One of my absolutely favorite things in life is music. When I'm not indulging in a piece of dark chocolate or gleefully wriggling into a pair of textured stockings that I got on sale, there's a good chance that I'm dancing to music, singing along to a beloved song, or working with the hum of a familiar tune in the background. Music is amazingly versatile; it can be motivational, comforting, or even depressing. It has the power to unite us, but it's also deeply personal. While there is nothing like standing in a sea of pulsating people who are waving their arms in the air and singing every word of a band's lyrics, there are times when sitting alone in a room with a good album can open up inner feelings that have long been forgotten.
Being a literary sort, you can imagine that I've dissected the words to many songs trying to unlock their hidden meanings. But you might not have guessed that I'm horrible at deciphering the actual lyrics to a song by just listening to it. I'm one of those people who unabashedly shouts out the wrong words without even knowing it. Several years ago, my friend and I were belting out the words to Benny and the Jets. I was more than a little surprised when we got to the middle of the song and she sang "she's got electric boots, a mohair suit." I had just finished singing: "She's got electric boobs and an attitude!" Okay, so maybe my imagination got the best of me. But you've got to admit that my lyrics are a bit more interesting.
So lately, I've been butchering the lyrics of a new band that I simply adore. The band is called the Temper Trap. They are an alternative rock group out of Australia that released their debut album, Conditions, in 2009. The band has a rich sound with simple, pounding rhythms, occasional 1980's like guitar solos, and haunting vocals. As I was listening to their song "Fader," I thought it was completely appropriate that the song began with the words "I'm En- tranc - ed," because I was entranced. It was only later that I realized after googling the song that the words are: "I'm in transit." Oh well, the point is that this band rocks! I strongly recommend that you at least check out their songs "Fader" and "Sweet Disposition." Enjoy!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Over the River and Through the Woods
Thanksgiving is coming and that can mean only one thing . . . time to pile into the family vehicle with my grubby little offspring for 9 hours. I've spent the last week ironing and carefully packing clothes so that we can look at least halfway presentable when we roll into my sister's yard in Baltimore. But who am I kidding? After 9 hours in the car, we always look like a desperate pack of crazed rats who have just discovered a way to escape from their filthy cage and are foraging for some food.
Of course, I've learned by now that it would be a mistake to stay at my sister's house. No matter how hard we try, when we descend on my sister's tidy townhouse, we end up leaving a path of destruction in our wake. The memories from previous Thanksgivings have been permanently seared into my grey matter. No, I've learned from experience that it is best to stay at a hotel where no one knows us and no one will ever see us again.
When the Smokin' Pirate was a toddler, we made the unwise decision to attempt to stay with my sister in her paper-thin walled apartment. My newly married sister was thrilled to be able to host us in her freshly decorated two bedroom home. Unfortunately, the psychopath who lived directly under her was less than thrilled. He proceeded to pound on the ceiling and make threatening noises whenever we even crept across the floor. Needless to say, the Smokin' Pirate was incapable of tiptoeing across a floor at that point. That boy knew only one speed . . . ramming speed. His walk was more like a full-on run that inevitably resulted in him smashing into tables, chairs, or anything else that got in his way. After watching my sister nervously recount just how psychotic her neighbor was, we chose to book a hotel room for the remainder of our stay.
The problem is, even when we stay in a hotel, we still have to survive Thanksgiving dinner itself. When we visit my sister, we usually celebrate Thanksgiving with my brother-in-law's family. His family is a well-mannered, highly educated group of professionals whose children are all college age or older. They are a well dressed bunch who like to sit quietly around the dinner table and discuss current events in civilized tones. In the past, when we've come barging into the dining room with our two boisterous children, the atmosphere has become decidedly more raucous. In between stuffing gigantic amounts of mashed potatoes and rolls into their months, my children end up flinging food on the floor, emitting at least one grossly inappropriate bodily noise, and start making observations that would be better left unsaid. (One of my daughter's favorite things to say is: "Wow, you look a lot older than the last time we saw you. I think you're balder, too.") And it is a near certainty that my children will attempt to escape from the dinner table within 10 minutes of sitting down. One year, when the Smokin' Pirate was just an infant, we actually had to flee the house and do laps around the tranquil subdivision with our screaming, inconsolable child.
I'm not setting any lofty goals this Thanksgiving. While I've already pleaded with my children to please, please, please find a way to behave decently at Thanksgiving dinner, I have almost no hope that they will find a way to comply with my request. My plan is to enjoy the hotel (and probably never return), and pray that my brother-in-law finds a way to forgive me.
Of course, I've learned by now that it would be a mistake to stay at my sister's house. No matter how hard we try, when we descend on my sister's tidy townhouse, we end up leaving a path of destruction in our wake. The memories from previous Thanksgivings have been permanently seared into my grey matter. No, I've learned from experience that it is best to stay at a hotel where no one knows us and no one will ever see us again.
When the Smokin' Pirate was a toddler, we made the unwise decision to attempt to stay with my sister in her paper-thin walled apartment. My newly married sister was thrilled to be able to host us in her freshly decorated two bedroom home. Unfortunately, the psychopath who lived directly under her was less than thrilled. He proceeded to pound on the ceiling and make threatening noises whenever we even crept across the floor. Needless to say, the Smokin' Pirate was incapable of tiptoeing across a floor at that point. That boy knew only one speed . . . ramming speed. His walk was more like a full-on run that inevitably resulted in him smashing into tables, chairs, or anything else that got in his way. After watching my sister nervously recount just how psychotic her neighbor was, we chose to book a hotel room for the remainder of our stay.
The problem is, even when we stay in a hotel, we still have to survive Thanksgiving dinner itself. When we visit my sister, we usually celebrate Thanksgiving with my brother-in-law's family. His family is a well-mannered, highly educated group of professionals whose children are all college age or older. They are a well dressed bunch who like to sit quietly around the dinner table and discuss current events in civilized tones. In the past, when we've come barging into the dining room with our two boisterous children, the atmosphere has become decidedly more raucous. In between stuffing gigantic amounts of mashed potatoes and rolls into their months, my children end up flinging food on the floor, emitting at least one grossly inappropriate bodily noise, and start making observations that would be better left unsaid. (One of my daughter's favorite things to say is: "Wow, you look a lot older than the last time we saw you. I think you're balder, too.") And it is a near certainty that my children will attempt to escape from the dinner table within 10 minutes of sitting down. One year, when the Smokin' Pirate was just an infant, we actually had to flee the house and do laps around the tranquil subdivision with our screaming, inconsolable child.
I'm not setting any lofty goals this Thanksgiving. While I've already pleaded with my children to please, please, please find a way to behave decently at Thanksgiving dinner, I have almost no hope that they will find a way to comply with my request. My plan is to enjoy the hotel (and probably never return), and pray that my brother-in-law finds a way to forgive me.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Suzuki Suffering
Last spring, my five year old daughter approached me with an idea that instantly filled me with joy. She wanted to learn how to play the violin. My maternal hubris went into overdrive. Clearly I should no longer feel guilty about all those hours I had plunked her in front of the television (in moments of sheer desperation) and let her repeatedly view that Baby Einstein video with the puppets and toys that dance to music. All those hours of classical music and bizarre puppet twirling must have inspired her to reach for the stars and channel her inner Mozart. I was absolutely giddy as I started to search for a violin teacher to help my daughter, the budding musician, learn how to make graceful music with strings.
It wasn't until about her third violin lesson that I accepted that I had been completely delusional. It turns out that playing the violin is hard. After four months, she can finally hammer out the rhythm to several variations of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on an open A string. But Mozart . . . she's not. At most of her violin lessons, she squirms around on the floor like she's been possessed by some sort of hyperactive worm. Last week she even managed to wiggle half way out of her pants and moon me before the lesson was over.
In an attempt to get things moving along, her violin teacher whipped out a chart at one of her lessons. The graph showed how long it would take to proceed through the Suzuki books, and demonstrated that the rate of growth in violin playing is directly related to the amount of practice in which you engage. According to the graph, if you practice more than 2 hours a day, you can progress at a substantial rate. Practicing everyday for 15 minutes also yields a reasonable rate of progress. However, if you practice only a few times a week, it will take you about 10 years to make significant progress. Take a guess about which group we fall into. In between constantly ferrying the kids to school, soccer practice, drama rehearsals, ballet classes, and science club meetings, and mustering at least some sort of attempt to clean my house, I have tried to squeeze in violin practice, but it isn't easy.
You see the whole concept of the Suzuki method requires parental involvement. You are supposed to attend the lesson and take diligent notes. You are supposed to oversee the child's practice and encourage them to listen to classical music. The teacher even asked whether I wanted to learn to play the violin (which many teachers require). Give me a break! I can barely remember my name on a good day, there is no way I have the mental fortitude to learn a new instrument. No, right now, I am going to do what most parents do, and just focus on getting through the day and praying that the wheels on this whole operation don't start falling off and spewing in every direction. Of course, there is part of me that will take quiet refuge in the hope that maybe . . . just maybe . . . if I keep shuttling the kids to the things that they want to do and applauding the tortured playing of musical instruments, they will eventually discover who they want to be and grow into decent human beings.
It wasn't until about her third violin lesson that I accepted that I had been completely delusional. It turns out that playing the violin is hard. After four months, she can finally hammer out the rhythm to several variations of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on an open A string. But Mozart . . . she's not. At most of her violin lessons, she squirms around on the floor like she's been possessed by some sort of hyperactive worm. Last week she even managed to wiggle half way out of her pants and moon me before the lesson was over.
In an attempt to get things moving along, her violin teacher whipped out a chart at one of her lessons. The graph showed how long it would take to proceed through the Suzuki books, and demonstrated that the rate of growth in violin playing is directly related to the amount of practice in which you engage. According to the graph, if you practice more than 2 hours a day, you can progress at a substantial rate. Practicing everyday for 15 minutes also yields a reasonable rate of progress. However, if you practice only a few times a week, it will take you about 10 years to make significant progress. Take a guess about which group we fall into. In between constantly ferrying the kids to school, soccer practice, drama rehearsals, ballet classes, and science club meetings, and mustering at least some sort of attempt to clean my house, I have tried to squeeze in violin practice, but it isn't easy.
You see the whole concept of the Suzuki method requires parental involvement. You are supposed to attend the lesson and take diligent notes. You are supposed to oversee the child's practice and encourage them to listen to classical music. The teacher even asked whether I wanted to learn to play the violin (which many teachers require). Give me a break! I can barely remember my name on a good day, there is no way I have the mental fortitude to learn a new instrument. No, right now, I am going to do what most parents do, and just focus on getting through the day and praying that the wheels on this whole operation don't start falling off and spewing in every direction. Of course, there is part of me that will take quiet refuge in the hope that maybe . . . just maybe . . . if I keep shuttling the kids to the things that they want to do and applauding the tortured playing of musical instruments, they will eventually discover who they want to be and grow into decent human beings.
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Best Places to Stay in Montreal
Montreal is one of my favorite places for a romantic weekend escape. Somehow when I am ensconced in the narrow cobblestone streets of old Montreal, I'm able to forget that I am still on the North American continent. I feel like I have been whisked away to a European city with tantalizing, unknown secret shops hiding around every corner. While I recognize that the horse drawn carriages that dot the streets may be a bit cliche, when you're a tourist, it's not always a bad thing to embrace a little kitsch.
There is, of course, nothing kitschy at all about my first hotel selection. Hotel Le Germain is a chic boutique hotel on Rue Mansfield in between Sainte-Catherine Ouest and Rue Sherbooke. With fresh floral displays in the lobby and complimentary hot chocolate and coffee, I found the entrance to be very welcoming. The urbane selection of magazines laid out on the lobby coffee table immediately signaled that this hotel is trying to be a hip oasis. And, after my stay there, I can assure you that it achieves this goal.
We were able to snag a superior room with a queen size bed for $209 Canadian. This rate included a buffet breakfast that featured cold cereals, breads, eggs, fruit, stuffed french toast, and the obligatory croissants. The breakfast buffet was certainly adequate, but not anywhere near the four star standards of the hotel's restaurant, Laurie Raphael. But hey, it was free (or at least included in the room rate), so we chowed down.
The room itself was wonderful. With a crisp white duvet and fashionable pale blue pillows, the bed was very inviting and comfortable. The room was not very large, but it was well appointed and had a series of sleek, modern closets that provided room for luggage and useful hidden amenities, including an umbrella. There were plush white robes and an ipod dock.
The bathrooms are also worth mentioning. Stocked with Aveda bath products, the bathrooms have a contemporary feel with classy dark wood and earth tone tiles. The most interesting feature is the glass-walled shower that permits occupants to see through into the main living space or lets an occupant see into the shower. While there is a privacy shutter that can be pulled, this shower can definitely provide some romantic entertainment all by itself.
Overall, we were perfectly content while we stayed at this hotel. The staff was friendly, but unobtrusive, and the valet parking ran very smoothly. The hotel is conveniently located right next to Sainte-Catherine, so there are numerous shopping opportunities within walking distance. It is not, and is not trying to be, a child-friendly hotel. But for a romantic getaway, this hotel certainly lived up to my exacting standards.
The other hotel that I would recommend for a romantic weekend is Le Place d'Armes. This is another small, boutique hotel. Located in a beautiful building that was designed by Hopkins and Wily in 1870, the hotel has succeeded at melding its gracious old exterior with its modern, elegant interior. The large rooms have exposed brick walls and exude a loft style vibe. We have stayed several times in a deluxe king room. With its alluring faux fur throw, fireplace, and modern furniture, the whole room creates a seductive setting for a relaxing weekend. The large bathrooms have trendy blue tiles and feature a large glass-walled shower with a comforting, large rain showerhead. The bath products are from the spa that is located in the hotel and have an unusual, aromatherapeutic smell.
When I stay at this hotel, I insist upon finding a reasonable rate that includes the buffet breakfast. The breakfast, which is located in the stylish Suite 701 bar, includes fresh fruit, yogurt, granola, eggs, assorted pastries and croissants, cereals, cheeses, and fresh-squeezed juices. You can also find packages that include a nightly wine reception in Suite 701. While the free wine is barely drinkable, there is a large selection of fresh cheeses and the bar provides a sophisticated backdrop for the beginning of a night out on the town.
The hotel's rooftop deck, which overlooks the city, is yet another reason why Le Place D'Armes is one of my preferred Montreal hotels.
There is, of course, nothing kitschy at all about my first hotel selection. Hotel Le Germain is a chic boutique hotel on Rue Mansfield in between Sainte-Catherine Ouest and Rue Sherbooke. With fresh floral displays in the lobby and complimentary hot chocolate and coffee, I found the entrance to be very welcoming. The urbane selection of magazines laid out on the lobby coffee table immediately signaled that this hotel is trying to be a hip oasis. And, after my stay there, I can assure you that it achieves this goal.
We were able to snag a superior room with a queen size bed for $209 Canadian. This rate included a buffet breakfast that featured cold cereals, breads, eggs, fruit, stuffed french toast, and the obligatory croissants. The breakfast buffet was certainly adequate, but not anywhere near the four star standards of the hotel's restaurant, Laurie Raphael. But hey, it was free (or at least included in the room rate), so we chowed down.
The room itself was wonderful. With a crisp white duvet and fashionable pale blue pillows, the bed was very inviting and comfortable. The room was not very large, but it was well appointed and had a series of sleek, modern closets that provided room for luggage and useful hidden amenities, including an umbrella. There were plush white robes and an ipod dock.
The bathrooms are also worth mentioning. Stocked with Aveda bath products, the bathrooms have a contemporary feel with classy dark wood and earth tone tiles. The most interesting feature is the glass-walled shower that permits occupants to see through into the main living space or lets an occupant see into the shower. While there is a privacy shutter that can be pulled, this shower can definitely provide some romantic entertainment all by itself.
Overall, we were perfectly content while we stayed at this hotel. The staff was friendly, but unobtrusive, and the valet parking ran very smoothly. The hotel is conveniently located right next to Sainte-Catherine, so there are numerous shopping opportunities within walking distance. It is not, and is not trying to be, a child-friendly hotel. But for a romantic getaway, this hotel certainly lived up to my exacting standards.
The other hotel that I would recommend for a romantic weekend is Le Place d'Armes. This is another small, boutique hotel. Located in a beautiful building that was designed by Hopkins and Wily in 1870, the hotel has succeeded at melding its gracious old exterior with its modern, elegant interior. The large rooms have exposed brick walls and exude a loft style vibe. We have stayed several times in a deluxe king room. With its alluring faux fur throw, fireplace, and modern furniture, the whole room creates a seductive setting for a relaxing weekend. The large bathrooms have trendy blue tiles and feature a large glass-walled shower with a comforting, large rain showerhead. The bath products are from the spa that is located in the hotel and have an unusual, aromatherapeutic smell.
When I stay at this hotel, I insist upon finding a reasonable rate that includes the buffet breakfast. The breakfast, which is located in the stylish Suite 701 bar, includes fresh fruit, yogurt, granola, eggs, assorted pastries and croissants, cereals, cheeses, and fresh-squeezed juices. You can also find packages that include a nightly wine reception in Suite 701. While the free wine is barely drinkable, there is a large selection of fresh cheeses and the bar provides a sophisticated backdrop for the beginning of a night out on the town.
The hotel's rooftop deck, which overlooks the city, is yet another reason why Le Place D'Armes is one of my preferred Montreal hotels.
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