I had a good day at work.

This was a banner day. Paperwork and errands in the morning and rehearsals all afternoon, with an audition for an episodic in the evening.  Everything just clicked and I don't know why. Each rehearsal was work but it was fun. I walked 9 miles. I didn't eat or drink any garbage. I wrote a new song.  I called my mother. Somewhere in there, I stopped at Grounded for a cup of tea.  And then I came home to this.

And as if all of that weren't enough, my beautiful new hat that I'll wear to the Jazz Age Lawn Party is done, according to my wonderfully brilliant milliner in Phoenix, Arizona. Hopefully, I'll get it in a week.

I'm going to bed with a smile on my face.

Happy Birthday To Me!

what am i going to do today?
as little as possible.

a happy birthday, every day

Once upon a time when i lived deep in the heart of the sovereign state of Texas and sang with an outfit called Ro-Tel and the Hot Tomatoes, we'd do all the balls -- The Zoo Ball, The Governor's Ball, The White Ball, to name a few -- and quite often, private parties for such regional upper crust as the Bass brothers and H. Ross Perot. Oh, the stories I could tell, about the food and the instant just-add-money opulence and the tacky gowns and what the nouveau riche turned into when they got ripped and of course, what was said and done to me, once things really got going. Such swank! Such decadence! Such bad taste!

While playing a country club in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area (boy howdy, we did a lot of parties in that area -- could have been Plano, could have been anywhere), I distinctly recall meeting a lovely society matron (fourth generation oil baroness, to be exact) who turned me on to Chinese herbology, Creme de la Mer, and the joys of fried ice cream inside of one 15 minute conversation. She was what can only be described as a panic and a caution -- the kind of woman that never calls anyone by their actual name and yet everyone genuinely loves her for it. While we chatted, she called me "honeydip" which (for those of you keeping score at home) is a kind of donut. Bizarrely enough, it's what my brother Emmett sometimes called me when we would have our most vicious fights. Nicknames that are food items are actually a very Southern thing to do. A Yankee would never talk like that. At least, not any of the Yankees I've ever met.

So there we were at some art gallery gala dinner soiree function brou-ha-ha, making conversation. And I'm looking around, I'm looking at all the people and I'm taking it all in, you know? I'm thinking things like, when I have money, no one's gonna know it and other stuff too, like when i'm loaded, i'm going to be the healthiest person on the planet. or else why bother if you're just going to keel over from a massive coronary before you really enjoy any of it? yeah. stuff like that. heh.

Suddenly, we were talking to each other. She said my singing was really, really real and then our chat took off from there.

In retrospect, I realize why we had somehow gravitated towards each other. This old lady and I had a lot in common. She didn't smoke. She didn't drink. She excercised, ate sensibly and in her words, "avoided the sun like it was the shadow of Death." Well, heck. So did I. I had to admit -- she was aging well for a blonde. She also saw a doctor and dentist regularly. And she loooooooooooooooved Jesus. (Check, check and check.) She had more money than she'd ever spend so she decided to give it away, judiciously and carefully and intelligently. Philanthropy! What a concept. I liked that, too.

Aside from the other things she told me about, she mentioned something that she did every year that piqued my interest: she celebrated her birthday not just for that particular day but the entire month that she was born. I loved the idea of that -- lavishing goodies on myself, secretly reveling in my own private funtime, whether it was my birthday or not. It seemed to epitomize my idea of luxury: having the expansiveness to be good to yourself spontaneously, for example. Even if that meant something as simple as taking a walk through the park and enjoying the flora and fauna instead of hopping on the crowded subway like everybody else.

Pretty soon, I found myself enjoying my birthday for the entire month of June. I bought myself that book I'd wanted for so long. I took a day trip to the beach by myself. I skipped that slice of pizza for dinner and had wild salmon instead. And then the next thing I knew, a month stretched itself into a year. And every day became my birthday. I woke up, happy and grateful to be alive and actually excited about staying in bed and playing guitar all day or getting out of bed and going to work all day or whatever. I would do little things for myself all the time and when I did, I would think, well -- it is my birthday. and that would be that.

Well. My Texas time was once upon a time ago. I still don't drink alcohol or smoke anything. I still drink my daily shot of wheatgrass and pour sunblock lotion (with an spf of 30, no less!) all over myself, even on cloudy days. I still go to church every Sunday. Even when I was broke and at my absolute lowest, I was still happy as a lark because my skin was radiant, I was making cool art and I was a size 4. But having a birthday every day has given me a much needed way to spoil myself a little, in the most ordinary moments of my nyc life. Because those ordinary moments, that's life. that's what we live through. Really, when you stop to think about it, that's when we should be happiest. And usually, that's when we're not.

Happiness is a choice, after all. Hm. Maybe all this time I was just choosing to be happy...

happy valentine's day? me?

unbelievable but true: i actually had a happy valentine's day.

last year, my friend gave me two beautiful exotic ancient rings that he'd found at my one of my favorite shops on the upper east side, a place that actually specializes in beads, middle eastern furnishings and ethographic art. we went inside this shop on a whim after a saturday afternoon date to the planetarium, and he remembered how much i loved it. problem was, he couldn't remember the shop's location. so a few weeks before valentine's day, he spent the better part of a day trudging all over the upper west side looking for it. when he finally found the place, he couldn't remember which ring i preferred, so he got them both.

needless to say, those rings mean a lot to me.

this year, he gave me another ring, from south africa. it's simple and heavy, with a tiny bird pirched on it's rim. i surprised him by having a bouquet of tulips delivered to his office. i don't know if he's ever had a serious office job before. (he's been working in bars forever.) this is a comfortable situation in a picture-perfect part of brooklyn and it's small. (how small? when he opens his lunch, everyone knows what he's having. that small.) he said that when the ups guy showed up with this box, it automatically went into his bosses' office because everyone assumed it was for him. when the box came out and was placed on his desk, everyone looked at him as if to say, what could you possibly be doing as a boyfriend that a woman would send flowers to you? (if they have to ask, they'll never figure that one out. ha.)

after work, he met me at aaron davis hall for their "love, rhythm & soul: a valentine's day concert for lovers" (featuring the one and only miki howard) with a special room called "the pamper zone" sponsored by dazzlin' diva that had cocktails, food, spa treats, a dj, you name it. it was wonderful: catering by harlem restaurant called creole (the tilapia was divine), beauty products by warm spirit that blew me away -- a scented candle made of soy with a cotton wick that, when melted, could be applied to the skin like lotion. (amazing.) and there was a stripper with a collapsible pole. when they stopped everything so she could do her dance, i turned to my friend and said, "you will never get away from burlesque." too bad attendance wasn't what it could have been because it was drop-dead freezing outside but everyone loved it.

and can i tell you that it felt so good to be able to say goodnight and walk a few blocks to get home instead of having to take an hour-long train ride like i usually do when i'm hanging out downtown?

what happened to me?

Where did the time go?

Five minutes ago, it was spring. I couldn’t believe that I actually grew narcissus in the dead of winter and I was seriously considering adding another blooming flower to my indoor makeshift apartment garden when suddenly I found myself in the midst of summer stock and then recording with rope-a-dope and then work. A flurry of gigs transgressed, the way they always do. I woke up in late autumn with a desk job, a (boy)friend and no gym membership. Now, that's a blactress trifecta if there ever was one. *sigh* Trust me on this (because I know): When you want to keep your edge creatively, those three things are the axis of evil. Here's the kicker: In my spare time (when I had any), I was sitting around, practicing my guitar or my piano. practicing! My backside was turning to lard – which for me means a size 8 instead of a size 4. A crisis ensued, mainly because I don’t believe in buying bigger clothes when I pile on the poundage. Oh, no. I believe in strapping myself to a treadmill and getting back into what I've got in my closet. I’m too cheap to do anything but keep myself lean, stitch my clothes up and keep it moving.

I had nothing to wear in The Mild Winter Of My Contentment but my vintage Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses. It gave me an excellent excuse to be a dazzling urbanite at any given moment. Random occasions were bound to occur. Case in point: James Brown’s wake (which I’m still processing and yes, you’ll hear about it in a minute). That’s right about when Christmas Eve found me motoring to Pennsylvania to visit with my friend’s family, New Year’s Eve found my friend and I in Koreatown and New Year’s Day was awash in collards and black eyed peas downtown with my friend’s friend, a Texan who believes in seasoning such things with as much pork as possible. (Dee-lish.) I brought a freshly baked pound cake with me (it’s actually a very good southern blackgrrl calling card), hung out for the company, stayed longer than I thought I would to watch the Edie Sedgwick biopic “Factory Girl” (what a dud) starring that insipid Sienna Miller (ditto).

I sauntered back uptown at a reasonable hour, feeling like a responsible adult. All the way there I tried to figure out what happened to my year and why it ran out on me the way that it did. Somewhere in there, I stopped trying and went to bed. But the question remains. And sometimes it nags at me. What happened to my year? What’s happening to my life? Is everything speeding up, or what?

Maybe that’s why I’m blogging – so I can keep up with all of it, somehow.

i can feel myself staggering into the work week but i have no intentions of falling down, unless i mean to hit the ground running. and i will, in time. time off will give me a second wind. i'm going to pray for rain -- the kind that means fertility and not destruction, the kind that nurtures and grows things and not the kind that kills. the compelling kind. it's a new year, a new beginning, a new plan of action. according to parliament, this is a chance to dance my way out of my constrictions. i do believe i'll take it.

lead or follow. keep up or get left behind. sink or swim. root hog or die.

joy, joy

this is what greeted us as we made our way down riverside drive from the george washington bridge -- the sun setting over new jersey. sometimes it's truly breathtaking, how beautiful it can be up here.



as we zipped through the adirondacks in our spiffy rental van with wayne asleep in the backseat, i laughed and bounced around in the front seat with matt ray at the helm as we told stories and sang along to everything sirius radio's 70's channel could throw at us, marvelling at how we knew absolutely all of the lyrics to every single solitary song. as a matter of fact, the cheesier the song, the more on point we were. uncanny. it was cold and wet and gray outside but the fall foliage was like a house on fire. we glided through constant explosions of reds and yellows, with hills and mountains that shifted all around us, overwhelming our good time with moments of genuine awe and personal reflection that gave way to silence. why is it so easy to find God in nature? as the chorus to barry manilow's "i write the songs" modulated and soared, i realized that i was happy but what i felt was bigger than the glee that knows me when i'm having fun. there was something else there. it was joy.

happiness is a feeling. it comes and it goes. it's something you can choose. joy is spiritual. it is a gift from God. joy chooses you. it resonates inside some other hidden part of you, whether you happen to be in a good mood or not. when everything in my day goes straight to hell, it's joy that tips everything in me in the other direction, giving me an equilibrium that is virtually unbreakable. not the harshness of the city, not my dire circumstances, not even my worst enemies can hinder me. i am astonished at this shift, how subtle it can be and how over time, i've grown to rest in it and trust it. everything really is going to be alright.

if i had a favorite song, it would have to be "joy, joy" by the edwin hawkins singers. everyone everywhere should hear that song at least once after they've called themselves grown and the world whips them around for awhile. everyone should own the cd "oh, happy day." it's instant uplift.