Category: My Husband Rocks

Plastic Bags Make Great Music

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Stomp

“This had better be good. All I can say is this had better be good.” That was me, grumbling to kisa about our free show after spending nearly three hours trying to be talked into buying a time share. We had already gotten tickets for one Vegas show and I was thinking that was enough. Silly me.
Anytime anyone takes a stick and bangs on something I sit up and listen. I should have known this would be good. I’m fascinated by rhythm, no matter how it’s made. Add a dozen or more people all banging on things and I’m in percussion heaven. Such was Stomp. Of course I wasn’t allowed to take pictures but I did manage to take a picture of the theater before the performance (above isn’t it).
The thing that amazed me the most about the show was the idea that anything can create music. Anything can be played. Newspapers, boxes, brooms, garbage cans, even plastic bags. My eyes and ears couldn’t keep up with all the music being made. My favorite part was a water segment. Guys banging on cups as they poured water out of them in front of a huge fish tank. The changes in sound as the water left the cups were fascinating.
So, yeah. I may have been grumbling in the beginning but in the end kisa rocked my world. See below for the “set” pic of Stomp.

Stomp Set

Free Show for the Insane

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First Look at VegasI think my husband is part evil. No, scratch that. I think he’s a glutton for punishment. We had been up since 4am, been on a plane for over five hours, hadn’t even checked into our room yet and suddenly he’s agreeing to some two hour “presentation” on time shares. The woman that roped us in was a fast moving, smooth talking woman from New York with bleached blond hair, bright circus makeup and a huge toothy smile. She had lipstick on her teeth and a gleam in her eye as she first circled then approached us. Her first words were, “How would you like to see a free show while you are here?” How could we resist? I barely had time to pee before we were whisked off to answer a bunch a questions, confirm those answers and get shuttled somewhere else. I had been in Vegas for not even two hours.
Sitting down with a rep is a lot like playing cat and mouse. They’ll ask you silly questions and you give silly answers. You circle around the cold, hard facts (like price & interest rate) all the while thinking you could just be the cat in this game. The longer you play hard to get, the harder they try. Reps consult managers, managers come out to sweet talk you. Suddenly, you are in the driver’s seat and they’re saying things like, “we normally don’t make this kind of offer…this has never been done before…my boss is going to kill me, but…” On and on it goes until finally someone gives in, gives up. By the time the interest rate was finally muttered we knew we had won. Over 15% was a ridiculous rate no matter how many free trips to Hawaii they would throw in. With NoThankYou firmly planted in our mouths and a resolution to walk away in our hearts we got our free tickets and got the hell out of there. Welcome to Vegas.

 

Pass the Party Perfect

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My aunt is Mother of the Bride for the first time. As I talked to her I could hear her nerves rattling along the wire. Nerves were bordering on wired nervous. A little over two weeks to go before her little girl becomes Mrs. Someone Else. She wants everything to be perfect. I tell her it’s not going to be. I’m not being mean, just meaningful. My mother wrote a list of everything that went “wrong” at my sister’s wedding. Live and learn I thought. When my day came two years later I tried to remedy all previously made “mistakes.” While I didn’t make my sister’s faux pas, I created my own. It was inevitable. My dress didn’t fit properly. The food line was too long. Father-in-law had the first dance…with his son-in-law. Someone stole a golf cart and a groomsman ended up sleeping the night off in a ditch. Yup. Classy. But the real question is did we have a blast? Yup.

No one has the perfect party. There will always be something wrong with something or somebody. Even if you don’t notice, someone else will. Kisa and I wanted to use stolen champagne flutes for our end-of-night toast. We opted for my great-grandmother’s glasses. Unbeknown to either of us one glass disappeared forever. That has become my deepest regret even though I didn’t know it at the time. So, pass the party perfect. It aint gonna happen. What it will be is a great time!

Remember Me Day

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Last year at this time I watched my uncle march in the Bangor Memorial Day parade. Normally a shy man, normally a reserved man, a keep to himself man, my uncle waved to the crowd and smiled and received wishes of ‘welcome home’ with dignity. This was his moment to be proud.

This year kisa and I watched the same parade in a different town. Men marching proudly. Men smiling and receiving wishes of ‘welcome home’ with dignity. Vets handed out poppies of plastic. Kids scrambled for shattered sweets on the sidewalk. Puffed up men drove shiny old cars with pride. Betsy Ross wannabe women threw wilting red carnations to the crowds. No clowns (unless you count an odd fellow with a pipe on a bicycle), no unnecessary fanfare of floats. Only one marching band from kisa’s high school. Flags of stars and stripes waving. It’s the kind of thing that always chokes me up. After rereading stories like Red Badge of Courage and Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee I know that war will always exist somewhere. Hate lives day to day and forgiveness comes around every Memorial Day.

Sunglasses at Night

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fish beach

This is not the blog that was scheduled to leave my mind today. Like a security escorted entourage this one took precedence and took over. I want to stop a moment and thank someone for seeing me so clearly from so many miles away. She wrote a blog that punctured through everything I have been feeling. It’s as if she had been a ghost in my kitchen, hovering over the conversations kisa & I had, but hearing my heart instead.
I am not afraid of change. I am the girl who took charge without knowing the challenge. I’m the girl who said yes to upheaval just to have something different. Hell, I even hacked off 9″ of hair this weekend. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, to imagine my life as something someone else can predict means I’m not living up to my potential.
Here’s what scares me. I’m in the crossroads of what next? Should I stay or should I go? Right now, I am unfocused, drifting, shoreless. No direction home. I don’t like planning for something without a game plan. I don’t like the potential for powerless. Here’s an idea: Imagine not knowing which people (if any) will be in your life a year from now. Does it make a difference to you? The same could be said for my sanity.

Maybe it’s the fact I am dressed in black today, ready to mourn the loss of someone’s mother. Maybe it’s the fact I’m in uncharactistically high heels and do not look anything like myself (and it’s not just the haircut). Maybe it’s the weather (what a cold and rainy day) and apathy has set in.

So, I thank my friend for getting it, getting me, and getting to the point. I may be standing on the platform in Indecision City, but I know someone out there has my direction home.

Homeward Not

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The Sign

I have lost my way home. In every sense of the word it is gone. Let’s start with the obvious. No trek to Maine. No boat ride. No getting back to good. Not this time. I will mourn a Memorial Day not on Monhegan. A junkie without her fix, no cure for the homesick. I don’t know what to make of this.

My current address is slipping away. My days there are numbered and all of a sudden I have this urge to be a homebody in this home. Soon, what I call mine will be someone else’s rent. I spent the weekend cleaning closets and scrubbing floors. Like visiting a dying friend I wanted time with my kitchen. For a mid~morning brunch I made a Maine inspired stratta. Homemade bread from the weekend before, spicy vegetarian sausage, crisp green broccoli, sweet Vidalias, creamy eggs+Tabasco+milk, a sprinkling of sharp cheddar cheese. Baked until golden and puffy. More hot sauce for me. For dinner I explored Mexico with a pan-sauteed mix of shredded golden potatoes, spicy Mexican sausage, shiitakes, cilantro and Vidalias. Served with homemade roasted tomatillo and garlic salsa. From scratch flour tortillas. I’m learning to control steam, if there is such a trick. And just to get ahead on the weekday dinners, roasted (skin-on) chicken, smoked with oak chips and cloves of garlic. I’m imagining that will be added to a white bean chili (served with the leftover salsa, of course) and maybe a twisted chicken salad…something smoky and sultry. Trying to reclaim something that isn’t mine. Is not.

The Other Home doesn’t exist yet we sat in front of a loan officer just the same. We spoke the language of calculations. Questions in the form of dollars were answered with quotes. Bank statements and pay stubs. Numbers spilled from our lips easily, as if we memorized our speeches and imagined our lasting impressions.

At the same time we gathered up the dollars to downpay our vacation. Home away from Home. To look forward to the date is to wish summer away, and yet – yet I cannot wait. We’ll start in the cottage of our honeymoon and end in Big Brother just across the way. I’m already tasting lobster and luna.

Such an odd place to be. I’m laying down the disappointment of missing homehome while prepaying on a later visit; I’m turning away from our here and now while it’s still our address and planning payments on an unknown one. We haven’t gone anywhere but I have lost my way home.  

Dreaming Drums

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Every so often a good drum solo will save me, keep me from going insane. Last month it was some guy with a bunch of buckets at a Celtics game. This guy was Drum-amazing! A few weeks ago it was some high school kid with a cute smile at my run. Damn if I can’t remember the band’s name, but I made A take a stealth pic from behind a tree…! Last week it was my kisa kicking it with Rock Band on some song from Wolf Mother or Mother Wolf (errrr, I think). He rocked it proper. I almost made him do it twice. Last night it was the thought of seeing Mickey (Melt My) Hart at the Calvin. We got 6th row! Love, love, love the Vulcan. Everyday I hear my drums in songs like Please Let Me Be and I Don’t Trust Myself or in a Max Roach youtube video. Everyday I hear something else I want to run to. Since I don’t have an all-access pass to my favorite drummers (although BubbleGum promises it will be as if I was really there- as if!), I’ll definitely take what I can get. My husband is the ultimate drummer boy IfYouKnowWhatIMean, but when it comes to drums, you know what I need. I need the guy with the profoundly professional sticks every once in awhile. Set my soul straight. The medicine for what ails me – coming up – maybe Andrew Barr accompanied by an orchestra??? A girl can wish… 8)

The Slip

Lock & Key or Not Your Puppet

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Lost

There is only so much you can do to protect your heart. I think of you and wonder how far you are willing to go. How much blame you are willing to balance? Take as your own, distribute to others. How fair will you be if you don’t have the facts?
A few weeks ago someone heard me wrong. Well, heard one side of a conversation and filled in the blanks with slightly off-kilter information. What’s worse is that the misconception went uncorrected for all that time because it wasn’t questioned. I would have hated to be in that head space with all that wrongness swirling around. It’s just not right.
Here’s why I say all this. I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me what is wrong when it’s wrong and not three weeks later. I am really good at identifying my heart when I’m faced with feeling it at that moment. Not three weeks later when me, my heart, and moi have moved on. Or forgotten (which is worse).
But, it’s not all you. I’m walking away from some relationships and nudging closer to others. It’s something that I’ve been meaning to do for some time now. Certain people deserve more while others have overstayed their welcome. I am not a dullard strung on a wire, waiting for someone to play me. I am no Happy Puppet, waiting for your command. Occasionally, I need to change the locks and get a new key. Let’s just say it’s long overdue.
So, back to you. I’m glad Jessica Simpson isn’t joining us for dinner. Sorry I set a place for her. Thank you for speaking up and not lashing out. My only request is do it sooner, while the conversation is still breathing and has life. No one wants to rehash DOA unless they really have to.

Boy Bomb

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I’ve got this guy close to my heart. I think he reads me but then again, I’m not really sure. Maybe not. He’s a road warrior. Hardcore. If he does read me, that’s cool because I want to thank him for being so freakin’ cool. Okay. That was cryptic. I DO mean “read me” on a couple of levels. One maybe more than another.
Yeah. I can hear some of you now. Yes, I’m a married woman. So be it. But, I have this friend. I’ll call him Joe. We’ve had 22 years of something. Friends, lovers, roommates, coworkers, enemies, siblings, classmates, partners, pen pals. I’ve read to him. He’s drawn me. Been there. Done that. I think we have been just about everything to each other at one time or another. I guess I could say we have ultimately ended up where we started. Full circle friends. Only this time he’s not hiding more than several cans of beer in a multi-pocketed jean jacket and I’m not climbing out back windows at 3am. Friends of another era. Kisa’s cool with that. I’m cool with that. It’s not that complicated. It’s cool because I’ve grown to hate complicated.

I go through stages where I miss the snot out of Joe. Then, he’ll call. As if he knows. He gets me laughing. Gets me crying. I want to tell him everything crazy, but his phone crackles and we lose connection. He’ll call back but only to say see ya. Next time. Later, baby. On the road again. And again. My favorite question is not Can you hear me now, but Where are you now? He just laughs. My brilliant boy bomb.

Here’s what I meant to say to him: Boompa: thanks for Arizona. If I could get the darn pic off my phone I’d post it here. I’ll think dream about Zion. I’ve always trusted your travel sense. Congrats on the camp. It’s where you belong. You’re good at everything Weld and you know it. I’ve got issues but we’ll talk about those another time….when you’re within calling range. You know you owe me, myself & moi lunch. 

Oh, and one more thing, don’t pick on the girls too much. We bite. Really.

Most Ridiculous

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wtfI’m calling the Darfur run “most ridiculous” for several reason. Where do I begin? First no sleep the night before. Tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, listened to drunks outside the window at 2am, worried about cracking my head on the nightstand, missed kisa…

The next morning checking in was odd. Confused by the box of cookies for sure….

But, here’s where it gets really ridiculous. Initially I was scared to run. I won’t lie. I wasn’t feeling up to it. A friend hadn’t shown, I kept thinking about the last time I tried to run anywhere (and failed), and I was dead tired. Suddenly, everything didn’t seem important enough. I didn’t feel important at all.
Then, the race began. Uphill. Within a few minutes I lost focus on the race and lost myself in a cemetery of souls. I will say this a million times to anyone who will listen. This was the most beautiful race of my life. From just a few minutes into it, I forgot I was running. The course was beyond spiritual. Beyond gorgeous. Beyond meaning. If I wasn’t staring at graves or flowers or water I was gazing up at some of the oldest trees I have ever seen. We went up crazy, slippery, gravel hills but I didn’t see them. We went down crazy pounding hills but I didn’t feel them. Instead, I craned my neck to read tombstones, did the math on who died when. How old? At times I would turn around and run sideways, even backwards to look one last time at someones angel in stone. From Amalia on I was lost in names. My husband’s secret track was all drums and I started to cry. Darfur’s genocide, the friend that didn’t show, these graves, and the trees that seem to live forever. The impact of everything finally overtook me.
Towards the end of the race a man yelled to me, “sprint it, baby!” and suddenly I was brought back to the race. Back to reality. Sprint it? What do you mean, ‘sprint it’? Where am I? How much more of the course is there? I honestly had no idea how far I had come or what was left. Suddenly I recognized the pavilion where we checked in, the gazebo right before the finish line, the flags for the end. I remembered I was in a race and the urge to really run kicked it (it meaning me…in the azz  🙂 ). I sprinted the last 30 seconds.

27:49. I’m irritated with myself. This is my best time ever, but I didn’t even try. I can tell. No red face. No coughing uncontrollably. No cramps. As far as running goes I didn’t give anything. I was too busy gawking at people’s final resting places. I was too busy communicating with trees. I was too busy remembering the dead. Darfur’s dead.
To Darfur, I gave everything.

Everything is Wrong

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moo cow

I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to misplace focus, to break a promise. I got on the tread last night, intending to do a quiet 35 minute tune-up session. Everything was wrong. Wrong from the very start. Everything. First of all, you and your Saturday night phone call. I know in my heart of hearts you are right. Three and a half hours of heart to heart and yes, you are right. I know what I need to do, thanks to you. But. But, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. Yeah, yeah, yeah – Harry met Sally and the moral of the story is they couldn’t be friends. I hear ya. I still don’t like it. Last night I went beyond ThatSpace and deleted the phone number. Removing temptation. Cutting things off before they can cut me. I can’t bleed anymore. You are right.
Anyway. So, I thought of you and your words before I ran and they didn’t make me angry. I didn’t find the fire. Instead, they made me sad. I can’t run blue. So, the mood was wrong, the music was wrong, everything was wrong. For the first time ever I skipped Paint It Black and Have Fun Go Mad. I couldn’t find a rhythm I liked. Thanks to a friend I found Fleetwood and tried that. After 25 minutes I admitted defeat and decided nothing would help. I stopped cold. I couldn’t even rock the Aerosmith shirt I bought while shopping with RT. I couldn’t rock anything beyond 2.26 miles.

I’ve never stopped a run before. Not like that – not stopped cold. I’ve had plenty of other I Don’t Feel Like It moments. But, in every other instance of tired I struck a deal with myself and moi – run slower but don’t quit. Lower the incline to nothing, but don’t quit. Don’t you dare quit.

When I got off the tread and paced in front of my husband he was quick to offer kindness. Not your night. You just cooked a huge meal. You are tired. Work is tressing you out. I heard excuse after excuse and headed for the fridge. Chocolate Moo Cow for this quitter. 
Maybe another glass of whine…from a box.

Forgive Me

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Days End

I have been hiding behind book reviews and poetry for days on end. Two poems for every one book. Reading like a fiend seems to suit me. Sorry.
I’ve started to tell you about the weirdest things ~ Kisa murdering the ladybugs in the bathroom, the end of N&ZY, my heartbreak over a breakup, the amazing work I’ve done with MSR, the crap I’ve been handed at AIC, how homesick I am, how little I’ve run, the need to hear my music again (go where we haven’t I don’t dare), Natalie, Germany, Sin City, Taka Tak, being stood up, being letdown, sex in my city, Comic Book Tattoo, Darfur, Boston Celtics, wine, angry black man, gun to my heart, arthritis and friends too far away.

I’ve started to tell you about all these things. Yet, I can’t. Instead I tell you about what I’ve read and read and read.
Forgive me.

Kermit is My CoPilot

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After the run with KermitSometimes I think I appreciate my friends more than I tell them. I love them more I let on. That I know. Today I went shopping with such a friend. She’s the one who loads my arms up with the “try this on” stuff because, as she puts it, “it just might work.” She’s right about most everything. I never did tell her that the fur coat pinched my pits, but she’s right – it was funky. I could have spent all afternoon trying on the suggestions of a friend. I didn’t have one fat moment.
I tell you this because she convinced me I needed Kermit. Kermit, Aerosmith and a sexy dress with sunset colors. But, the bigger news is later that day I ran with Kermit. 5.34 miles in an hour. Yup. One freaking hour. I ran to random and found myself laughing at the more ridiculous moments of the week. One hour is a long time to think about sh!t on a treadmill, especially when you settle in and run at the same pace. With Kermit’s help I came to several conclusions. The best being this: My friend is right. No one, I repeat, no one tells me how to conduct my marriage. No one tells me what is or isn’t appropriate. I’ll let my husband be the judge of what he would or wouldn’t appreciate. I was stupid to be upset. I was stupid to care what someone else thought. Especially that kind of someone.

So, to my friend. Thank you for kicking my mental butt.

14 days until Darfur.

Run Not Done

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I could kiss my kisa for being so so so there. I was driving us home and without warning I blurted out how hurt my heart was. Broken, I said. He was patient, logical…comforting…as best as he could be. He offered advice I couldn’t take. “Call” he said simply. No. NoWayNoHow I countered. I can’t. I want to disappear. Really truly. Remove myself as if I never happened. Ever. I’m doing that slowly, carefully, despite Kisa’s “don’t do that.” I can’t help it. Can’t. Help. Despite being angry I am caught. Confused. Embarrassed.
So, I ran. For the first time this week. I know, I know. It’s Thursday. When you have two jobs and a need to catch up it’s hard to catch the run. It becomes less important. Sadly. So, tonight while dinner was cooking, I got on the tread…as an abbreviated 20 minute run – intervals. 12 minute mile (slow end) 6 minute mile (faster side). I found myself sobbing during the pounding parts. Everything hurt. Rob Thomas tells me there’s no getting back to good. Great. My “cool down” was 10 minute mile and it felt ridiculously slow despite not being able to breathe. This run is simply not done.

Dear You: I heard your music and could only think of swamps and being stuck. Damn him and his mind change! Hang in there.

17 days until Darfur.

Mr. Dillon

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Getting The Shot

I don’t remember the commercial. It may be just in my head because I can’t even remember the product. All I remember is someone (in a really annoying voice) telling Mr Dillon to “loosen up” because he was on a cruise. I have that voice in my head, right now. Telling me to loosen up. Laugh a little. Let Go a little. Live a little more. But, this picture is the epitome of exciting for me.

Last night kisa was glued to the computer, a funny little smirk on his face as he enthusiastically typed away. “Listen to this,” he throws back over his shoulder to me, “we could take a five hour white water rafting trip followed by lunch in the canyon…only $350 per person.” “Oh.” His face fell. “A seven hour bus trip back…” No thanks. “Ooh!” He was at it again. His face all lit up. “Here’s one: a helicopter ride, followed by four-wheeling safari jeep ride, hike for lunch in the canyon.. (I guess lunch in the canyon is mandatory). Lemme guess. Next, we bungy down to a wild boar farm where we rope an emu for the ride home. Why doesn’t any of these adventure thingies sound exciting to me? Maybe it’s because I picture clumsy moi coming home in a body bag? Maybe it’s because I fear my husband will learn just how afraid of man-made heights I really am? “Uh-huh.” I grunted back, head buried in a book. I only looked like I was reading. Instead, I was trying not to picture a helicopter careening off canyon walls, an open jeep doing somersaults down a ravine. Our bodies looking like rag dolls being flung about. I’ve seen pictures of the Grand Canyon. It’s a long way down. Our screams will last forever and echo for eternity.
So, this is where I need to suck it up. I’m only scared because I’m silly with imagination. If I’ve never done something before I can’t think straight and I think the worst. But. But, But~! If I think about it long enough maybe flying in a bubble sounds like fun. Right? Riiight. I may not be Mr. Dillon and I may not be going on a cruise, but I do need to loosen up!