal musculature is becoming more difficult; sometimes impossible. Therefore, I struggle to control the tonal integrity of a long phrase.
2. Accuracy in moving from note to note has been severely compromised. I can no longer sing multi-note phrases with 100% pitch accuracy. Of the two weak areas, this one is the more horrific for me to accept.

I’ve done some research on the aging voice, and ultimately, what it comes down to is control – specifically, lack thereof. I can no longer make the voice manifest what’s in my head. Truly, it must be similar to, say, dealing with the aftermath of a stroke, when the brain is completely functional with regard to cogent thoughts, but the mouth won’t form the words that express them. Indeed, I can’t find the words to accurately express to you my desperate frustration at this reality. I suppose it’s the same frustration an aging athlete feels, when her body can’t perform like it used to, even though her mind knows exactly what form and technique she wants to use.

On occasions when I’ve lodged a passing complaint about my situation, well-meaning friends have said things like, “I’d take your voice as it is right now any day,” or “Don’t be silly; you still have plenty of years left.” Those comments, though spoken in a spirit of love and encouragement, I must admit, sting. We’re not talking a passive hobby here, or an avocation I enjoy. Rather, singing has been my job since 1980. It’s among the things that can be counted on three fingers that I do relatively well, and now it’s fading away. It’s a jagged enormous pill, and on days like today, I feel like I’m choking on it.

Conversely, I know I have to put things in their proper perspective. I can still walk, think, write, speak, teach, play my instruments, laugh, and be generally annoying. I rejoice in that, and I don’t take it for granted for a New York minute, because it could be a whole lot worse. But I don’t want to be like Frank Sinatra and Rosemary Clooney, who stayed at the fair way, way too long, to the point where their most ardent admirers winced. That’s not going to be me.

I “officially” retired from singing in the summer of 2012, resurfacing only to record the mini-album for my Daddy a year later. Last month, an area jazz society asked me to do a gig on the 5th of January. I thought about it for a few days, and ended up turning them down, because I would have just stressed and worried about it every single day of my Christmas break, and I didn’t want to do that to the Thriller or the rest of my family. It is time to hang it up, and my resolution for 2015 is to find positive ways to spin it and ultimately be comfortable with it.

So hey, don’t feel too bad for me. My students are very forgiving of my old-lady modeling in rehearsal, and that’s all that matters. I’m on the horse till it throws me. But truth be told, I will always miss what was…whatever that is. I suppose it’s to be expected.

Happy, happy first day of the new year to you!

As I skim over Facebook and Twitter posts, I’m finding that more and more people “stayed in” for New Year’s Eve (unless you’re one of the crazies who stood outside in Times Square or some other freezing cold, wall-to-wall-bodies-stuffed venue). With NYE being our wedding anniversary, and we never seem to think ahead far enough to make reservations for a special weekend somewhere, we stayed in, too. It was nice.

“Seeing the ball drop” in Times Square is less than thrilling for me, mostly because I have to endure all the horrible singing and insipid quasi-celebrity banter to get to it. And by “horrible singing,” I mean Idina Menzel. Oh. My. How could Maureen from Rent/Elphaba from Wicked have fallen so far? Well…that’s a post for another day, when I’m talking about how my own pipes have taken Frank Sinatra Way straight down to Hades.

I hope your New Year’s Eve was fun, or relaxing, or a non-event; whatever you wanted it to be. And my wish for your 2015 is that it’s filled with family and friends and joy. So let’s get started, shall we?

Big hugs from the frozen Midwest. I’m off to forage for some breakfast.

Holiday greetings to all of my 100 loyal readers around the wide world full of 7 billion souls.

I hope those who celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah had a wonderful time with family and friends, and that those who celebrate Kwanzaa (starting today) will enjoy this special time of year as well. I say HAPPY HOLIDAYS because it’s my wish for you; not because I’m trying to be PC or that I wish to downplay Christmas. I love Christmas! I love the symbolism and the message, having been brought up in a Christian home, but I am not at all offended when someone wishes me a happy holiday. (And I’ll not even start on the “keep Christ in Christmas” thing today, or this happy post will degenerate into an unhinged harangue…)

Conversely, I cluck at people who feel it their duty to point out the ubiquitous “Jesus was not born on December 25th.” So what? Biblical scholars have researched the story, and while many agree that there is no hard-and-fast scriptural proof — indeed, the evidence leans decidedly away from December — that the Nativity took place in the dead of winter, it doesn’t bother me in the least. We don’t know when Remy or Pax were born, so we chose a day to commemorate their birth. Does that make their birth any less important? Psh. Who cares? Let’s celebrate it, and all naysaying negative Nancys can move to the back of the train. Away from me.

We had a great family Christmas celebration at our house on Christmas Eve (although there was a huge absence because Helen and the A’s were all down with the flu, ugh), followed by a trip to Cleveland. We came home and relaxed with a movie, and I read myself to sleep. It was a good day, and I hope yours was, too.

Strangely enough, even though I have a metric ton of work (I won’t mention what it is, but its initials are d-i-n-n-e-r-t-h-e-a-t-r-e) staring me in the face, I’m on the web this morning, searching out fun baking recipes. This, after spending a half hour on the treadmill at 6 a.m. Rat Fink, Rat Fink…

What do you think of these? I might try them, then forswear dinner so I can have a couple.

The Thriller and I are going to watch The Interview this weekend. A review will be forthcoming.

For those of you in the private sector, it’s Friday, yay! Enjoy the weekend. I’m off to try to get something accomplished today.

Yep, ‘fraid so. This rat packs. Waaay too much, in fact. And last night, I received a packrat’s dream gift: stuff.

Miss Kitty, BFF Kay’s mother and a sweet, sweet lady until her passing coming up on one year ago, was a fellow rat packer. I mean, pack ratter. I mean, she was just like me. She kept stuff.

Now you might not think it’s cool, and that’s all right. That’s the way we p-rats roll: we keep what *we* think is cool. And this, I must admit, is downright frosty. Behold:

What’s that pile of garbage, you ask? Why, it’s 44 gift bags, all in pristine condition, dating back probably 20 years. She received a gift, and boxed the bag. Received a gift, boxed the bag. Received a gift…you get the idea. I recognized the yellow one with the purple flowers and stripes; it contained a gift we gave her several years ago. And who knows how many bags were lost along the way. Still — they’re all mine, and I will pack them away until the next birthday, baby shower or Christmas event. After all, it’s worth the pack-ratting if the stuff has an eventual purpose, right? Of course right.

A bit on the funnier side was the other half of this booty. Some may think it strange, but knowing that Miss Kitty was born in 1925 and lived through the Great Depression brings much of this behavior into better focus. Here is a small sampling of the wrapping paper — some intact in its packaging, but most just random scraps — I inherited last night:

And we’re talking hundreds of scrap pieces, many looking like they’re from the 1970s. It’s awesome. And little jewelry boxes? Likely a dozen of those, in all shapes and sizes. Even some gift bows, sticky name tags, and partial rolls of ribbon. And they’re all my preciouses. As soon as I feed the three hungry dogs at my feet, I plan to go into the dining room and arrange the bounty in one box, and have the Thriller store it in the basement utility room.

I love things and stuff, don’t you?

After the gig this morning at the nursing home, we close the door on another Christmas season. Shew! It’s been a good couple of months, but I’m glad the insanity is coming to a close. Just get me through Friday, and we’re good.

Random neuron firing:

The Thriller and I had a discussion over dinner last night about the recent developments around the film The Interview, and Sony Pictures’ decision to not show it. Two stances were considered:

1. Sony is allowing itself to be bullied into submission by faceless terror hackers. If we bow to it now, what’s next? Seriously, it’s North Korea, and they’re holding the entire United States of America hostage because Kim Jong-un can’t take a joke? Lighten up already. It’s our First Amendment right to make a film that offends; the Constitution makes no ruling on what comprises good or bad art. Stop being sissies.
2. Seth Rogen made a movie about a sitting dictator, who’s likely a raving sociopath, occasionally creeping up on psychotic. Again, for clarity: someone thought it would be cool to make a worldwide chump out of a frequently violent, cuckoo-brain 5150 who has nukes. And Rogen used KJ-u’s likeness and his position in a comedy of all things, where the main focus is the hilarity of two bumbling idiots trying to assassinate him. Have we not read the news for the past three years? Do we not know what a hair-trigger wackadoodle this guy is?

The question (one of the many, actually) is: Where do we draw the line between patent refusal to kowtow to threats from deranged extremists, and taking seriously the rantings of nut-butts who just might go through with a threat that would jeopardize thousands of innocent cinemagoers — not to mention the many employees of the movie theaters who have to report to work and stay there through repeated showings? Is a movie causing widespread panic really worth it?

Remember back in ’88, when The Last Temptation of Christ opened, and folks flipped out? Here’s what was said (New York Times, 13 August, 1988):

At the Directors Guild of America headquarters this morning,  movie directors John Badham, Warren Beatty, Peter Bogdanovich…Sydney Pollack, George Sidney and Elliot Silverstein defended Mr. Scorsese’s right to his artistic vision and, in the words of a statement by the guild, ”the right of individuals to decide for themselves what they will see and think.”

Mr. Beatty said people must support Universal and Cineplex Odeon in their ”effort to resist pressure groups” and to encourage studios ”to continue to finance and distribute material that is not so safe.”

Mr. Brooks, who won an Academy Award for ”Terms of Endearment,” said he was ”frightened so many of us had to come here this morning to express the obvious.” Mr. Pollack, an Academy Award winner for ”Out of Africa,” said: ”Christianity survived for 2,000 years. It will survive Martin Scorsese’s $6.5 million movie.”

Clint Eastwood, who was not in Los Angeles, sent a succinct message: ”Freedom of expression is the American way.”

It may be the American way, Clint, but America is not the only nation in the world, and honestly, Americans have embodied that irresponsible assumption with great vigor in one way or another since the Second World War. But that’s a discussion for another day. This day is for getting over with, and tonight is for BAKING WITH MAVIS! HUZZAH

Still, feel free to weigh in below. Truthfully, I see both sides of the argument. I can’t imagine the gargantuan headaches Sony corporate has suffered over this ordeal, compounded by the fear, humiliation and anger that is no doubt wreaking havoc as a result of the recent enormous breach in their communication systems. It’s an ugly world sometimes, fiends. Makes you shake your head and quote TDN:

How can people be so heartless?
How can people be so cruel?
Easy to be hard; easy to be cold.