Troubadors

What a perfect show.

I think I could just post their play list and it would be enough to make everyone who has reached a certain age sigh in happy reminiscence. These are the songs that become tangled up in our very existence; rendering themselves inseparable from the memories of times past. I sat next to a long-lost/new-found friend who leaned over to me at one point and whispered, eyes shining, clearly retrieving a memory she hadn't dusted off in years, "A friend wrote that lyric in my high school yearbook."

You've got to wake up every morning with a smile on your face, and show the world all the love in your heart. ~ Carole King, Beautiful

I reached over to hold my husband's hand. I reached across him with my other hand to hold my daughter's hand. I leaned my head into my friend's shoulder. Tom thought I was being a little silly, I could tell, but it was a wonderful moment.

Shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel. ~ James Taylor, Shower the People

My best friend in the middle school years and I listened to her Tapestry album so many times I'm surprised we didn't wear it out. We sang every song, word for word; note for note, over and over and over. We hadn't experienced many of the complexities of life yet, but Ms. King paved the path for us. That friend was taken from this world in a most untimely manner a few years back, making those memories even more poignant for me.

It doesn't help to know that you're so far away. ~ Carole King, So Far Away

They closed the second set, as I'd suspected they would, with You've Got a Friend. They performed it as a beautiful duet, sitting side by side, their long and loving friendship obvious in their body language. Tom and I played that song to introduce the bridal party at our wedding.

Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there - to brighten up even your darkest night. ~ Carole King, You've Got a Friend

It was an amazing show, performed on a revolving stage to make every seat in the house a good seat. Carole King is gorgeous. I don't mean gorgeous for her age (68, according to the ever reliable Wikipedia), I mean flat out gorgeous. It would be tempting to say that she seemed most comfortable seated behind the piano, because that certainly was a natural placement for her, but she seemed equally at ease strapping on a guitar for one or two songs - indulging in guitar hero poses that delighted me to my core. When she was not seated behind the piano, she owned the stage - dancing, engaging the audience, and smiling - always smiling - her beautiful, wide, easy, real smile - all in ridiculously high and skinny heels. Well, you just go on and GO, girl!

Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for, and if I make you happy I don't need to do more ~ Carole King, Natural Woman

James Taylor's voice has not changed a bit. He presents as humble, in a manner that is charming, sweet, real and - dare I say it? - sexy as hell. He looks a little older, but still younger than his 62 years (again, per Wikipedia) would indicate appropriate. But his voice? - virtually unchanged. I kept thinking that if I closed my eyes, it would be pretty easy to melt years - decades - away. I didn't, though. Not for longer than the time it took to blink. I didn't want to miss a thing.

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes; it's all right. I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore, but I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone. ~ James Taylor, You Can Close Your Eyes

I thought You've Got a Friend would be the end. When you're Carole King and James Taylor, where do you go from there? How could there be a more perfect ending for this show? They left the stage to thunderous applause and I did not anticipate an encore. Except - the house lights didn't come up. And that means...

Up on the roof we went. I was pretty emotional at this point. These two amazing and prolific talents had stirred up quite a lot of memories. I tried to subtly wipe a tear from my eye without being noticed. In doing so, my head turned slightly to the left, and there was my friend rubbing both eyes with her fists. I threw subtlety to the wind. It's highly overrated anyway. We went ahead and openly wept. It had been quite a ride.

When this old world starts getting me down, and people are just too much for me to face, I'll climb right up to the top of the stairs, and all my cares just drift right into space. ~ James Taylor, Up On The Roof

I'm not a huge fan of live albums, but I may buy this one. And I'm going to listen to it with my eyes closed.

You've Got Your Passion, You've Got Your Pride

After all of my job-related whining (not having a job, having a job but being overqualified for it, blah blah blah wah) a friend recommended the book How Starbucks Saved My Life: a Son of Privilege Learns to Live Like Everyone Else by Michael Gates Gil. It was far from the best book I've ever read, but it did carry exactly the message I needed to hear at this particular point in my life. That message, in the simplest terms, was: get over yourself. But that sounds so negative - and the tone of this book was actually very positive. I don't recommend it as a literary masterpiece, but it might be a nice read if you're a little down in the dumps about where life has plopped you.

And it gave me the strength I needed to make a confession: My name is Tammy, and I like my menial job.

I really do.

I like the people I work with - kids and adults alike. I like the way I am treated there. I like coming home from work and leaving the job behind. I like when a kid tells me a silly story and we laugh together. I play games - games! - on the clock.

It's fun.

But I felt obligated to be grumpy - even embarrassed - by it. Why? Aw, I don't think we need to scratch the surface too hard to figure that out. It's the education thing and the money thing. It's all external. It's not sexy or glamorous or high-falutin' or high paying. There is not a special skill set involved, so the qualifications are very minimal. I'm not saying ANYone could do it, but - oh, what the hell - yes I am. So it didn't make me feel special. Everyone wants to feel special. Even in the moments when I allowed it to make me feel happy, I still didn't allow it to make me feel good. How could one possibly feel good about oneself when one is performing a job that ANYone could do?

Y'know how?

Get over yourself.

Get over yourself, get over societal expectations, get over what you're supposed to do, get over money (ok, I'll admit, that one's proving a little harder to do) and - at the risk of being ridiculously cliche - follow your bliss.

I allowed that attitude to seep in a little yesterday - to wear it instead of just speaking it - and I had a really lovely day for it. I smiled all day long - and people smiled back.

Ah ha!

This morning I needed to run a quick errand. I needed to have something notarized. I did what anyone would do - I googled notary public along with my town. I was given three places - one of which was convenient to my errands. I first hit Kroger to use the Coinstar. (Hey - it's the day before payday - I told you money was an issue.) Next I headed to the place the internet had suggested - a FedEx/Kinko's. As I approached the information desk, the young lady greeted me with an open smile (I reflexively smiled back). I told her I needed to have something notarized and her smile faded fast as she told me they no longer offered that service. I told her their website still advertised it - being careful to do so in a manner that was informative rather than accusatory. She apologized and seemed genuinely sorry that she wouldn't be able to help me. Then she very helpfully suggested the check cashing place across the street.

Now, across the street in this instance didn't mean finding a crosswalk and waiting for the light. No, across the street meant getting in the car and a couple quick turns and through a parking lot and around a couple buildings. But still. It was across the street, not across town. I decided to follow her suggestion. Same thing happened at the check cashing place. I walked in and was greeted (from behind the bulletproof glass) with a welcoming smile. Her smile also faded as I made my request and she was unable to fulfill it. She, too, seemed genuinely sorry that she wouldn't be able to help me. She suggested I try the bank located inside - Kroger - the very spot from which I'd begun my journey.

They were able to do it for me.

My point?

These two young ladies did not have glamorous high profile jobs. I can't imagine that their jobs were very high paying. I'm pretty sure these jobs don't give them bragging rights in social situations. One of them did her job behind bulletproof glass. And yet they did them in a way that made me smile, even through my frustration. When they couldn't help, they made an attempt to help me locate someone who could. The Macy's Santa suggesting Gimbels...

Any job - ANY job - when done well - can bring happiness to others. It's almost impossible to bring happiness to others without becoming a little bit happy yourself. I'm going to try to be a little more conscious of ALL the people who - just by doing their job - make my life more convenient or just a little happier. And I'm going to celebrate them, even if it's just with a smile.

Try it with me! Let me know how it goes...

Good Day, Sunshine

It's time I came to terms with something - a truism that has been in place since my infancy. an addiction, an affliction, a compulsion, an obsession.

My name is Tammy, and I'm a sun-worshiper.

I rise with the sun, and start my existence. ~ The Partridge Family

Mom says from the time I was wee, I was an early riser. It didn't matter if she put me to bed early or late. If the sun was up; so was I. It's still so. It took me a while to figure out what Mom figured out in my infancy. I'm getting up with the sun no matter what time I go to bed. I'm in a much better mood for this if I go to bed earlier.


When I was a youngin and the collective consciousness did not include terms like SPF and melanoma I played happily from sun-up to sundown sans sunscreen. True - Dad didn't allow us to be out in the 11-2 sun at the beach, but that wasn't to fend off skin cancer. That was just so no one got a bad burn and ruined our whole vacation. I never burned. I went increasingly yummy shades of brown. My Teutonic mother called me her little brown bean.

As a teen I was out by 10 wearing as little as the law (and my mom) would allow. Soaking up that Vitamin D and helping it along with baby oil.

It's a sunshine day - everybody's smilin'. ~ The Brady Bunch

As a young adult I tried really hard to become a night owl, but the pull of the sun was too strong. It never really took.

(Sorry Twilighters, Interview was the shiz!)

Up all night, sleep all day. ~ Slaughter

Big surprise to anyone that I developed SAD (seasonal affect disorder) as an adult? I thought not.

Sunshine go away today. I don't feel much like dancin'. ~ Jonathon Edwards

But hey! None of that now! On accounta today we'll see more sun than any other day this year. Happy Summer Solstice, ya'll!

I'm walkin' on sunshine - and don't it feel good? ~ Katrina and the Waves

***I know, I know, it's Father's Day, too, but my Daddy's (80th, holy cow!) birthday is just a little more than a week away and I've planned to do an homage of sorts to him, then.

This Post Goes to Eleven

I have told you before that This is Spinal Tap is my favorite movie, bar none. I didn't see it in the theater, I came upon it a little later. I was 23 years old and had just gone through a pretty ugly break-up. My heart was broken, I was in debt, and I'd burned a lot of bridges. My parents let me move back in with them till I got on my feet which was not much fun for any of us. It was not a time of much laughter. I stayed in my room a lot, not unlike a surly teenager. I had a nice TV and a new water bed and a VCR. I had a very good relationship with the folks at the video store. One day This is Spinal Tap wound up rather arbitrarily in a batch of videos I had taken home to occupy my weekend.

I popped in the video and settled in on the water bed almost defying it to amuse me. I mentioned that the water bed was new, right? I hadn't quite become completely accustomed to it yet at this point in time.

Anyway.

We came to this point in the movie:



I started laughing. Just a little. A silent little giggle, really. All by myself in my brand new water bed.

And when I laughed? The whole bed moved. And when I laughed harder? It practically made waves. This, of course, made me laugh even harder. It became a circular reaction. It was more fun than I'd had in an awfully long time.

Every now and then there is that pivotal moment when things just suddenly turn around. This was one of those moments for me. I knew in that instant that I was done being a cave dweller in my parents house and feeling sorry for myself. Laughing felt good and I wanted to do more of it. I wanted to put myself in situations which would stimulate laughter rather than situations that allowed me to wallow in my own misery.

It's an exaggeration to say that Spinal Tap saved my life, but not much of one.

Since that day, Christopher Guest has been very high on my list of - just all 'round awesome entertainers. I have loved every project with which he has associated himself. He is so smart and funny and Jamie Lee Curtis is one lucky little chickadee because she gets to go home to his comedic genius every night. Tom is smart and funny, too, but no-one pays him as much - or any - money for it.

Imagine my joy when I heard that the actors were bringing their Unwigged and Unplugged tour to Columbus. Six of us decided that missing such an event was not an option. Breathing in the same room where Christopher Guest was breathing would have been enough to justify the price of tickets for me, but just for folks who aren't as easily separated from their hard-earned dollars as I am, they threw in an acoustic concert featuring songs from This is Spinal Tap and A Mighty Wind.

Tom and I ready to, like, become one with the band

After a lovely dinner we headed to the theater. We didn't have to wait long before they took the stage.

Harry Shearer, Michael McKean, Christopher Guest

I turned to Tom just before the lights went down and said, "Oh, dear, I feel Squealy Fangirl rearing up something fierce. Are you askeered?"

"A little."

He needn't have feared. My exuberance was easily met by the rest of the crowd. Tom himself was laughing out loud. There was a permanent smile on my face for the entirety of the show. And that white haired lady beside me? She was havin' a ball. When her arm shot out in a classic rock and roll salute during "Heavy Duty", I thought I might pee my pants just a little. It was just - as the gentleman behind me said on leaving the theater - delightful.

I had gone to see Spinal Tap and Christopher Guest. And I got that. But I got more. A lot more.

I got three SNL alum. (why do I always forget that?) I got half the cast of The Simpson's. I got a sitcom icon from my youth. I got Count Rugen from The Princess Bride. I got songs, and stories, and a verbatim reading of the NBC censor's take on Spinal Tap (worth the price of admission, alone) I got and I got and I got. They gave and they gave and they gave.

These men are the real deal. Funny beyond all earthly expectations, surprisingly musically talented, humble (and if any man had a reason not to be...), and just all 'round entertainers.

This is what we looked like leaving the theater. I believe our smiles say it all.

Bloggers Unplugged: Osi, Me, Tom, Chris, Karen and Shannon

*all pictures courtesy of the lovely Chris - thanks Chris!

Foxy

Liv came down for breakfast and I told her her hair looked pretty (because it totally did - it amazes me almost daily that I managed to spawn two children with good hair). She responded by putting two curled fingers on either side of her head and saying, "Foxy". A la Wayne's World. (party time! excellent!) I laughed out loud. She said the humor I found in it was disproportionate to the humor she had intended by her simple gesture. (Okay, she really didn't say that. But it was conveyed. In a glance. You're gonna have to trust me on this one.) I told her that I'd just never expected my child who was born in 1997 to be referencing a movie that was made in 1992 referencing a song from 1967.

But wait, there's more:

We sat down to breakfast. Pancakes. I asked if she was going to have more, as I started to clear the table. She told me to go ahead and clear them. I said, "Well, if you change your mind..." and before I could indicate where I was putting them she chimed in, "I'll be first in line..." laughing and in unison we continued, "baby I'm still free...take a chance on me..." Anyone who knows either of us knows that by this point we were dancing in the kitchen as we cleared up our breakfast dishes, "if you need me, let me know, and I'll be around...if you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down..."

Our kids are destined (doomed) to be the pop-culture geeks that we are. I guess there are worse things they could do. And if - in your head - you felt a compulsion to finish that line with: "than go with a boy, or two" - then I think you know you're okay in my book.

Why I *Heart* My Kids (Part 1, I Hope!)

Liv is in Art class and two boys are discussing basketball. According to her, they are always discussing basketball. They say to her, "I can't believe you don't know who Michael Jordan is." to which she immediately responds, "I can't believe you don't know who Eddie Van Halen is."


As if that wasn't enough to make a mother proud, she followed it up with, "You cannot have a triumphant video without Edward Van Halen."

I guess she's mine.

Tam + Tom = A Love Story (For Valentine's Day)

I was single for a very long time.

There are people who love being single – who choose it and embrace it. I envied those people. I was not one of them.

I dated during those years – sometimes seriously, sometimes not so much. I had my heart broken in tiny little ways and in great big epic the-world-can’t-possibly-keep-spinning-with-this-much-sadness-weighing-it-down ways.

As I moved from my 20’s to my 30’s it became more and more difficult to meet people. Going out to bars and clubs wasn’t as fun as it used to be and was starting to smack of desperation. I was doing early intervention, at the time – working with babies with developmental delays or at risk of developing delays. All of my co-workers were female and all of my clients were new parents. Not a great environment in which to meet men. I was going to grad school, but, once again, my major was one traditionally pursued by females. I wasn’t meeting men there, either. My girlfriends were pairing off. I was living with an almost crippling sense of loneliness. And I was starting to collect cats...

I didn't just collect them - I dressed them up and gave them parties...

With a friend’s encouragement, I decided to try a dating service. Even though a friend had encouraged me, I told no one, not even her, when I finally went in, filled out my profile, had my photos taken, taped my video, and wrote a check for a ridiculous sum of money. I hated it. What was I doing there? I didn’t need this! This sort of thing was for losers! Who uses dating services, anyway? Who is that desperate? Well, I was.

And then the calls started coming. Lots of them. Men were coming out of the woodwork wanting to date me. This was crazy! And, for the most part, they were nice, attractive decent men. Not the desperate losers I expected at all. Just folks like me who were having a hard time meeting people through more traditional means.

I read Tom’s profile and let him know I was interested. He called very shortly thereafter and we shared a very long conversation during which I took notes. Yep. I took notes during conversations with potential dates, that’s just how much dating was going on at that time in my life. If I didn’t take notes, I would get them confused. I’d take notes during conversations then study those notes before an actual date. Romantic, no? Tom’s profile had stated that he was involved with environmental issues and enjoyed a lot of outdoor activities. Something like that. Sure do wish I still had those notes so I could confirm… At any rate, there was something that made me suspect he might be a vegetarian. While I could respect that, it wasn’t a time in my life when I was willing to even entertain the notion of giving up steak. So I asked, and – yay! – added to my notes in big caps, “meat eater”. I think I underlined it and drew little arrow thingies to it as we continued to talk.

We decided to meet, and, oh kids, we liked each other right away.

The problem (if you want to call it a problem) was that we were both pretty new to the dating service business and we were both pretty overwhelmed by requests for dates with other people. For people who had been so deeply lonely for so long, this was just an amazing turn of events. Neither of us wanted to get too involved, because we wanted to keep our options open. There were so many new options! But there was a connection which was undeniable.

On one of our first dates – and we both recognize this as a pivotal point in our relationship – he asked if I wanted to stop for a drink. We were driving by a Chi Chi’s at the time and I suggested we stop there. Except I pronounced both Chi’s with a long ‘i’ sound rather than the long ‘e’ sound (which would be the correct pronunciation. The long ‘e’, that is) I did it in reference to a Les Nesman joke from WKRP in Cincinnati - a show which had, at that point, already been off the air for decades. I didn’t have to explain the joke to Tom. He got it right away. It was so obscure, and yet we were on the same page immediately. The heavens opened and the angels sang.

Except we didn’t listen to them – not right away, anyway.

For the next two years, Tom and I developed a deep friendship. Ok, a deep friends-with-benefits-ship. It was so good. But, as I’d said, we both dated other people as well. Every time he met a new girl I would get excited for him. I loved him at this point, but it was a friendly love more than a romantic one. I wanted him to be happy. So every time he met a new girl I’d be happy. For a little while. Then he’d say something that just didn’t sit right with me, or I’d meet her and just not like something about her. I always thought he could do better. This was a far from one-sided endeavor. He was doing the same thing with me – being genuinely happy for me when I got excited about a new guy, then starting to find fault as soon as it looked like it might be getting serious.

Tom and I at Woodstock '94

We had a hard time finding our way to the same page again. Sometimes I’d feel like I wanted to take it to the next level with him, but he wasn’t ready at the time. Sometimes he’d want to take it to the next level with me, but I wasn’t ready. But through it all, we saw each other several times a week and spoke to each other daily. He had truly already become the best friend I’d ever had. The feeling was mutual.

New Years '95

Then one day, after about two years of this, we were smack dab in the middle of what I thought was a me-wanting-him-more-than-he-wanted-me phase, when he said we needed to talk.

Uh-oh.

That’s almost never good.

Almost.

He told me that he loved me. I told him I loved him, too. He said, no, I LOVE you. He went on to say that it was practically statistically impossible for every girl he’d dated in the past two years to be a whiny bitch with motives (my words, probably). About the same odds were in play for every guy I’d dated in the past two years being a total jackass. (Actually, the odds of that were probably a little better…) Anyway. He said he thought that neither of us could find a way to actually accept anyone the other was dating because we were in love with each other. He proposed that we give it a shot; that we stop seeing other people and give our relationship a chance. I giggled and said, “Are you asking me to go steady?” I was 32 and he was 30 at the time. He said, “I guess I am”. I accepted.

And neither of us has ever looked back.

01-20-09: Hope Over Fear

I had a 1-20-09 button long before President Obama (how good does THAT feel?) even announced his intent to run. I have long been ready for change. When I bought that button, the possibility of that change was still hypothetical. But I needed to hope, and that date (THIS date!!!) gave me something to hope for.

I had intended to write a long and heartfelt entry to commemorate today's historical inauguration . I settled in front of the TV with a notepad in hand, prepared to take notes with just such an end in mind. I knew I was in trouble when tears welled up in my eyes when they introduced the Clintons. Darn it, I was already crying and there was a loooooong way to go! He may be "no-drama-Obama", but that sure isn't what he inspires!

Soon the sketchy notes that I'd managed to make were smeared with tears. I put the notebook down and gave in to the moment. I couldn't find words to write, anyway. The whole situation was just so completely beyond mere words. I was (am) overwhelmed by joy and hope.

He did make it clear that change is not going to be easy and it's not going to be fast. I get that.

But now there's something that's been lacking for years: Hope.

I'll take it.

And So It Begins

Sometime in late December, 1961 or early January, 1962 two people I don’t know anything about hooked up somewhere in western Pennsylvania and made a baby. In September of 1962 that baby was born and she was me and that’s the end of the part these two people play in this story. I have, throughout the years, come up with many dramatic, romantic and tragic stories about how all of this came to be, but the truth is probably a much simpler matter: Roe v. Wade was still in the future and this woman had enough sense not to pursue a back alley abortion.

The next three months were spent with more people I don’t know anything about. Foster parents who saw to it that my basic needs were met.

Meanwhile, in another part of western Pennsylvania, the woman who would become my mother was making some difficult choices. She was only in her mid twenties and she had already suffered through more miscarriages than any woman should have to endure in a lifetime. Her doctor had warned her that another attempt at pregnancy would be more likely to result in her death than in a baby’s birth. Her heart and her body were at odds. She knew in her heart that she was destined to be a mother, but her body had had its final say. She would not be making a baby. She mourned the babies she would never carry, and then let her heart win. She and the man who would become my father made the decision to pursue adoption.

Just a few days before Christmas, the call came. The adoption agency had a little girl for them. Were they interested? Indeed they were. When they met me, before any papers were signed, the man who would be my father did a little inventory. Fingers and toes? Check. He was an informed consumer. He was not going to accept delivery of damaged goods. Apparently I passed the inspection, because they signed the paperwork and got the gears in motion.

Most parents get nine months to anticipate the arrival of a baby, but my parents only had a couple days. And they were a couple days right in the midst of the general Christmas hustle and bustle. In just a couple days they had to acquire all the things a baby would need - a crib, diapers, bottles, clothes, blankets – no baby showers thrown by friends or sisters or aunts or cousins – no time for it. (Fortunately, in 1962, babies needed far fewer items than they do now, so this task was less oppressive than the one which you might be imagining.)

They got everything together in time to accept delivery of their infant on December 18, 1962. One week before Christmas. I went home for the first time at the age of three and a half months. I knew love for the first time at the age of three and a half months.

Apparently when they met me for the first time – inspection day – I had been dressed and groomed very nicely. When they picked me up to take me home, I was wearing a dirty undershirt with a medal of a saint pinned to it. False advertising! They were not delivered the same degree of cuteness that they’d been promised. Lucky for me, grooming and clothing are issues easily rectified, or I might have been returned before my warranty expired.

As it was Christmas, of course they viewed me as the best gift ever. I was placed under the Christmas tree to illustrate that fact in a more tangible manner. Unfortunately, I was allergic to the tree (a pesky allergy that persists to this day). The symptoms that developed as a result of this threw my new mother into a panic. The final papers weren’t yet signed and she was pretty sure they were going to take me away, since the first thing she did upon bringing me home was to allow me to get sick. It doesn’t work that way, of course, but try telling that to a woman who’s been through what my mother had been through to find herself in the position of parent. She was rather understandably distraught.

My sniffles cleared up, the adoption was finalized, and we were a little family of three.

Each year I celebrate the anniversary of that adoption - a day which doesn't mean anything to anyone except me, my mom and my dad. It means the world to us.

Why I *Heart* Facebook (and other confessions)

I didn't go to my last High School Reunion.

Why? Those of you who read my blog with any degree of frequency have probably guessed: It's because I got fat.

What's the first thing one does when one finds oneself in a reunion situation? One does the little inventory. Who got gray, who got bald, who's hotter than their spouse (and whose spouse is hotter than them), and, of course, who got fat. Part of that inventory involves the comparison game. "I look older than her, but younger than her." "I'm fatter than her, but not as fat as her." We've all played it.

That becomes a lot less fun when you become the negative basis for comparison.

So I've avoided it.

But now Facebook has afforded me the opportunity to get to know people from my past in a way that allows me to sidestep superficialities. Sure, there are pictures, but I can pick and choose (and crop, and soften, and...). It has allowed us to reconnect in a way that doesn't begin and end with, "damn, girlfriend got FAT!".

This has been such a thrill for me.

And next time there's a reunion, I'll know there's at least a little group of people who will be happy to see who I am, not just gleeful to have someone against whom to compare themselves positively.

Maybe next time I'll go.

We've Got the Biggest...

Balls of them all.

Because we took our 12 year old to see AC/DC.

Honestly, and I've been thinking about it, I don't recall ever having more fun at a concert. I don't know if it was just that awesome (I suspect it was) or if it's because it was such an amazing bonding experience for us to have with our daughter.

Some highlights:

They started out with a little cartoon video that was really quite good. Then it became kind of overtly sexual (I know! They're usually such masters of subtlety! There was no way I could have anticipated!) and I got a little uncomfortable. Lea was uncomfortable too (between her parents? really?), so that made me feel a little better.

They came out ON and stayed on all night. I mean they put on a SHOW! Watching the stage, I completely forgot how old these guys are (watching the screen, I was pretty much forced to remember). And by the way - does anyone know what Angus Young is on and where I could get some? I mean, the dude is 53 and he just didn't slow down once. It felt like watching someone 1/3 his age. No lie.

When he did his traditional strip tease, Lea turned to me and said, "he's so bony!" At one point she high-fived me. Maybe that was a little wrong... Later, when we could hear a little bit, I said, "I'm sorry your first strip tease was old and bony." Tom added, "It really has nothing to do with age. All guys look like that with their shirts off. It's really not worth pursuing." Tom is a good dad.

At one point early on, Lea did have to ask, "what smells weird?" I'm sure I don't have to tell any of you... Apparently Officer Batman (Our local D.A.R.E. instructor) neglected that particular lesson. Now she knows.

When a whacked out kid was acid-dancing and climbing on the railing, she really couldn't enjoy the concert until security took him out.

Mullet count stood at a mere 2. But they were quite spectacular! Quality over quantity! I expected more. Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough.

The music was, as I believe I've already stated, nothing short of amazing. It just never slowed down. I think the memory of triple fist-pumping (Done!Dirt!Cheap!) in unison with my husband and daughter is one I'll cherish for a long time. Something I'll pull out and keep warm with next time Lea decides I'm too horrible for words.

I head banged. And I screamed. TOM danced, for Pete's sake. (Those of you who know him know that doesn't happen just every day.) He didn't head bang. But he should have, cause with his mane, it would've been glorious.

And here's a bit some of you may not understand (and some of you almost undoubtedly will): I did not, for one second, worry about the people behind me having to look at my fat ass. In the past, I have seriously worried about that. People paid good money for this show, I don't want to ruin it for them by making them look at my posterior. So I'd sit, or lean, or stand very very still. Not tonight. My fat ass paid as much for its ticket as any perky ass paid for its. It had just as much right to not only be there, but to dance. FTW.

I'm hoping Tom - or someone - posts a more musical review. I am ridiculously unqualified to do so, so I won't attempt. I can just tell you that I had more fun than ought to be legal. We had both balked at the ticket price, and we both agreed that we'd gotten every penny's worth and then some. During the guitar solo in 'Back in Black' I turned to Lea and said, "Your concert going experiences may never get better than this." She responded, "Yeah, we've just set the bar pretty high."

Indeed.

Feels Like the First Time

This mornings channel surfing found Lea and I landing on "Carrie". It had commercial interruptions and was edited for TV. Even given those two undesirable and annoying facts, it was really good.

Really, really good.

That's one of those movies that I just forget how darn good it is until I see it again. Just really, really well done. And it's stood the test of time - perhaps becoming even more relevant rather than less. The only "dated" aspect that took Lea out of it for a moment was the 70's gym shorts and tube socks. It wasn't enough of a distraction to keep her out of it for long. The music, the use of slow motion, the dreamy quality, the colors - my goodness, it all just adds up to a darn near perfect movie. I almost added "for its genre", but decided that qualification wasn't really necessary. Good is good.

I love when that happens.

You know it's good. You say it's good anytime anyone brings it up; then when you see/hear/read it again, it just knocks you on your ass the same way it did the first time.

"Smells Like Teen Spirit" does that to me every. single. time.

The Philly skyline (driving in from the west). Takes my breath away.

"Big Fish".

What could you see/hear/read a thousand times and still have it feel fresh and wonderful every time? I'm not talking nostalgia here. There are any number of songs/movies that make me feel all warm and fuzzy because of the associations I've consciously and subconsciously made with them. I'm talking about the stuff that's really just. that. good.

Mixed Emotions

When I was a sophomore in high school, some 30ish years ago, I earned a letter jacket for marching band. I loved that jacket. I remember being a freshman and just longing for one. I wore it quite regularly sophomore, junior and senior year. It went to college with me, but what was a symbol of growing up and inclusion in high school became a symbol of high school past rather than college present.

The jacket retired to my parents basement. It remained there until we bought our first house, at which point it retired to our basement.

Until today.

My girls found the jacket and asked if they could try it on.

I thought it would be cute.

It was, but not in the way I expected.

Behold, my baby girl in my once beloved jacket:


She looks good, right?

She asked if she could keep it as her winter jacket. She hugged it and petted it and pretty much treated it the way I did the first day it came into my possession. And she needed a new winter jacket for Pete's sake. We'd planned to shop for one this weekend. Win/win, right? She gets a jacket she loves, my jacket gets to be worn again (with the appropriate amount of love and respect), and - bonus - I save a chunk of change by not needing to buy her a new one.

So why am I so sad?

Well, I remember this jacket as a rite of passage, almost. It indicated to the world (in my mind, at least) that I wasn't a kid anymore. It was a symbol of a new stage of maturity and I wore it proudly. Mostly to the mall.

I suppose seeing it on Olivia forces me to realize in a very tangible way that the torch is being passed.


Enjoy the ride, baby girl.

Lucky Number Thirteen

Thirteen years ago today I married the love of my life.Celebrating our anniversary last Friday at The Wine Guy in Pickerington, Ohio

I often tell people I'm the most happily married person I know. In thirteen years we have rarely disagreed, much less fought. I think after thirteen years, the fact that we love each other is implied, but the fact that we really, really like each other is what keeps things alive.

Tom is witty, kind, gentle, smart, funny and talented. And, clearly, still very darn good looking. Is it any wonder I still look forward to the moment he walks in the door at the end of the work day every. single. day?

So, a big Pffft! to those who said it wouldn't last!

Have You Never Been Mellow?

I find myself in a very rare position these days. I am essentially unemployed and I have a dear friend who is in the same situation. We refer to ourselves as "Ladies Who Lunch" and from time to time extend it to "Ladies of Leisure Who Drink Coffee and Eat Lunch and Don't Need Concealer or Chiropractors Anymore". (full disclosure - sometimes I still need concealer and she still needs a chiropractor - but not like either of us used to)

Almost every Monday, and sometimes on other days on an as needed basis, we get together for coffee and talk (no big whoop) which more often than not turns into lunch and sometimes a little shopping. We have both noticed how our shoulders almost visibly relax about 3 sips into that first cup. Her family has commented on her increasingly mellow attitude.

Stress? Be gone!

We've been talking recently about how there's a little (not much, just a little) guilt associated with our leisurely afternoons. First, I suppose, there's the inherent stigma of being a stay-at-home-mom. Particularly when your kids are school-aged. We're not supposed to be happy, relaxed and content in this lifestyle. We're supposed to be apologetic. Lord knows, I spent enough years being apologetic about it. Answering the "so what do you do" question with non-answers like, "well, I'm a teacher by trade, but I put it on hold to raise my kids" or, later, when I started teaching part-time, I would claim that as my career. This year, for the first time, when filling out the kids back-to-school paperwork, I took a deep breath and filled in the blank which requested my occupation with: SAHM.

I worried about how I would be judged by her teachers and the office staff at her school. As if a.) they have the time and inclination to judge me and b.) it would really make any difference in my life if they did. But still, I worried.

Then there's the actual enjoying it part. Staying at home is supposed to be a sacrifice. And sometimes it is. Certainly I miss being a two-income family, but more than that I miss the daily interaction with other people.

So I seek that interaction and, instead of finding it in the break room, I find it at the local coffee shop. And instead of it lasting 30 minutes, it lasts till I'm done. Or till I have to meet the school bus, whichever comes first.

And I am mellow.

I mentioned concealer earlier. The other day I sat down to put on my make-up and I had the concealer on my pinkie when I looked in the mirror and saw, to my immense surprise, that I wouldn't be needing any that day. The bags under my eyes just weren't there.

So I decided to stop apologizing for enjoying my life. Obviously it's having a positive effect. Tom is probably laughing right now, because apologizing is what I do. I'm sure I won't stop altogether. But I'm going to reign it in a little bit.

I'm sure there will be a time when I will work again. I can't imagine that there won't. But until that time, I'm going to enjoy what there is to enjoy about the place where I am now, instead of wishing it away.

Do You Wanna Get Rocked?

Kelley over at Magneto Bold Too! issued a challenge to all of her readers to write a post explaining just how much they rock.

I know I do, because once or twice when students finished writing their course reviews, they left the following two words in the comments section: Tammy Rocks!

I also know because every time I say "yes" to my kids they say, "You rock, Mom!" (never mind what they say when I say no)

I asked my eldest this morning why I rocked ('cause I'm needy like that). She said I rock because I let her "listen to music with bad words in it". I'll accept any nominations for that Mother of the Year award now...

I asked my youngest if she rocked and she said "yep". I asked why and she said, "I don't know. I just do" I asked, "Do I rock?" ('cause I'm still needy like that) and she said, "yep". I asked why and she said, "'Cause you're my mom, silly". Then she kissed me and headed off for school.

So I was left alone with my thoughts. And I thought to myself (I thought): I rock, I know I rock, my rockitude has been confirmed, but I don't really know WHY I rock.

It felt selfish, self-involved and vaguely masturbatory to devote as much time to the question as I did, but doesn't that sort of describe blogging anyway? This is what I came up with:

I rock because I'm a good mom. Not a perfect mom, not a mom who doesn't make mistakes, but a good mom.

I rock because I'm open-minded.

I rock because I try my best to be fair. (and honest, and trustworthy, and brave and prepared...)

I rock because my kids and former students say I rock.

I rock because I know enough to be good to myself (*waves to Karen* - loving the coffees!) sometimes.

For these reasons and others I rock and I rock hard. Feel free to confirm!

Why do you rock?

They Say It's Your Birthday...

You're the birthday, you're the birthday, you're the birthday boy (or girl)! Have a happy happy happy, sweetie!

Festival Season! (Part 2)

This weekend found us at the Dublin Irish Festival and the Olde Pickerington Village Jazz and Blues Ribfest. The Dublin Irish Festival is a really large scale festival while the Pickerington Festival was more of a community event. The weather all weekend was just perfect, really enhancing the festival experience. Both were lovely, and they provided a nice contrast to each other.

At the Irish Festival, we spent a little time learning about traditional Irish instruments and crafts. We spent a little MORE time shopping a very wide variety of Celtic craftspersons wares. We ate a little; Killian's were consumed.

As for the fashion show, whereas last week the show belonged to the women, at this festival, the show belonged to the men. More specifically, men in kilts. There were a LOT of them, and there certainly was not a stereotype established. There were utilikilts (also doing what appeared to be a thriving business on the festival grounds) and tartans. Men wore them with tasseled knee socks and dress shoes, with sandals, and with tube socks and sneakers. They wore them with T-shirts and rugby shirts and polo shirts. These men were skinny, muscled, heavy; old, young; clean-cut, pony-tailed - you name it, they were wearing a kilt. I know Tom slowed down every time we passed the utilikilt vendor. I encouraged him to try one on, but he's not quite ready. He pointed out - probably (sadly) correctly so - that this festival would really be the only place he'd feel comfortable wearing one. A pricey investment for once a year.

The main reason we attend the Irish Festival each year, though, is the music. Five or six years ago we discovered that we really like Celtic rock/punk. The paradox (at least it seems paradoxical by our established cultural standards) of having a high energy punk/rock sound supplemented by accordions and bagpipes is so wrong it's right. (Side note: perhaps this goes back more than 5 or 6 years. When I was in college and boys were playing air guitar, one of my roommates always played "air bagpipes". We thought it was high-larious. Perhaps the stage was set then...) One of our favorite bands for several years now has been The Prodigals, and they were headlining the Irish Festival on the night we attended. They did not disappoint. They put on a great show. The perfect ending to a pretty swell evening.

Saturday night, I was scheduled to work in the Beer Garden at the Pickerington Jazz and Blues Ribfest. As opposed to the sprawling Irish Festival, this one had more of a block party feel. Tom and I went down early to listen to some music and eat some ribs before I had to start working. I surely do like me some ribs. Then I settled in at the Beer Garden and Tom headed home. I spent the night selling beer tickets and pizza in what was essentially someone's back yard. It had a really cozy community feel to it. Everyone was so friendly, I had so much fun talking to folks and listening to the blues. I ran into friends and acquaintances I hadn't seen in months (stoopid arm!) and, after a few beers, strangers were pretty friendly, too. The lines between very small festival and very big party got blurry and I liked it a lot.

I'm not tired yet! More festing, please!

Festival Season! (Part 1)

This past weekend, Tom and I opened "Festival Season" with Pickerington's Violet Festival and the Columbus Jazz and Ribs Festival. I love summer festivals. I love the food and the music, but what I love the most is the people watching.

Pickerington's festival is a nice little community festival. We enjoyed some typical fest-food and were settling in for some music when it started to rain. We just weren't feeling that die-hard, so we left at that point.

Sunday, we headed into Columbus for the Jazz and Ribs Festival. We listened to some really nice music and had, as one might have predicted, some pretty fine ribs. There's not a lot I love more than sitting in the grass on a beautiful sunny day and listening to some music.

The people watching was extraordinary. I did my part by wearing my favorite festival dress. It is very long - to my ankles - and very lightweight and comfy and (if I say so myself) pretty. Then, under the category of: Making Lemonade From Lemons, I was not having a great hair day, so I covered the whole mess up with a hat. I LOVE hats! I rarely wear them, because, well, actually I don't have any idea why, because they make me so darn happy. I should wear one every day! It could be my signature piece! The crazy old fat lady in the hat! Ahem.

Women definitely get the style advantage, don't they? Men pretty much were wearing T-shirts and shorts. There were minor variations (Jean shorts or cargo shorts? T-shirt tucked in or left out? Logo shirt or plain?), but for the most part, the guys just don't stand out. At least not the guys clothes. The women, on the other hand! Oh boy! Let's just say, I don't think I was the only one wearing my favorite festival dress. Not that anyone else was wearing my dress, but that I think they were wearing their own favorites. See? I loved just watching the parade of cute summer outfits. Are knickers back in? I saw 2 women just rockin' the knickers. And there were women there - walking around a summertime festival - with heels! It's a rare day when I wear heels to work! But maybe 20 years ago. Yeah, now that I think about it, almost certainly 20 years ago. Or 25. Whatever.

And if this festival, and the logo shirts folks wear, was any indication, Obama should do very well in Columbus come election time. I saw many Obama shirts and buttons being worn and sold. I saw one McCain shirt being sold and one guy wearing a McCain shirt. I almost felt bad for him. Almost. He was out of his element, for sure.

So, the season is off to a great start! Fest on, dudes!

Here Comes the Rain Again

I love to sleep in the rain.

Last night we had the most wonderful sleeping storm. It started with rolling thunder that sounded gentle as a lullaby. As the thunder began to reach its crescendo, the rain slowly and softly crept in. As the rain increased in tempo and strength, I began my rainy night mantra: I am warm and safe and dry. Outside is a tempest, but here in my bed I am warm and safe and dry.

I love to sleep in the rain.