In Which I Sell My First Guitar For A Ferry Ride (To Finland)

Previously on my Tale Of Three Guitars: I actually start with no guitar but singing in a church choir and not wanting to play the piano. Then, I become a rebel and buy the ugliest bass you’ll ever see, start a band only to watch it come undone after the first gig. I have more luck with my second band, thanks to which I have my first lick of rockstardom, until high school ends and I have to leave the country. Next is the story

In Which I Sell My First Guitar For A Ferry Ride (To Finland)

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It’s 1997, I’m 19 years old. I leave my parental nest and move 1256 kilometers North, to Poland, to study cinema. (My) luck wants that the city where the Film Academy is located is also where my maternal Grandmother lives. My parents find this marvelously convenient and it’s agreed that, until I figure out whether or not I am fit for this film life, I’d stay with her. Trying to describe my Grandmother’s persona in a sentence or two would be unfair to her great complexity, but because this story is not about her let’s just say that If Gary Oldman as Nosferatu in Coppola’s cult-ass Dracula had a female version of himself, that would be my Grandma. Only, with much less hair and absolute zero sex appeal. She’d torture me by waking me up at unsanitary early hours (6 am on Sunday morning!?) because it pissed her off that someone was asleep in the house when she had already risen. She’d prepare meals for me then sit and stare at me making sarcastic remarks about how ugly I look when I chew. Needless to say, she did not allow any bass-playing in her house and as it was not easy to take my guitar and amp out for a jam, for the first whole year of studies there was nada Rock’N’Roll.

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Jeans’ Blues

Shit just got real in the Blues’ household.

A few days ago, while squatting to fish out from under the couch two rogue nuts trying to escape my TV-Drama binge session, it finally happened. The right leg of my favorite jeans ripped in that notorious spot on the thigh where I don’t have a gap. Where I have a cute meat bun who loves to rub against his twin brother on the other side and so rub rub rub, sooner than later, fabric disintegration will always set in.

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Normally (and by “normally” I mean before pregnancy and 14 months of motherhood), I would just be cross, toss the darn trousers away, wear any other pair from my small but juicy collection and go out for some well-deserved shopping. This time around though, the lesion in the jeans’ tissue proved to be much more than just a hole in a pair of old pants. It initiated a vortex of a butterfly effect with wings big as a cinereous vulture which sucked me into a spiral of discouragement and gloom.

In order for you to grasp the scale of it, I have a confession to make: Continue reading

Parenting Life Lesson #2

*   BABY STEPS ARE GOOD FOR YOU TOO   *

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[If you think the term “baby” doesn’t fit you because you are all grown-up already, you may want to call it “Task Micro-Fragmentation” and if you think it’s easy, you’re probably wrong. Going slow, accomplishing one small increment at a time is very difficult because you will think it’s not enough and you will want to do more, faster, sooner – which will most likely get you stuck before it gets you anywhere else. Continue reading