Adult Songs

I grew up on the best musicals. My mom loves "My Fair Lady" and "The Sound of Music" and wanted to share those stories with my siblings and me, as any sane parent would. I mostly watched "Annie" and "Funny Girl" and a few others on repeat, but still, I fast-forwarded through the "adult" songs. As a child, "adult" songs meant the subdued ones that adults sing to each other. I had no idea what they were about, but I remember thinking, "This is boring." So for example, all the songs in "The Sound of Music" were fun and exciting to me, and then the scene in the gazebo came . . . The one with Captain von Trapp and Maria. Yuck. What were they even singing about? I didn't let the scene play long enough to find out. I just went straight to the part where they were singing with their kids in the festival. Whew! Boring adult material avoided!

A funny thing happened, though, as I grew older. I started to understand and even like those "adult" songs. In fact, they're my favorite songs in those musicals now. My childhood self would be horrified––absolutely horrified––to know that I listen to the adult songs on repeat. But the depth! The depth of those wonderful songs––what I recognize now as love songs––sometimes leaves me in tears.

Here are some of my favorites:

Something Good, The Sound of Music




I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face, My Fair Lady




People, Funny Girl




You Are Woman, I Am Man, Funny Girl




My Man, Funny Girl

Thing I'm thankful for: MommyDaddy

Things I'm Thankful For

This Thanksgiving was one of particular importance. I have so much to be thankful for right now. So, so much. Something you might want to know before reading my list, though, is that I had yet another surgery. Yes––less than two weeks ago. To remove more abnormal tissue––this time on my right kidney.

Things I'm Thankful For

• Not having cancer
• Being able to perform basic bodily funtions
• Urinating on my own
• Having a bowel movement post-surgery
• Nurses who know how to get a catheter in on the first try
• Wonderful doctors!
• Parents who come to visit
• A mom who makes meals when I'm recovering
• Medical glue
• Peeling medical glue off!
• Leggings!
• Friends who send food!
• Friends who make delicious butternut squash soup
• Nieces and nephews who decorate my Christmas tree for me
• Hot chocolate
• Space heaters
• Binding cloths
• Lightly salted Lays potato chips
• An understanding and compassionate manager
• Forgiveness
• Prayer
• Stacks of magazines
• Snow
• Christmas lights
• Pictures on Hangouts
• Fuzzy blankets
• Boots that don't require tying the shoelaces
• A heavy winter coat
• Flowers!

And everything in between.

Trimming Nails

Sometimes women ask silly questions such as "What's the part of your body you like the most?" And I usually answer that it's my hands. I like my hands. My mom used to say that I have piano hands––with long, slender fingers and a wide span. Or she'd say they were artist's hands––delicate and precise and capable of things that require very fine motor skills. Either way, I felt confident about my hands. It's an odd thing to like, really, but when you're a teenager and you are generally insecure about your body, you find the most random thing to like about yourself.

Anyway, I can only remember growing my fingernails out one time. Just one time! I was a senior in high school. Sometime in Spring semester, I grew my nails for as long as I could stand them––I think it was about three or four weeks––and then I painted them. I got so many compliments on my hands and nails (funny what people notice) that I thought, "I've got to do this more often!" But I never did. Because I hate having long nails. I hate it! Sometimes people ask me why, and my answer is that I'm a baker, so it's unsanitary to have long nails. While that's true, it's not the real answer. The real answer is that I think I was conditioned to like short nails.

When I was a little girl, my dad would trim my nails regularly. He'd call my sister and me into his room on Saturday evenings after we'd had our bath and finish the weekly ablutions with a nail trim. That was the final preparation for the Sabbath, I think. I remember he'd sit on the edge of his bed, and I'd stand next to him, putting one hand at a time on his knee. He trimmed just the right amount of nail off––short enough to be practical, but long enough to keep our fingernails from digging into the sensitive skin underneath. Then he'd hand me my little-girl pile of nails and tell me to throw them away and go brush my teeth.

Of all the memories to have, why does that one stand out? And when did I start trimming my own nails? And why did my dad like short fingernails on kids so much? These are all questions I think about maybe every time I trim my nails, which is way more often than once every three or four weeks. I suppose I associate a good nail trim with being clean. With being ready for the week. And somehow, it's a good feeling.

Thing I'm thankful for: crunchy leaves