It was Thanksgiving, 2010. My parents were visiting for the holiday and everyone was gathering at our house upstate. As per usual, I was busy the day before readying the giant feast a.k.a. the gluttonous American indulgence, and the kids were playing with their Yaya (my mom.)
The vibe was pleasant…happy even. My mom tended to get a bit pissy and resentful around day three. This was our official day one so all was well in manic-land! I had Césaria Évora blasting in the kitchen while I prepped the turkey brine and was tossing back my second glass of wine. The kids were laughing at my mom throwing popcorn at them from across the table so they could catch it in their mouths…the dog swiftly gobbling up what tumbled to the floor. Jason hadn’t returned from the city yet so we were lilting in that beautiful, in-between moment. I loved that moment. Whenever Jason and my mom had to share any kind of space, the tension level doubled as I walked on a bridge of eggshells between his expectations and my mother’s reactions, both equally unreasonable.
Then I got the text that he would be staying late to have drinks in the city after work. Ah! A reprieve from the gov’ner! Let me just pour a third glass if ya don’t mind! He said it was so that he could wait-out the traffic heading upstate. It was a fair enough excuse, one that I happily bought. But you can’t put anything past my mom. She knew. She always knew. And she could never not say the things that maybe she could have or should have kept to herself. As soon as I got his text I told the boys that they would see their dad in the morning. My mom asked why he wasn’t going to be home for dinner and I said, “drinks.” She snapped back, “Well he can have a drink here. You are.” If you sensed a bit of judgement in that comment, there was a boatload. “Well, he’s going out with a coworker ,” I popped back. Without missing a beat she said, “What’s her name?”
Boom.
Well mom, her name is Ananta. She works with Jason at _________(fill-in-the-blank bank). She’s his analyst whom he has mentioned doesn’t know her job very well and almost got fired but he saved her ass which made me question, why? Why would he save her ass if she sucked at her job that jeopardized his portfolio at fill-in-the-blank bank? Ooooooohhhhh…because they’re ____ing each other.
But I didn’t say that. I didn’t have to because, like I said, she always knew. So, I said her name was “Frank”. “Bullshit”, she replied, as she threw the rest of the bowl of popcorn at both the boys’ faces which sent them into a fit of hysterical laughter.
I changed the music from Césaria to Alanis Morissette as I could feel my 1995 inner child rising up and needing some backup. Was it too early to have a fourth glass of wine? Yes…yes it was, because I had just poured my third.
Truly, I didn’t want to get into it with my mom. Anything could be the spark that would ruin the entire weekend so, I tried to gracefully take her mind off of it by asking her to help chop some vegetables. But instead, she came over to me and said, “Don’t waste the pretty.” It sounded so absurd that I laughed in her face. It was something that her mother would say, something from the sticks. And yet, it also had depth to it. She said it again, “Don’t waste the pretty.” This time, it was a little more serious. So, I engaged. “What’s that supposed to mean?”, I asked. “It means just what it says. Don’t waste your best years on someone who isn’t paying attention to you.”
A flood of feelings poured into my heart as she said it. I knew I was wasting it. She knew I was wasting it. She always fucking knew, and it annoyed the shit out of me. She knew that looks = currency, that my exterior still had value in a man’s world and if I wanted to make one last attempt at grabbing another man then I sure as hell better do it now. Tick tock, Lisa. At least, that’s what I read between the fine lines of a mother who had no boundaries. It was one of those moments between us that she probably doesn’t even remember, but I never forgot. And then she was off with the boys to make bubbles on the front porch.
I poured my fourth glass of wine, (yes, I had already downed the third you judge-y Mc Judgersons!) and powered through the brining process of a twenty-five pound turkey. The moment I shoved that bitch into the bag I heard, “You, you, you oughtta know.” Thanks Alanis. Thanks for drilling it straight into my heart. And with that, I chose to ignore Ms. Morissette. And my mother. And myself. It was Thanksgiving after all. I chose to be thankful for what I had, even if what I had didn’t appreciate what he had.
So today, fourteen+ years later, I celebrate the first day of the last year of my 40’s. I am 49. Happy birthday to me. Still swinging for the stars and writing songs about shit that has happened to me or was said to me or brings joy to me and even heartache. Hopefully, it brings joy and reflection to others as well. That is the point of art…at least, my art.
Above is a rough, unmixed snippet of “Don’t Waste ThePretty” from my next album out in July. My favorite lyrics are in the bridge:
Pretty is as pretty does
Pretty is what is, not was
The beginning, the end, and the in-between
In Laughter,
LStL
p.s. I get to share the rest of my “pretty” with my partner in life, Tor Hyams. He appreciates what he has…and he never lets me forget it!
“Don’t Waste The Pretty”