SOPD: There's No Calling THIS Meeting to Order

 

On this counter, about one-third of the spread.

Last night was our traveling Sisters of Perpetual Disorder quasi-monthly “business meeting” and dinner. These amazing women-only events, which move from home to home each month, feature a smorgasbord of potluck food, spirits, occasional singing, and lively discussion. The SOPD began a few years ago with a dinner attended by fewer than a dozen women, all 50-ish or older. They have since blossomed into gatherings of up to 30 women or more, including younger newcomers, occasional visiting drop-ins, and multigenerational female kin. Last night’s dinner included 19 women. Seriously…60 Minutes should do a story.

The SOPD dinners are life-giving events for us all. For example, one time, a dinner-goer fell and cracked her noggin. Imagine 20+ women scurrying about to manage her care (check out http://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/2010/09/inas-clever-trick-mobilizing-village.html for the whole story). On another occasion, we showered our support on a dinner-goer whose daughter had been diagnosed with breast cancer. And I got a huge, healing “shot in the arm” from my SOPD sisters at my first dinner back after my stroke—it was a blast of love and good will that I was absolutely counting on, and it’s why I went to the dinner, even though I was still having trouble walking, talking, thinking, and staying awake.

The dinners are sometimes themed, sometimes not. Last night’s was loosely 1950’s Madmen-ish. Ray and I have been hooked on The Americans lately, so I took Cold War Double-Agent Borsch to the SOPD dinner. Making borsch is the sort of long, several-day ordeal one would only want to undertake once a year or so. Fortunately, I always cook enough food for a small village, and borsch freezes well (borsch pictured is served in pottery bowl by local artistic genius, Mike Hill - http://www.rehfeldsonline.com/?page_id=255).

5-Day Cold War Double-Agent Borsch

Last night's banquet also included roast beef, baked salmon, casseroles, salads, and one entire table of desserts. Lulu, our mixologist, mastered two-fisted “Everything but the Kitchen Sink” chocolate martinis, and there was also wine, beer, pop, Ovaltine, and Tang. We ate, drank, told stories, laughed, interrupted each other as women do, and caught up with friends. We divvied up leftovers for home. The night’s only “disaster” was a spilled water cleanup that resulted in spilled wine, and me knocking a wine glass out of our hostess’ hands in one of my post-stroke off-kilter missteps.

She plays 'em like maracas.

The meeting was eventually adjourned on account of sleet-turning-to-snow, which meant a hairy drive home for those of us who live beyond the borders of Little Town. But the text & phone tree went into immediate action and made sure everyone eventually checked in, safely at home.

THANK YOU, sisters, for another beautiful, hilarious, cathartic evening. The robins are returning, the peacocks are parading, Ray is grateful for the dessert sampler I brought home for him, and you've all buoyed me up once again, as spring slowly crawls toward the prairie. So until our next meeting, may Saint Martha, patroness of hostesses and dinners, watch over and bless you all.

This is a man's world...fa la la la la...

It’s just like the Godfather of Soul said: “This is a maaaaaaan’s world.” The world of live music is a good example. Even if they won’t admit it to you or me, any truly honest male musician will admit to himself, eventually, that women who play in bands are still just the “chicks” in the band.

I’m stereotyping, of course. And stereotyping even more, it seems to me that women don’t need an excuse to get together. Men do. They need to DO something if they want to hang out with each other. My take on the live music scene is that for many male musicians, music fills the “getting together with the boys” space that for other men is filled with pro sports, cars, construction/destruction, or power tools. The axe (gee-tar) replaces the axe (hunter-gatherer), so to speak.

I played music with various groups in bars, at weddings, dances, etc. for 20+ years. Musicians love playing music for different reasons. Some love to perform. Some need the acceptance of the crowd. Some want to cultivate a “bad boy [girl]” rep. Some want to cling to youth. Some need the companionship of the band.

For me, it may be all of those things, but it’s also, ironically, the only way I know of (except sleep) to get away from my Self for a while. There’s something about the vibration of singing that makes everything else go away. When I let go and really feel the song, it makes me hum—down to the bone—at an unexplainable, elemental level. Relax. Breathe deeper. Feel something not related to the intellect, the obligations, the reasoning—something pure. I hate to sound all new-agey and ookie-spookie, but nothing else can open my chakras like singing can.

And just so you know, there are women musicians out there doing amazing things, women who never generate the buzz that surrounds male musicians. So I’m doing my itty bitty part, foisting my partial list of essential womensong on the world. Any album by any of these women is great, but here are a few faves:

Joan Armatrading (Hearts & Flowers; What’s Inside)
Jane Siberry (Bound by the Beauty; When I Was a Boy)
Rickie Lee Jones (Flying Cowboys; The Magazine; Pirates; Naked Songs)
Bonnie Raitt (anything)
Joni Mitchell (the oldest stuff is the “baby” Joni, sweet & soprano, all good, but I like the gutsiness of the older, alto Joni--Blue; Court & Spark; Miles of Aisles)
k.d. lang (Hymns of the 49th Parallel; Shadowland; Drag)
Regina Spektor (Begin to Hope--bonus CD version)
Pretenders (anything, especially the oldest stuff)
Kate Bush (The Whole Story)
Aretha (anything)
Maria Muldaur (Maria Muldaur; Waitress in a Donut Shop)
Bette Midler (Songs for the New Depression)
Phoebe Snow (Phoebe Snow; Against the Grain; Never Letting Go)

Edie Brickell (Shooting Rubberbands at the Stars--with The Bohemians; Picture Perfect Morning)