In Which I Toss Out My Principles And Willingly Throw Myself Into Goal Making 

Okay, so my friend, Steph who always has her finger on the pulse of what is interesting, hip and cool sent me a message via Facebook inviting me to participate in an exercise in which one describes ones goals for the year as broadly as possible using only three words. A link to the original blog sporting this idea is here.

I'm not a fan of resolutions. I don't relish setting myself up for failure and self-loathing. I do that enough on my own. Lord knows I don't need a piece of paper mocking me for 365 days, too. That said, I have been so conflicted on so many levels over the past six months, this exercise seems like a simple way to help me get my shit together. 

So here goes...

My words for 2013 are Simplify, Reconnect and Health

Simplify: I (and we, meaning Geo and me) need to desperately rid ourselves of the burden of too much clutter. It has become unmanageable, unhealthy and unyielding. Our inability to toss the excess crap is the source of our biggest conflict these days. We've had some truly epic knock down, drag outs over the copious amounts of crap clogging our physical and mental landscape. I even had a dream recently in which a burglar cleared out the entire contents of our first floor. Everything. The only things left were the empty CD shelves in the living room. And here's the thing, the only losses that upset me were photos and signed CDs, both of which are irreplaceable. Clearly, it's a sign from the universe to purge, purge, PURGE!

Reconnect: with George in particular. (TMI portion of this missive) My loss of libido and other events have created a chasm between us causing him to experience bouts of insecurity and self-doubt regarding our relationship. He has read my general lack of sexual interest (which completely sucks bong water big time, btw) as an indication that I'm bored with him and will eventually leave him. That's insane. He's the most important man in the world to me, yet he doesn't believe me. 

  "what will make you believe me?"

Much like overeating, I think his fears of my flight have fueled his need to acquire more stupid shit to gum up our house in an attempt to fill a void of some sort, bringing us back to word #1. In any case, I want to get our marriage back on track, get back on the same wavelength again and straighten this hormone shit out without estrogen therapy, because I miss my randier self. I'm researching options. 

Health: When I was 49, I was in amazing shape for me. My sudden, inexplicable weight loss and battle with PSIS joint pain left me trim, strong and at peace with my body for the first time in my life. I was happy and confident. Over the past year I've had to curtail my usual activity because of a shoulder injury. Consequently, I lost strength in my upper body, gained weight in all the wrong places and am still feeling a general sense of ennui because of it. My shoulder is better, so I'm ready to get back to an active routine. 

Maybe I'm kidding myself with this whole three-word goal thing. Lord knows I have the attention span of a Kardashian, but I'm willing to give whatever passes for a try on my part. I've gotten off to a decent start on #1 by tackling one small project a week--cleaning out a closet, clearing the pantry, packing up dishes for my niece, Regi's eventual apartment. My goal right now is to continue along this vein. Geo put my erg back together this week so I can start out slowly and test-drive my shoulder motion, so #3 may actually get moving along, too. 

As for #2...Geo is my true north, my light, my reason for being. My life would be nothing without him in it. All I can do is tell him I love him... and help him clean out his crap.  

Cha-Cha-Cha-Cha Changes...
more from the world of middle (age) earth

Okay, so it used to be I would never dare go a day without showering. And I would never EVER be caught dead outside the confines of my shuttered hovel without being fully groomed. Hell, I couldn't even muster an hour in my jammies after waking without feeling so gross and disgusting I had to jump in the piping hot shower to burn off the stank. And my hair... forget it! Flat on one side, unruly on the other. There was no way I could face the day with that hot mess on my head.

But that was when I had hormones.

Or maybe I just gave a shit back then.

Nowadays, I look forward to my Saturday so I can be a complete and utter slug and forgo my date with Mr.Waterpik. And guess what. I leave the house sans wash, too. No qualms about it. No qualms. None.

I know. Gross, right? What the hell's happened to me??!?

The weird thing is these days my hair ACTUALLY LOOKS BETTER WHEN I DON'T SHAMPOO than the day I wash the shitz from its follicles. Sorry about the screaming, but this fact blows my mind so much, I felt the need to yell. My locks are poofier, shinier and more obedient after a night of rest. And by "rest" I mean fitful, spinning-like-a-chinchilla, sweating-from-the-boobs-up sleep. And get this, I got no problem going to work with oiled-up, bed head. Zero issue. Zip.

Again...what the fuck is wrong with me?! Is this the start of my slippery metamorphic slope to becoming the neighborhood overly fragrant, gapped-toothed crone in the tattered bathrobe and filthy fuzzy slippers who roams the streets in search of her sixteen feral cats?!??

JESUS, TAKE THE WHEEL!!

I'm counting on my friends to put the beat down on that crazy lady shit. I'm not even kidding. I'm putting the Sisters Pelini and all my girlfriends on notice. Henceforth, y'all are contractually obligated to let me know when I have a rogue, wiry three-inch-long chin hair, there are hangers quivering out of my nostrils, and now when I need to get my wrinkly, stinky carcass under the shower head. I will totally do you the same solid.

You gotta little something in your tooth...no, the other side...wait, no next tooth...there you go.

Don't Let The Door Kick You In The Ass, MotherF**ker 
or keeping up with tradition

Okay, so all two of you who read this narcissistic piece of poo know every year Geo and I walk up the street for our annual New Year's Eve standing date at our friends' house. At the stroke of midnight, we all gather to flip off the prior year.

So long, 2012, you son of a biscuit eating bi-polar bulldog!

Not that 2012 was a complete rat bastard. It wasn't. There was much to like about the twelfth year of the new millennium. For one, the winter was beautifully non-existent. I mean, I was dining al fresco in both February AND March! Pittsburgh became Raleigh, North Carolina for one glorious season. Stephanie and I went to NYC on January 5th, and we hardly needed a coat, for hell's sake. Gorgeous! Thank you global warming.

I got to travel a lot, reconnecting with old friends and prior imaginary ones. Concerts filled my dance card. My sister, Toni took an amazing early retirement buy out in June, enabling her to spend much needed unlimited time with her ailing husband. Her retirement has been a blessing for me, too. She's helping with the caring of our beloved Big Mar, plus she and I have started a breakfast club, meeting once a week to shoot the shit for hours on end. Our world-trotting niece, Regi is back for good from Japan. WOOT!! AND, my dear road trip buddy, Steph, had an adorable, chubby-cheeked cherub, Melody Jane, who has rocked her world in ways she never imagined. Oh, and the fucking Mayans were apparently as horrible at math as I am, coz the world didn't end on 12/12/12.

Que stupido.

With all that was good about 2012, there was a lot that completely sucked bong water. Besides national heart-wrenching tragedies like the senseless slaughters in Colorado and Connecticut and the devastation left in the path of super-storm Sandy, too many of our friends and family either suddenly lost loved ones or were faced with their own mortality.

Cancer is an indiscriminate asshole.

I'm happy to report they are all bravely battling their cancers and winning.

So, yeah. 2012 was a real yin/yang kind of year. The yin bit kicked righteous ass. The yang...well that beeyatch can kiss my pasty-white ass.

Hey 2013. You're on notice. Take your fucking meds.

Oh, Hey. That's Right. I Have A Blog, Don't I?
or distracting you from my lameness with funny internet shit

Okay, so it seems I've abandoned this bloggity-blog-blah of late. I have been less than inspired to compose a cavalcade of critically disregarded crap for some time. Oh things have happened. Vacations have been taken. Humiliating missteps have occurred. Concerts have been attended, even one uncharted kick-ass, love-fest of a Francis Dunnery house concert/50th birthday bash that left me with a restored faith in humankind and at peace and a little hoarse.

And yet...

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

And Dude, has my writing ability suffered. I can barely piece together a thought or finish a sentence without my ADD taking over with a ---

SQUIRREL!!!

I blame the Mayans.

Oh, and don't get me started on that bullshit. Apocalypse, my ass! (comma placement being crucial right there. to be clear, i am not, nor will i ever be the kind of chick who implores anyone to apocalypse her ass. whatever that is. and no thank you, i don't want to know. ever. step away from the computer, pervy.) Now I have to pay my fucking credit card that just arrived in a box so heavy TWO postmen had to lift it from the truck.

Conclusion: Mayans were as accurate as the yahoos at (In)Accu-weather. They were assholes.

Yaaaaay, Earth.

Aren't you glad I decided to come out of my top-secret, secluded bunker and write today, you lucky bastards? Yeah, you are. I feel the loathe.

Anyhoo...

I haven't been in the best of Christmas spirits. To be honest, I've been kinda meh about everything related to next Tuesday's chaos, which is total bullshit considering we just got back from the Big Apple which was festive as shit and filled with throngs of roaming, drunken Santas,

there were even several gents sporting the short pants
hellooo, santa

but there it is. Like Henri, I've been filled with ennui.

Then I read this... at work... during the live newscast and had to physically stifle my laughter by clapping my hands across my big, fat gob.

The 25 funniest autocorrects from damnyouautocorrect posted on Buzzfeed found here. Hysterical!! I was literally crying. Autocorrect is the poor man's electronic Prozac. Seriously. It will elevate you out of any funk. I need to make this site my home page.

Then of course it's also inappropriate Elf on the Shelf photo season. That creepy elf freaks me the hell out (add another thing to my list of phobias), but HOLY CRAP these pictures are hilarious.

Perhaps the most clever and my favorite
Justin Timberlake would be proud

There are tons of pics on the interwebs if you google "inappropriate elf on the shelf photos". Here's just one link. Go nuts. It's Christmas, after all.

And then there's this gem.

monkey in shearling for the win!

A stylishly cloaked monkey in a diaper busting out of his car cage and running amok in the Toronto IKEA. Why not. Makes perfect sense.

I love you, Interwebs.

That's it for me. Back to the bunker I go. Ciao!

Proper Thanksgiving Etiquette
or Emily Post would totally do a spit take

Okay, so there's this long time YouTuber named Ze Frank who has been creating eclectic videos for upwards of eight years maybe. His odd, humorous and thought-provoking observational videos are the inspiration behind the Vlogbrothers, aka John and Hank Green's highly successful YouTube presence. He also brought us the hilarious True Facts about Hedge Hogs.

Now he's tackled proper etiquette for your Thanksgiving table. Question: which fork does one use to consume a penis legume?


Billy's messed up, yo.

In Which Sometimes One Captures Greatness On Ones iPhone



Okay, so, yeah that happened.

What. You didn't watch? Go back and watch, paying particular attention to roughly 1:30 in. Hilarious!

Stumble, tumble and keep on playing. That's Rock 'n Roll, BABY!! Epic. That's my favorite band, putting every last drop of unbridled energy out there, leaving the stage in an exhausted, sweaty heap after the overwhelming, mad rush of unconditional love from an exhilarated, hoarse, completely sated sold-out DC audience. Is it any wonder why I (and thousands of others) adore these four men so much? That right there, that's the perfect example of why I go back to the Old 97's well time and again. They simply never disappoint.

But I've started with dessert, as it were. I'm a girl after all, and we chicks consume a meal backwards sometimes. Life is short.

Anywho, my latest traveling troubadour adventure started with a 6am Megabus ride to Philly after a late night musical outing with Geo (yes, Geo partook!!) and friends to see The English Beat at the Hard Rock Cafe. Dave Wakelin and company are always a great time. Near constant dancing ensued mainly of the white guy variety. The Beat were the third band on the ticket, so they didn't take the stage until 10. When we checked out close to midnight, they hadn't finished their main setlist yet, but we had heard most of the songs we came for by then, my thighs were burning from bustin' moves and my ears were buzzing like a thousand cicadas on a warm summer night. Ska-tastic!

But I digress...

First of all, Dude, Megabus is made of awesome!! Uber comfortable seats, clean, free WiFi, outlets to recharge, a noticeable lack of fragrant hobos, all for a mere FIVE BUCKS!!

Seriously. Get on that shit! Five bucks! I spend $5  in gas just to drive to the New Stanton exit of the Turnpike. That's it. Pittsburgh to Philly on a fiver...sweet, SWEET deal.

Did I mention the lack of stanky, skanky Greyhound creepers? It's true.

Part one of the week's 97's double shot was a new venue, Union Transfer near Chinatown. It used to be a Spaghetti Warehouse. An Italian food chain in Chinatown...yeah, no wonder that didn't work out. Better for us, because the space provided a terrific setting for a rock show. High ceiling, cavernous general admission pit, balcony, front lobby made for merch and a top-notch sound system. Very impressive.

Similar to the tour in September, this leg of the Too Far To Care anniversary shows began with a short solo set by Rhett. He's an unbelievable showman, giving his all, working up a sweat no matter how long or short his appearance on stage. In Philly, he pulled out California Stars, Need to Know Where I Stand and a very spirited Johnny Cash cover The Wreck of the Old 97 (for obvious reasons). In DC, he took a more sentimental route with Picture This and Sometimes after we were treated to an unplanned a capella verse of the narrative rich Holy Cross. A critical string had broken on his acoustic, but instead of pausing to collect another guitar and starting over, he kept singing. His smooth voice bouncing off the walls, washing over the silent crowd transfixed by every unaccompanied note. Spontaneous applause erupted when he finally started strumming his secondary guitar. It was a beautiful moment.

Between the solo and band sets, was The Travoltas. Helmed by Old 97's producer and Texas native, Salim Nourallah, this five-piece band in their matching tan polyester suits delivered light, poppy, Beatlesque tunes that kept the audience with them throughout their set. A pretty big feat for any opener. Buoyant in spirit and playful with each other, Salim roamed around the stage caressing the bald keyboardist's head, tossing scarfs at the guitarists and leading the crowd in a clap along. I'm not exaggerating when I say they are THE BEST opener I've every seen for the 97's. So fun and engaging, they easily won over both cities. Usually one suffers through the first act, patiently (or not) waiting for the headliner, but I (and other multiply-show fans) was giddy to see them again.

Pictures Collected

They are adorable and deserving of all the accolades they've received! And so so so very nice!

As I've said too many times to count, one of the greatest joys of being a Rhett Miller/Old 97's fan is the circle of friends made based on a mutual devotion to these guys. There are always familiar faces in the front row. Even though I was traveling solo, this trip was spent Murry side in Philly with Tracey from NJ and a group of her friends, some of them new to our obsession. I always have fun seeing a show with Tracey, singing and dancing with cocktail in hand.

After a rousing performance of Too Far to Care, which in itself is a perfect setlist, they played a nice assortment including Oppenheimer (a rarity), Question including the French verse usually reserved for Rhett's solo shows, and the every catchy Every Night Is Friday Night (Without You). F.U.N!

"This is the story of Victoria Lee..."

DC was girls night out with Steph, Melissa, Sheila and Cindy (from Pittsburgh). It was Steph's first outing since having her beautiful, chubby-cheeked cherub. What better way to spend your first night away than with your screaming girlfriends in front of your favorite band. Amiright? We met up at an Irish pub sporting an urban music soundtrack run by African Americans. Only in America. Ha! Whatev. The food was tasty and the drinks were heavy pours. By the time everyone got there, Steph and I were already buzzed. We were all in good cheer when we headed across the street to the 9:30 Club.

Won't Be Home No More -"you're getting smaller in my rearview mirror..."

Steph and I had the good fortune to be invited backstage to say hello before the show. At one point, Ken, Rhett and Steph all whipped out their iPhones to share photos of their kids. Rockers as Fathers. So sweet to watch them brag on their adorable progeny. In that moment, they ceased to be legendary Rock Gods adored by the masses, and were just proud poppas.

Jagged

I feel like I'm merely repeating myself from post to post (I desperately need a new superlatives Thesaurus), but when they hit the stage with the explosion of Time Bomb (pun intended) the atmosphere was electric. They were charged up and having as much fun as we were, maybe even a wee bit more. There was extra umph in Rhett's windmills, head thrusts and hip shakes, Murry was thumping his bass and playing with fans on his side, Philip (trapped behind his kit) was boldly pounding out his signature beats, and Ken...Ken was so animated, roaming around, leaning into the front row, sticking his tongue out like Gene Simmons, tossing a week's supply of picks into the audience. Yeah, they were definitely having a good time on stage. They were all in, whether rocking our faces off or turning it down a little in the quieter offerings. And then as if the crowd wasn't already in a fervor after the show-stopping set closer, If My Heart Was a Car, they unleashed the finale's epic unhinging noted at the top of this post.

Which brings us full circle.

I never record Time Bomb, because I'm too wrapped up getting my freak on, singing and dancing with abandon. But when Rhett nearly knocked his mic stand over at the start of Time Bomb, the voice in my head screamed for me to roll on this, because something special was about to happen.

And it did.

That's the way to end a show, folks. Controlled chaos, as my friend Annie aptly called it. Brilliant, controlled chaos. And I will love them forever for it.

Philly 10/25/12

Rhett:

Lost Without You

Holy Cross

California Stars

Need to Know Where I Stand

Out of Love

Wreck of the Old 97

Too Far Too Care

Mama Tried

The Grand Theatre

Perfume

Won't Be Home

Oppenheimer

Question avec francaise

White Port

Victoria

I'm a Trainwreck

Every Night Is Friday Night

Rollerskate Skinny

Doreen

----

Valentine

Murder or a Heart Attack

Time Bomb

DC: 10/26/12

Rhett:

Lost Without You

Holy Cross (with unintended a capella verse)

Picture This

Sometimes (such a sweet, sweet song)

Out of Love

Wreck of the Old 97

TFTC

Mama Tried

Champaign, IL

Brown Haired Daughter

Dance With Me

Question

Jagged

White Port

Victoria

Won't Be Home

Every Night is Friday Night

Rollerskate Skinny

If My Heart Was a Car

---

Valentine

Murder or a Heart Attack

Time Bomb

An Instant Replay In Honor of Veterans' Day And My Old Man

Okay, so I don't repost very often, but reading all of the lovely tributes on Facebook to fathers and grandfathers who served in the military made me think of my own father's life. He was a complicated man. An enigma. A puzzle that took me decades to sort out and put together. Thank you for indulging me.

I miss him more than I ever fathomed I would.

In Time Everything Is Illuminated 

or finally understanding your parent  

Okay, so last night I was sitting on the deck amidst a cool summer breeze, pitting what seemed like 3,000 gallons of freshly picked sour cherries so generously offered by our neighbors. The thing about performing a completely mindless, manual labor over and over again is it allows one's thoughts to freely drift from one's subconscious.  

In my reverie, I realized Sunday was Father's Day. Being as Geo and I have neither fathers living nor children of our own, Father's Day is a holiday which goes by uncelebrated and sadly, unnoticed in our home. Most of the time I completely forget on which day it falls. This realization lead me to thoughts about my Dad, and how, at 49 years of age I think I finally get where he was coming from. 

When we were kids, my Dad worked the afternoon shift at the Post Office so we hardly saw him until his days off. Even then he usually was gone all day Saturday either golfing or out with his brother. He usually returned drunk and raging about the war or missed opportunities in his life. He was a product of World War II--he smoked too much, drank too much and was haunted by ghosts that stared up at him from the bottom of a whiskey bottle. At the time we all were embarrassed by his weekly rants and could not for the life of us understand why he was unable to forget the past, enjoy what he had and move on. I was unable to forgive him then. I was too green.

I think I get it now. In time everything is illuminated.

Let's start from the beginning. My Dad had bad timing. 

When the war started his brother advised him to enlist instead of being drafted. That way he could choose a branch of the military and not get stuck in the trenches of the Army. Heeding his brother's advice, he enlisted in the Air Corp thinking at least he'd be dry, well fed and away from the crazy land warfare. 

Turns out the government yahoo in charge put him on the WRONG TRAIN!! He ended up...you guessed it, in the Army marching in Patton's Third division. He marched from Africa to Germany. He was cold. He was hungry. He was tired. He was wounded twice--one of the times he begged the doctor not to amputate his leg. He had the most impressive five inch x two inch x 1/2 inch deep scar on his thigh. I remember putting my little hand in that huge divot, marveling at the depth of the hollow. He would never talk about it. And he would never wear shorts, no matter how stinking hot it was. Then to top it all off, when he came home the ship carrying his belongings sank. All of his stuff was gone. 

When he met my Mother on a blind date, he was going to art school. My Dad was a really good painter/sculptor and dreamed of being a commercial artist. 

(All of my siblings are talented and take after my Dad. My oldest sister, Weezie has a fabulous eye for photography. Her compositions are effortless and outstanding. My second sister, Vicki, is the painter. She was really good and had a nice flair. I hope she finds time to pick up the paintbrush again. Toni has a gorgeous singing voice, just like my Mother. And my brother has all of the musical talent in our family. He was fantastic on guitar. I think he could have been a session musician, but like Daddy, life got in the way. Someday I hope he starts strumming again. Me, I don't know. I'm really good at wasting time.)

Anywho, back to my Dad....

He met my Mom, fell in love and six months later was married. Ten months later my sister, Weezie was born. A couple years later Vicki was in the picture. Four months after that my Mom was pregnant with Toni, and he finally had to face the fact he needed a full-time job to support his growing family. I think leaving his dream in the dust crushed his soul a little. He went from creatively expressing himself through oils and clay to sorting other people's college acceptance letters into tiny slots over...and over... and over... and over... and over.

There were times when I think he resented us kids. Our very existence represented a constant reminder of a life lost for him. A bitter pill to swallow. But I know deep down and especially at the end of his life, he loved us and was glad we were his. 

But I get it now. I get how his life not turning out the way he envisioned it made him bitter, resentful and pine for things that could have been. Who knows how his life would have turned out had he skipped that blind date or met my Mom 10 years later. We all have crossroads from which we must choose a path. Sometimes the choice we need to make is not the one we want to make. After circling the sun for a few decades, now I can understand his frustration. I couldn't then. I hadn't lived enough. Hadn't made enough choices between want and need. Life was too black and white. I couldn't see the gray. 

In time everything is illuminated.

My Dad's been gone 20 years. 20 years... It's hard to believe it's been that long already. He wasn't always the easiest person to get along with, but he wasn't an ogre by any means. He would always take us kids to the zoo, the drive-in, searching for leaves for a school project. Whatever. He was honest, earnest, had a great sense of humor, a yen for teasing my Mom and a tremendous work ethic. He did whatever it took, worked wherever he could to support his family. He instilled that ethic in all of us. Oh, and he could be charming, especially to my Mother the morning after a drunken Saturday night.

We all had issues with my Dad, but luckily his lingering illness afforded us all the opportunity to mend our respective fences before he passed. Sometimes life gives you what you need without you asking. 

I never told him I loved him until he got sick. Strange since we're Italian and you'd think we'd say that all the time, but we didn't. It felt really weird at first. Uncomfortable. Awkward, even. But then it felt wonderful...natural. I'm happy to say I tell my Mom I love her every time we talk. That, too feels natural now. That, too is a gift from my Dad.

I think about my Dad a lot. I miss him. You never really get over the loss of a loved one, no matter how flawed he might have been. Our flaws make us human. Our family wasn't Ozzie and Harriet. It was what it was. He did his best. That's all you can ask for. 

I don't know...I think we all turned out alright. 

This is a picture of my parents taken right before they married. They were 25, playful, carefree, vibrant and crazy about each other. They were in love and had the world by the short hairs. They had no idea what lie ahead for them or where life would take them. Nothing else mattered except the love they shared. Look at them. It's as if their radiance is glowing from within. The essence of the hopeful nature of youth captured in one perfect moment in time. 

I adore this photo.  

In time everything is illuminated.