more.than.just.a.pretty.face

"I'm trying to find myself as a person, sometime's that's not easy to do. Millions of people live their entire lives without finding themselves. But it is something I must do" - Marilyn Monroe

Some people may look at the life and legacy of Marilyn Monroe, one of my favorite women in history, and think 'sex icon', or that she was too controversial to be a role-model, or she was responsible for the doom of the perfect American political family. To myself, she is someone who shaped history. She allowed us to be 'wild at heart'. She was a 'black sheep' in a white dress; and she was good at making trouble.

Marilyn Monroe was more than a pin-up, flirt, and blonde bombshell. She lived her life in search of finding herself. Born with the name Norma Jeane Mortenson, she was baptized with the name Norma Jeane Baker, and when America fell in love with her as an actress, her name was Marilyn Monore. To girls like me who still admire her legacy, decades after her 1962 death, she is simply 'Marilyn'.

She was American. She was divine. Her pin-ups were all over Army, Marine, and Air Force bases during the second World War. She was beautiful; round; real.

As a model, people couldn't get enough of her. People wanted more, and this hunger for more of this scandalous and sexy star propelled her acting career. She taught us 'How to Marry a Millionaire' and that 'Some Like it Hot'. Her popularity is one that is hard to match. Her glamour is timeless.

Most people know that my favorite cultural decade in American history is the bohemian, hippie culture. The free-spirited, wandering, experimental, and ruthless women who changed women across the nation from 'idealist' to to 'realist'. Where did this fear-less attitude come from? Sure, marijuana-filled joints and the infamous Acid Kool-Aid Tests. But, not all bohemians, feminist, and realist were part of the drug induced crowd. Some were mothers, some were Preacher's daughters, and some were sister's, girlfriends, and wives of a man in Army green. My respect for Marilyn Monroe is born amidst the recognition that she changed the face of the ideal American woman. Marilyn taught us that a woman in the 1950's didn't have to adorn aprons and 'ooh and ahh' over microwaves, Chevrolets, and 'Honey, I'm home' type husbands. She showed the nation and the world that a 1950's woman could bare her skin and that people could 'ooh and ahh' over her beauty or gasp at their own jealousy of such a trend-setter. She curled her hair, painted her lips, took risks in her fashion, and although she gave birth to the 'dumb blonde' persona, she was a genius in the mind of girls who were born to stand out. She set an example for all the women who wanted to be different, always looking for that 'Marilyn' attitude in order to not blend with the crowd.

But do most people know the story of such a timeless icon? She was more than just a pretty face, like most glamorous people are. She was a foster child; her mother being too mentally unstable to care for her. She was passed around from one family friend to the next, never really knowing who she was or given a chance to foresee what might she be like when she grew up. At age 16, she was to marry a man in order to avoid another foster family or orphanage.

The nation wept at the thought of Michael Jackson being robbed of a childhood. "That's what made him so damn weird," some would say. Just like we've witnessed with the recent loss of pop music's "King", Marilyn's post-humous reputation would be loved and admired or hated and wanted to be forgotten. However, you can't just forget a woman like Marilyn. She wasn't the Audrey Hepburn or Jackie O type. She was the mistress, not the wife. She was the pin-up, not the Sunday School teacher. Simply, Marilyn, was who she was.

Norma Jeane was a wife before some of us could master the skill of driving our first car. Yet she used her past to create her future, in which she wasn't weird or creepy, she was beautifully artistic and deviously loved.

She taught us that 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes' and lived like a real-life Barbie. Her rendition of 'Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend' was associated with her. She married, separated, and divorced Joe DiMaggio then showed us all 'How To Be Very, Very Popular'.

Marilyn Monroe was what Elton John refers to as 'A Candle In The Wind' and the only other rendition to this song was an exchange in the lyrics appropriate for the death and funeral of Princess Diana. Marilyn was royalty in lingerie. She was a life in the spotlight. She herself changed the tune of the widely known 'Happy Birthday' song that every three-year old to 90 year-old knows by heart. We know when to sing it in normal tune, and how to sing it when a tool for seduction. She could make the President blush; she could make a white halter-top dress a must-have for four decades of young women; and she made wind blowing your hair and skirt up sexy rather than embarrassing.

She is more than just a sex icon, let me remind you. Sure, she could make a grown man's jaw drop or be responsible for a twelve-year old's first experience of puberty. But she is an Oscar and Golden Globe winner. She is a comparison for the other blondes who follow. And, she is inspiration for the women like me in search of themselves.

She is Los Angeles. Born in LA, died in LA. She set the mold for the California-girl. Her life can be told in the historic theatres that are still used in the West coast's favorite city.

Her ashes are laid to rest in The Corridor of Memories in Westwood Village Memorial Park Cemetary and the corridor to her left is owned by Hugh Hefner, where he will be laid to rest when the life of another sex icon, genius, and scandalous figure comes to an end. Talk about appropriate.

A woman who shaped history, defined beauty, and lives on nearly fifty years after her 'death by conspiracy'. She reminds me each time I read one of her flirtacious and ruthless quotes or see one of her iconic images that it's okay to not know who you are. If you were one of those girls who never settles for anything less than exciting or can't put a "type" to your look, personality, or attitude, then you're not a failure. She was a success. She made housewives envious. She was the lady in red, not the girl next door. She constantly changed her mind or made a frenzy wherever she went.

She was Norma Jeane to the traditional girl, but Marilyn Monroe - glitz and glam, sugar and spice - to the innovative girl that believes in finding yourself but having fun while you do it.

As I venture out into the wide-unknown each day, I take a little bit of the women who shaped history for me. The ones I know, the ones I only know of reading about. I know I haven't 'found myself' but I'll be damned if I'm one of the millions who never do. So, in my opinion, learning a few lessons from the words a girl like Marilyn left behind, I do believe I'll find myself one day - and I'll give credit to the people who helped.

"I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful."

"I don't mind living in a man's world, as long as I can be a woman in it."

"If I'd observed all the rules, I'd never gotten anywhere."

"I am trying to prove to myself that I am a person."

"It's better to be happy alone than unhappy with someone."

"It's better for the whole world to know you, even as a sex star, than to never be known at all."

"If you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."

Red Lipstick

Just the other day, my mother made a comment to me about her feelings of disappointment upon looking at my “List of Things I Love” that is posted on my personal blog-site. Two words were missing, “Red Lipstick”. I made a mental note to myself to add it to the list the next time I wrote a blog and then went about my normal day in my beloved college town.

It wasn’t even two hours later that a former sorority sister made the comment that something about me was different. In my head I thought, she must notice my recent weight loss or my new highlights in my hair. The dear, bubbly Tri-Delta sister shocked me with the eerily similar comment I had just talked with Mother about earlier.

“You haven’t been wearing your red lipstick! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without some shade of red lipstick on! That’s like your thing!” she said.

For twenty-two years I’ve heard that I was ‘my mother’s clone’. No matter if I was in a bikini in Myrtle Beach, a prom dress in my small, Florida home-town, or at a college cocktail party in Alabama, pictures proved this to be true – I looked a lot like that woman.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that this similar ‘look’ that my mother and I shared might have something to do with our full and painted lips. Not all of it had to do with our love for shades of crimson, red, and coral to outline our smiles. We both have that bold, ‘maybe she’s born with it’, brown-eyed girl, type of attitude that goes hand in hand with the devil-red pout.

This new kind of ‘Southern Girl’ that my mother and I depict is that of Scarlett O’hara, and even when red lips weren’t on the covers of Cosmopolitan, Vogue, and Glamour magazine we wore it and frankly, my dear, we didn’t give a damn.

My blog is titled “The Other Sister” for no other reason than the undeniable fact that I am my sister’s opposite. However, like all girls who were raised south of the Mason-Dixon Line, we shared memories far more intimate than of you and your best friend. From barefoot children catching fire-flies in the Carolinas, to holding one another’s hand in The First Baptist Church’s baptismal pool, and fighting like the devil to be the strong one so the other could have a couple of minutes to cry when we waited for Daddy’s test results at the cancer center in Houston, we taught each other about life, love, and friendship in the way only sisters can do.

Just keep in mind she doesn’t own a single tube of red lipstick. We’re close; but still opposite.

Starting in my early toddler years, my mother had to hide her lipsticks from me because I would take it upon myself to exhibit my sneakiness and get into a mess of fire-engine red and deep crimson smears all over my hand-smocked dresses and then-innocent little face. I couldn’t wait until I was allowed to wear lipstick, seriously, to sport my inner-attitude rather than as a play prop for playing dress-up or when I was on stage for a dance recital. Once adolescence hit and my mother gave me the ‘go’ for permission to make myself up on my own – it was game over: Operation Red Lipstick was on.

My sister, as everyone speculated from the start and now knows for a fact, is my opposite. So, the majority of our petty arguments during those teenage years were about me ‘bossing her around’ to put some color on those bare lips or ‘her not trusting me’ that I knew what I was talking about.

Countless times I can remember rushing out the door and into the car to church when Mom, in the backseat, yells “Darling, let me have some of that lipstick you have on!” Like a routine, my sister and I would dig in my duffel-size purse (just like my mothers, of course) to each pull out a handful of lipsticks of all shapes, sizes, and colors. We’d knowingly hand her the ‘red-est’ shade, she’d slap some on and then demand that my sister do the same. (I had already spent most the morning perfecting my Sunday appropriate shade of red to match whatever sundress I was wearing). My sister’s refusal to do so was like a broken record. This was a regular for us; a petty conversation between mother and daughters that happened over and over again – a Sunday morning ritual almost as routine as singing ‘Amazing Grace’ and long naps after lunch.

Maybe a little bit about the person we really are can be described in the color we prefer on our lips. My sister, content with a tube of chap-stick or a neutral colored gloss, is just that. If her lips are chapped, well, she’d put chaptick on. If there’s a big enough reason for anything else, a little gloss will do. She is beautifully plain-Jane. She’s a hint of bronzer, a touch of mascara, and one of those naturally pretty girls. She’s subtle, patient, compassionate, quiet, and no need for any added bedazzling. If she were a dress then she would be comfortable, linen, flowing in a summer breeze, and looking best when paired with husband and barefoot kids on a Carolina shore. If she were a drink, she’d be hand-squeezed lemonade or sweet tea from a Mason jar in the summer or a comforting cup of hot-chocolate in the winter. If she were anything other than hospitable, easy-going, and laid-back, then she wouldn’t be my sister.

I, on the other hand, complete my pouty-lipped look with lip liner, lipstick (crème, matte, glossy, always red) and a lip-plumper on top to keep them guessing if I’ve had them painfully stuck with a needle or if twenty-two years of playing with every lipstick from the drugstore to Bloomingdales has made me quite the expert. I’m the bronzing, rouge-wearing, curl my lashes before my two types of mascara go on, colored eye-liner type. There’s the day-time me, and the night-time me. Every picture I’m in I look strangely different – always portraying the mood I’m in at the time. If I were a dress, it’d be red or black, satin, horribly uncomfortable, but too stubborn to admit it. I’d have to be altered, taken in, seams realigned – always picky, never perfect, and hardly content. If I were a drink I’d be a martini with the flavor depending on my attitude or mood. As my sister would be the Charleston type, I’d be the New Orleans, Dallas, or Atlanta type. Somewhere hot-tempered and spicy, with enough to do to avoid the slightest feeling of boredom. If I were anything other than complicated, hard to please, and constantly changing my mind, I wouldn’t be me.

I guess just like the red lipstick I carry with me, is the bold, brutally honest, ‘hey there, look at me!’ attitude I’ve carried with me my whole life.

Some days I wake up and am jealous of the girl who doesn’t need it. Then, with the blot of a handkerchief before walking out the door in my red lipstick, I remember just how fun it is to make a mess with make-up. I smile giving a silent ‘Thank Ya!’ to the bold, Southern woman that raised me; and with a tube of lipstick prove that growing up doesn’t change everything…

Some things you are just born with!

A Dog - A Girl's Best Friend

"Puppies are nature's remedy for feeling lonely and unloved; plus numerous other ailments of life." -Richard Allan Palm

I admit I have always been super jealous of the girls on campus that walked their Chocolate Lab or Golden Retriever. The girls that seemed so much happier than I was despite our shared social status or our shared interest in our field of study. I was hell-bent and determined that it was because they had a dog. Even the fru-fru dogs with little girly bows in their hair had to of made some bit of difference in their emotional self-worth. I was convinced that if I had a dog I would never need a guy to take me to dinner on a lonely Tuesday night or to buy me a beer at the bar on Friday night while an ex-boyfriend looked on, giving me an ego-boost of making the loser jealous of me and Mr. Beer Buyer.

I was jealous of my sister to the most extreme measure when I bought her a boxer puppy in May 2007 as her gift for her Samford University graduation. Maybelle - whom I call "Sissy" made me - whom she calls "Aunt Sissy", just as happy as she did my sister. I would drive the 52-miles to my sister's house to hang out with my two favorite people, (yes, people) Ashley and Maybelle. Add in 85 more lbs. of an unconditional lovin', slobbery, clumsy mess of a dog named Beau and it had to result in part of my sister's happiness. Yeah, yeah, and her long-term relationship sealed complete with May 2008 nuptials. But, that's not my point. My point was, I was trying to convince the parentals that I needed a dog.

Oh, I wanted so badly to be that girl on campus. The one that walked her large-breed dog to the quad, took it to happy-hour pretending like she wasn't using it to get some fraternity boy's attention but no one cared because it was working so you couldn't blame her, and the one who had more than a pillow to snuggle up to every night while watching Lifetime movies. I needed to be her; not just wanted.

My close, hard to describe, relationship with Maybelle planted the seed for executing my plan to get this Boxer puppy that I so badly needed and wanted. I had even convinced myself that I would be happy with a mixed-breed (the politically correct word usage for "mutt") or a small dog (I was lying to myself about that, however). My father, the head of a household full of women, doesn't look like the "softy" type. Boy - he has you fooled. When it comes to Boxer puppies and Daddy's little girls, you can't get much softer than "Big Butch".

I don't know if it was the gas expenses that had been charged to the American Express by running back and forth to Trussville to visit Ashley, Tyler, 'BoBo Head' and Maybelle, or if it was my expression of guilt I initially felt as the reality of not being a four-year graduate set in. Maybe it was a little bit of both, combined with my sister's concern that a dog would be good for me and her experience of how miserable it is to grow up with dogs then being so far away at school without one and how she couldn't imagine being at a big school like Alabama without a dog to come home too. She knew the misery without even knowing how badly I wanted to be in the 'dog-walker's club' on the quad.

Finally, my prayers were answered and Daddy called to say an early birthday/Christmas/graduation gift would be a Boxer puppy and to start researching breeders in the area. Four days later, four cities, and four-hundred miles of state-wide treking with my sister riding shot-gun, I had all four lbs. of Mildred Jean Jones all to myself.

I became "Mommy" to Millie on June 18, 2009. It's astonishing what all you can learn from a dog and what all you can learn about yourself when you have something constant in your life that loves you unconditionally, when you can't be with Mom and Daddy or with your security blanket of home-town friends. I felt a little guilty that Maybelle would be mad at me or Lola and Jackson, back at home, wouldn't understand and think that I had replaced them, but my fawn and black fire-ball couldn't be denied as the reason I came to terms with my self, watched my face in the mirror have more emotion than it had in four-years, and show me that I don't need a boyfriend, a degree and career, or a perfect GPA, right now in my life. All I needed was a never-ending supply of Boxer kisses and a membership into the "little girl with a large-breed dog" club.

As a Child Development and Early Childhood Education major, I am aware that some children, usually those with developmental disorders, don't learn 'potty-training' until five, six, even seven years old. I have worked in research labs at the university alongside mother's who have thirteen-year old children with disabilities that still change diapers, pull-ups, and bed sheets because of the child's inability to grasp the mind-body mastery of toileting. So, keeping that in mind, I went into my first "Mommy" experience with an open-mind and a respect for the mothers who do this day in and day out without a complaint, ever-loving their child who is nothing short of perfect to them. My patience is often times tested to the max, and I know it's by the hand of the good Lord above, and this time was no difference. My mother laughed at the thought of "payback" for all the hell I put her through, every time I called to vent about Millie's excitement at the expense of making Mommy look like an idiot to the neighbors. But, I was pleased with my newfound level of patience that Millie Jean has taught me so far. Because no matter how many piles of poop I may pick up, or how many puddles of urine I have to scrub, I know that I'd rather do it 3x as much than to go another day without the smile that she puts on my face. I'd rather do it 4x as much than to have never gained the respect and admiration for the mothers, care-givers, and special needs educators that do the same thing without complaining so to better the life and experiences of a child with a disability.

The presence of 'precious angel face' (one of her many nicknames) in my life has also opened doors for other learning experiences. It's a lot easier to stay at home, sit down, study, and stay focused when a smudgy-faced bundle of joy is layed up on your leg, falling asleep to the sound of the keys on your laptop, and knowing that reading Theoretical Abnormal Psychology is much more fun at that moment than being out on the town, pretending everything is okay, and trying to hide that jealous eye that keeps finding its way back to staring at the annoyingly happy girl with the dog leash in her hand and wishing you could be her.

Now, I am her. Millie and I walk at least three times a week - usually more - on a long, 2 mile route around campus. We walk by Rounders and pop in to say hello to our friends and the the 'happy hour' crowd. We walk by the Phi Gamma Delta house and don't stop to make small talk just for the slightest hope that Ruby, an ex-boyfriend's Golden Retriever that Mommy practically raised and developed a deep bond with, might run up to say hello because there's no need for that anymore. We walk by Bryant-Denny Stadium and sometimes up to the giant, iron sculptures of National Championship coaches from Alabama while Mommy crosses her fingers that Millie doesn't mark her spot on Gene Stallings or Paul W. Bryant. We walk to the quad. underneath the Oak trees and beside the Dogwood trees. We walk down sorority row and Mommy is happier than she ever has been and it's almost like Millie understands the feelings of relief, happiness, and gratefulness that comes from the relationship the two of us share. We walk by Calvary Baptist Church, where we stop at the main intersection and people gawk at just how beautiful the two of us are (haha!). We go by Rama Jama's and if Millie's been really good and Mommy is hungry, we share a chili dog and watch the other dog-walkers walk by and we smile at how jealous the other dogs are and guess whether it's the chili dog or our looks that make them drool (okay, I'll stop!). And, sometimes we go to the park or we go play with some of our friends like Millie (she's the best friend, same age, same name) and Monroe (she's a Tar Heel fan, too!) and Kabbie's Cocka-Poos named Zoey and Josephine (even though Millie scares them a little bit because she doesn't understand why their so small and don't want to box back at her).

We still charge the ole' AmEx and go to Trussville to see Aunt Pash and Uncle Tyball and cousins Maybelle and BoBo Head. We get us a good dinner, play some, then head back to T-Town where the young kids live when the old married couple gets sick of us.

Luckily, as different as Ashley and I are, our love for Boxers is the same, and dogs in general, and she is always helpful with Millie if I go out of town. With my sister and I's life becoming more and more different because she is settled, married, and a hard-working career woman and I am single, wild at heart, and still enjoying my 'collegehood', having the role as "Mommy" to beautiful Boxer babies gives us something in common and a reason to put seeing each other into our busy schedules. Not to mention seeing my sister root for me to get a puppy, her supplying us with toys, a crate, puppy food, treats, and Southern hospitality, and proving that she'll be the best Aunt in the world to my children like she's been the best sister in the world to me, I can give Millie's cute little butt some of the credit for bringing Ashley and I even closer together.

However; don't let me fool you that Millie is all sugar and spice and everything nice. She's a wild, bratty, bed hog who won't share the covers. She needs attention 100% of the times or she will try to chew up your BlackBerry, pee on your laptop cord, or neatly place her digested "lunch" on your pile of textbooks - whatever it is that is occupying your attention. She waits until the sheets have been washed that morning to pee on them for the first time in two weeks. She never runs off when going outside to do her business, unless the 'hottie from Nashville neighbor' is outside or it's a terential downpour of rain. She waits until the first time she goes outside since she was bathed before she runs to jump in the wet, red clay from the construction next door. She rips to shreds Mommy's exam notes two days before the test. She rips open her food bag and crawls inside of it instead of notifying Mommy in some normal, dog way that she's hungry and needs food. She forces you to drag her, while flailing and making you believe she'll break her own rib just to teach you a lesson, if you walk her on anything other than an extenda-leash. She digs - sand, dirt, clay, carpet, tile, hardwoods, mud, concrete, bedspread, chair, pile of dirty clothes, anything.

But of all those things mentioned above, I wouldn't trade Millie for the world. I could never imagine life without her ever again, nor could I imagine what it must be like to have never experienced the horror and love of having a puppy. I can't imagine how miraculous it must be like to carry an infant for 9-months, growing inside of you, and being 'Mommy' to a precious child which you've made, if having a puppy for three months has been so forever life-changing. I don't know nor can comprehend the unconditional love that my mother must have for me, despite driving her nearly bat-shit crazy probably for 22-years, if I love this 20 lb. sassy-pants of a dog like I do. I can't wait to feels the way it must feel when you pick your child up from preschool and they run to you with open-arms, a wide grin, yelling 'Mommy! Mommy!' considering the feeling is so, so good when I come home from an hour long lecture to open the crate to a 4 month old Boxer puppy as she wiggles her tail and entire body in excitement for my return.

I guess it does deem true that a dog is a man's best friend. Millie may not be able to talk back to me, but she does everything else. We walk together, she listens to me, we nap together when we're exhausted, we eat meals together, she hangs out with my crowd of friends, we think the same boys are cute and give the same bitchy look to the boys we don't like, we root for the Tar Heels and Crimson Tide and never argue about sports, we play ball at the park, she helps me with my homework, she likes my music, clothes, and movies, and she always knows when to cuddle extra close when I'm having a bad day. We go on road trips and love the mountains and the beach. She's the best at being my friend and she's the perfect little guardian angel that fills my life with unconditional love - a perfect gift from Mom and Daddy - the ones who taught me what unconditional love is.

I hope everyone's life is blessed - each day - in one way or another - the way my little, precious Mildred Jean Jones blesses mine!

Peace&Love

-bjj 'the other sister'

Mixed Music Genre

"I gotta go on doing it the way I see it. I got no choice but to take it like I see it. I'm here to have a party while I'm on this earth... I'm gettin' it now, today. I don't even know where I'm going to be twenty years from now, so I'm just gonna keep on rockin'. 'Cause if I start saving up bits and pieces of me... man, there ain't going to be nothing left for Janis." - Janis Joplin

Many people want to know why and how I have such an odd mix of music interests. One day I am driving down the road blaring Alabama's Dixieland Delight, the next I'm screaming Janis Joplin and loving the fact that we both have deep, scratchy voices, and the next I've turned up the bass and listening to what I call "radio rap." Then, throw in my obsession with Miley Cyrus, my favorite twang of Reba, and the sound of my favorite decade in The Beatles. I can see why one would be confused. I reckon' I am, too. Some people's life is in their music. Some people's music is in their life. I agree with this because at any moment of any day, I can relate a song to what I'm feeling, what I'm going through, and what I expect to happen next.

Some say that music, the lyrics within the songs we sing, define who we are. Some say that romance is impossible if two lovers have entirely opposing musical interests. And I say that there is a little bit of truth to both of those statements.

I remember my first CD I ever bought was Alanis Morrisette's 'Jagged Little Pill' when I was in the fifth grade. I can still see the astonished look on my mother's face when she heard some of the lyrics, profanity, and underlying meanings to some of the songs. I still listen to that same CD to this day, and only now that I have discovered a small dose of the truths and lies in this uncertain world do I really understand music for what it is, and that's where my appreciation and passion for my seemingly uncategorized music taste comes from. I believe that Alanis' edge on the 'Nineties Feminist Movement' is what really caught my attention to music outside the realm of honky tonks, love songs, and Carolina shag music. She, like Janis, Carly Simon, Joni Mitchell, Tori Amos, and Sheryl Crowe, sing in order to lift the heavy weight off of their body, minds, and emotions. I listen, interpret, and relate to their words for the very same reason.

Not to say that I don't love my boot scootin' country music, a good song that celebrates love and friendship, and the sounds of preppy, salty beach music. I could never imagine a life without those sounds - those are the sounds of growing up, family, home, and comfort. There is always a playlist on hand for whenever I need that comfort of my Daddy when I get homesick while 10 hours away from him. It only takes a couple listenings of Alan Jackson's 'Chasing That Neon Rainbow' that I can feel the presence of my father or see my sister and I, some twenty years ago, dancing to our first stereo in a small, cozy North Carolina living room with Mom's video camera in-hand to capture these moments. As if they haven't lived on in vivid memory ever since. When I need to feel my mother's strength during times of my own weakness, I know that Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn can remind me of the unconditional love that comes from my mother's strength. And when I need a song or two to lighten the load, give me a little comfort, or remind me of two decades worth of Jones family vacations, road trips, and general good times together, I can listen to The Temptations, KC and The Sunshine Band, The Drifters, and the other sounds of shag beach music. Even when my heart is broken and I'm tired of singing Janis' "A Woman Left Lonely" and "Take Another Little Piece of My Heart" I can seek relief in knowing that whatever tramp I was left for can't honestly sing one of the best songs to ever be born on the coast of Myrtle Beach because "California girls are sexy, and New York girls are too, but Carolina girls got good looks, and sweet personalities too, Carolina girls.... best in the world!"

But, after experiencing my own life-changing, definining moments in my 22-year old journey - some I'm proud of and some I'm ashamed of - I can relate them to songs and lyrics of other musical talents of today and of yesterday.

My generation, the young twenty-something girls, are inspired by the voices, trends, and attitudes of the bohemian, hippie culture. The 'southern girl' these days isn't required to adorn pearls, pastels, and lace like some GRITS (Girls Raised In the South) did before us. The southern girls I know are bold, brutally honest, and have traded in lace for suede, pearls for vintage silver or rusty golds, and skip the preppy look for a look that uniquely and individually clashes cultures. It's oddly not odd to find a pair of Daisy Duke cut-offs, Grease Lightening leather, Marsha Brady sleek or Farrah Fawcett feather type hair, cowboy boots with Easter Sunday dresses, and flowered halos and bohemian patio dresses, 1950's housewife pearl necklaces with Louisville debutante-like riding boots. In other words, my closet looks like Woodstock, mixed with a small-town Baptist church, mixed with Nashville, TN and San Francisco, California and South Beach, Miami, mixed with The Boston Marathon The 1999 Women's World Cup and a Cross-Country trail run through red Alabama clay. And I suppose that's who I am, in person and in my music, I'm bohemian, Baptist, Southern, and athletic. My music, in my opinion, depicts the same girl. So, that's where the Janis Joplin, Beatles, and Joni Mitchell mixes with 'The Old Rugged Cross', 'Standing On The Promises of God', and 'Blessed Assurance'. It's what mixes Kenny Chesney, The Zac Brown Band, Shooter Jennings, and Hank Williams, Jr. with the upbeat new-age 'jock-jam' sounds of The Black Eyed Peas, Beyonce, Flo-Rida, Kanye West, and Lil Wayne.

Then there is the music that defines you because it is what defines your friends. And, well, you're judged by the company you keep, aren't you? In Southern College Town, U.S.A. it is not hard to find the "jam-banders", also known as the Generation X "hipsters". The Widespread Panic "Spreadheads" and The Phish "Phollowers." A lot of people have wondered where my interest in these modern day 'Grateful Dead' bands come from. All these wonderers have to do is ask, because it came from the summer days I've spent in Tuscaloosa, Alabama and the zest and desire for a new type of music that makes you feel free, accepted, and understood. It's not because of any cocaine-high or pill-popping experience that many people deem the only reason behind this type of music can be. That's not the way I found a relationship between these funky, psychadelic sounds and I. I found a relationship because of the truths and beliefs that I have gained through my own personal struggles, growing up in my teenage and young adult years with a war being fought overseas, and a desire for rights and a passion for making a difference (and mine just happen to be for Americans with disabilities, not Americans with draft cards or the need to flee from coast-to-coast on a painted school bus).

The 'jam-band' era of today is unique to my generation, my crowd, and my diversified outlook on the art of music. My generation desires to mimic the women of Woodstock, the brains, beauty, and fun of Cal-Berkely girls and Greenwich Village youngsters. The musical era of my age is like the grandchild of Jerry Garcia, the beloved Grateful Dead leader. It's the combination of Southern rock, Liverpool's Beatles, the conflicting and controversial issues and icons like James Taylor and Michael Jackson, Carly Simon and Britney Spears, Carole King and Courtney Love, and instrumental, not just lyrical, talent that can sing bluegrass, soul, with one's own unique pop twist. Whether at Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Colorado or The Haight/Ashbury corner of The Mission District in San Francisco, the new-age hipster movement will be there. Whether in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Asheville, NC or Athens, GA on a football gameday, you'll find them. Austin, Texas and New Orleans, LA. Destin, FL and Baltimore, MD. My appreciation for this type of music comes from the wide acceptance that spans out across all of the nation's geography.

The bands and musicians that define my generation of milenial hipsters other than Widespread Panic and Phish, are The Dave Matthews Band, Umphrey's McGee, Pretty Lights, Drive By Truckers, Ben Harper, The Mars Volta, Citizen Cope, Goverment Mule, Kings of Leon, Radiohead, Robert Earl Keen, Les Claypool, The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, The Disco Biscuits, The Avett Brothers, and Keller Williams; to name a few. The veterans that still move the twenty-something year olds like Tom Petty, Elton John, Phil Collins, Billy Joel, James Taylor, and The Allman Brothers are definitive of my musical culture as well.

Even my beloved country music and bluegrass roots have changed some of their sounds to interest the "musical mutts" like me. Jimmy Buffett gives credit to The Dave Matthews Band and Phish and has been quoted numerous times praising the two bands for what they've done to music lovers of the new age and he himself has created songs that differ in extremity from his well-known 'Cheeseburger in Paradise' and 'Margaritaville.' The Zac Brown Band is a mixture of Dave Matthews sounds, Kenny Chesney's laid-back islander feel, and Jimmy Buffett's southern-coastal rock. Nickel Creek combines bluegrass, country, and funk and performs at the infamous Bonnaroo festival in Manchester, Tennessee. Kid Rock can sound like Hank Williams on one track, Phish on the other, and can give his own spin on a Prince or Michael Jackson cover song. And, with the heavy influence of peace, love, and rock 'n roll in the state of Texas the country music that is unique to the Lonestar state is a mixture of all the inspiration from the cities state-wide. Luchenbach, Texas inspires the sounds like Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings sang. Port Arthur was home to Janis Joplin and the place where bluegrass inspired a feminist rock and roll attitude who hopped over to Austin to study before dropping out and heading to Greenwich Village, New York and then to share a loft in The Mission District of San Francisco with The Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix. Austin is the 'Live Music Capital of the World' and Dallas is proud of the Pat Green and Cory Morrow type spin on country music.

So, my genre of music is simply: southern, hippie, and chic. It's shabby, traditional, laid-back, and funky, and sounds best on classic black vinyl with an artistic cover to package and preserve a generation of music that may have died out once but my peers brought it back to the mainstream. So I do find a certain truth to the claim that music defines who you are. It's the easiest form of art to relate to, for those of us who can't seem to make anything of a $50 million sculpture other than "why the hell did someone spend that much money on that crumpled up mess of material?" And the claim that romance will be hard to find, and especially hard to keep when you don't share musical interest also deems true, at least in my life. The boyfriend who only listened to rap - bouncing his head without the slightest clue of what the lyrics portray or mean - well, he and I didn't work out. The boyfriend who liked the ninety's style grundge rock - who spent just as much money on graphic t-shirts, Incubus and Nickelback CD's, and out of this world styles, as his college education was worth at his nearly Ivy-League college - well, he and I ended things as well. And the boyfriend who was born and raised in the Bible belt, that wore faded Levi jeans with holes in them and 'shit kicker' boots, and looked like he wouldn't listen to anything but old Merle Haggard type country yet only listened to rap-icon Lil Wayne - we didn't stand a chance after a couple of long road trips together that consisted of more fights over the radio than songs played. So, if you don't know one another's music then it must be a certainty that you won't be able to find a song to dance to at your wedding, if you surprisingly reach the point of engagement in your doomed relationship. (Especially if your dance is a flower dance and would only be more complete with a daisy in your hair or a line-dance only to over-do the country theme of your attire of denim and cowboy boots if you added the Stetson hat, and his is either an emo-ish, dark, grundgy mosh-pit type jump or a baggy, free-style 'dance-off' type swag. And can you imagine what your children would listen to? Other than the psychadelic funk sounds that interest me, my parents and I share an appreciation and interest in music such as The Eagles, The Rolling Stones, Nashville's country, the sounds of Myrtle Beach, James Taylor, Neil Diamond, and Mo Town's oldies but goodies.

So, as I look back on four complete years in Tuscaloosa and recall the different playlist on my iTunes, I can find direct correlation to who my friends are, who my dates have been and will be, and why there's such a similarity in my life and in my music.

Like I've said in earlier postings... who I am is because of where I've been. So, the part of me that is Asheville is maybe the bluegrass, beach shag, country, and hippie funk parts of me. The Orlando/Oviedo part of me is maybe some of the country, the pop, and the rap. The Tuscaloosa part of me is the Southern rock, flower-child jam, and the new-age country. And my desire to go to Austin, Texas is the part of me that hopes to enjoy live music of all types and see the places where past legends, like my favorite - Janis Joplin, and future legends have gotten their start.

I'll end with a few of the songs I've listened to while I wrote this blog - and like always - you just never can tell exactly what's going on in that complicated mind of mine.... but it's all in the music.

"I can't talk about my singing, I'm inside it. How can you describe something you're inside of?" - Janis Joplin

Peace&Love,

baily j. jones 'the other sister'

Louisa and Clement Jardine are sisters, friends, and rivals. While both are ambitious and exacting - Louisa in her passion for art, Clem as a guardian of wildlife - they are far more different than alike. Louisa strives for the steadiness of marriage and home; Clem, meanwhile, is restless in her work and almost ruthless in love. Yet they are drawn together repeatedly by ordinary accidents of fate and by the fierce, thorny ties shared by siblings alone. In a hypnotic, moving duet that spans twenty-five years in the lives of these two vibrant women, Julia Glass once again explores the intimacies of a very particular family (often funny, sometimes shocking) as well as the nature of sisterhood itself.
- "I See You Everywhere" by Julia Glass

This is my new book that I am reading. I was so drawn to it because of the honesty it brings to the incredible relationship between sisters - whether identical twins or years different in age and galaxies different in their worlds. It is amazing that I base my blog off of my relationship with my sister - ever solemn, ever dramatic, and ever loving. I am so excited about this book and ALREADY recommend it, just by the book jacket.

Remember this, from me to you - Don't judge a book by it's cover; don't just a girl by her looks; and NEVER judge a sisterhood by their interests.
The book had me caught in the first lines.
"I'm not a rebel, a recluse, or a sociopath, and I'm too young to qualify as a crank....."

Peace and Love,
BJJ