Bollocks

It was kind of a 24-hour identity crisis and recovery period.

Sunday:  Big surprise party for Suzanne’s Big Birthday, which also became a surprise party for husband Billy’s upcoming Big Birthday, a celebration of their upcoming anniversary, and farewell party for Billy, who is headed to Iraq in one month.

Ugh.  Don’t even get me started on the Iraq thing.  Billy was an ROTC kid, and he has a strong sense of patriotism.  He’s a big time Republican, too.  Don’t ask me how we get along so well, but we do.  Anyway, Billy WANTS to go to Iraq.  I just don’t understand that depth of patriotism, especially considering he has a wife and two young daughters.  But that’s his choice, and I simply hope and pray for his safe return.

Back to the party.  It was at a lovely little Italian restaurant, hosted by both sets of parents, and was a ton of fun, in spite of the hokey deejay shit.  (Really, these guys all need to be shot dead, along with their stupid dancing games.  (with nauseating, over-the-top enthusiasm) “Now I want everyone on the dance floor to go and bring someone else up!”  Drop dead, asshole.  Why can’t you leave things be?)  But I played along, because Suzanne and Billy are fun, and they have a lot of fun friends (except their nasal, snobby, NASAL (it bears repeating) neighbor, Lorena, who always drones on (brags) about something unimportant to everyone but her).  This time it was her new StyleStone countertops.  The way she went on and on, loudly repeating “StyleStone” no less than three dozen times, you’d think she had fucking diamond encrusted counters.

Wow.  Can’t seem to stay away from the negative here.

Yes.  The party was fun.  Suzanne and Billy are always fun.  I admire their never-ending spirit and energy.  They laughed and danced like a couple of foolish fools all night with anyone and everyone.  Their joie de vivre can be infectious.  It was touching to watch Billy dance around with Shelby and Hannah (even though Shelby is at that age where she is easily embarrassed by her parents), knowing that they’ll be apart soon.

We dined and drank and danced ourselves silly, and a good time was had by all.  It’s a pity their friend Doug’s mousy wife was there.  I always feel like she’s giving me the death glare.  I knew Doug – never dated him, just knew him – before Mousy met him.  Before Billy and Suzanne met him, for that matter.  So, whenever Doug talks to me – yes, HE starts the conversations – Mousy looks like she is having some sort of internal freakout.  Trust me, hon, if I didn’t want him way back before he was bald and paunchy, I certainly am not looking to bust up your marriage now.  But Doug pulled me onto the dance floor for “Rock Lobster,” a throwback to our younger (pre-Mousy) days, and rather than be rude and ditch him, I tapped on nearby Billy to join us, hoping to lessen the death glare.  What more could I politely do to appease the insecure housefrau?  Frankly, I think I went above and beyond, considering her insecurities are baseless.

Driving home from the party, though, I started to feel like I had lost my identity.  From the dinner conversation being dominated by raconteur Doug and nasal, crowing Lorena, to being “introduced” to Suzanne’s mother for, like, the fifth time, I began wondering why it so often happens that I end up feeling squelched and forgotten in group settings.  True, I’m never the most boisterous one, but I resent being regarded as quiet.  I’m not quiet; I’m reserved.  There’s a difference.  I’m no shrinking violet.  I just don’t see the need to go through life with my personality two feet in front of me.

In a roomful of Dougs and Lorenas, though, it’s easy to be drowned out.

That alone would not have bothered me so much.  It was Suzanne’s mother.  I knew she wouldn’t remember me, despite our having met numerous times in the past.  We even have similar names, for crissakes.  (My name, of course, is younger and hipper than hers – nyah!)  Yet she always remembers Sandy and her entire family.  Billy’s parents, on the other hand, greeted me by name with hugs and kisses.  And I know what it is.  Suzanne’s mother is one of Those People who disregards anyone (especially women?) who does not have children and/or a significant other.  Like I don’t matter because I haven’t accomplished what she believes is my purpose in life.  I’m not making this stuff up.  She’s not the first one.  And Those People are always married, always parents.

Needless to say, that kind of bullshit boils my blood.

So, from domination to flat out forgotten, my personality was bruised and a little hurty that evening.

Yesterday, my tentative plans with Kelly fell through (a comedy of errors on both our parts), but I had plenty to do at home.  I planted and clipped. I did laundry.  I cooked so much stuff that I will be cook-free for the rest of the week.  I scrapbooked and made a few cards.  Wow.  I could totally dig a part-time (four-day) workweek.

Feeling quite content with myself (although still slightly bruised from the night before), I settled in around 9:30 with the movie that Tim left for me a few months ago.

Now don’t laugh, but who knew “The Filth and the Fury” would make me feel so much better about myself?  Yup.  I was renewed, courtesy of the Sex Pistols.

I felt a positive sense of self, no doubt stemming from a trip back in time.  Ah, youth!  More importantly, I was remembering who I was then and how I lived my life.  I realized I have been suppressing part of my true spirit.  No, I’m not an anarchist, but I’ve gradually squelched some of my passion in life.  And here I was, thinking others were doing that to me.  Nope.  Only I can do that to myself.

Too many years in Corporate America?  Perhaps.  The trick was supposed to be that I would flip that switch on and off from nine to five.  And I did, for many years.  In the past few years, though, I think I have slacked off with that switch.  Maybe I’ve been doing too much of what others (meaning the general public) expect.  Sometimes it’s easier that way, just to follow the pack, but how sad is that? T o lose a part of oneself without even realizing it?

No, I won’t be returning to spiky layers of rock and roll hair streaked with pink or blue or purple.  What I will do, though, is live my life with the passion and joy that comes from knowing I’m the only one who gets to be me.

But really, this is all getting way headier than I intended.  I’m also finding it difficult to express exactly what I was feeling as I watched that movie.  Let’s just say that last night, as the credits rolled, there was a woman dancing around in her living room to “Submission,” and she was joyous, happy to be herself.

Stuck in my head:  “Anarchy in the U.K.” – Sex Pistols

What Shoes Go with Tool?

Summer concert season is in session.

A few weeks ago, I checked the incomplete schedule for my preferred concert venue in Massachusetts.  Nuttin’ much.  Next, I bebopped over to Tool’s site to see if they were swinging back this way again.  I knew they were still on tour and that some shows earlier this year had been postponed due to Danny Carey’s torn bicep surgery and recovery.  (Drummers kind of need biceps that are, well, NOT TORN.)  And there it was:  “New dates added for Boston and [some other places I don’t remember because I stopped reading after ‘Boston’].”

YES!

I checked the Tour link.  Boston, July 12, Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre.

Huh?

What Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre?  Where is there a Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre in Boston?  Mansfield?  Massachusetts?  New England?

What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?

Clickety-click and googledy-google.  Was it the Tweeter Center with new naming rights?  No.  It can’t be the (new) Garden, because that’s not an amphitheatre, right?  Right.  Search Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre.  The closest, best match was for the Verizon Wireless ARENA in Manchester, New Hampshire.  Is it close to Boston?  Yes, about as close as Mansfield is, and that’s often considered the Boston stop on tours.  Check the Arena schedule.  No Tool in July.  Well, that must be it, it’s just not on their site yet, and I don’t think I’ll go to an indoor show in New Hampshire.  Bummer.

Driving home from work later in the week (Friday), and without carpoolers Lauren, Jeannie, and Leah on board, I flipped through radio stations in search of something appealing to my ears.  I came upon Tool’s “Vicarious.”  Jackpot.  Oh, wait, someone’s yapping over it; it’s just a commercial.

A COMMERCIAL FOR TOOL TICKETS GOING ON SALE TOMORROW AT 10:00 A.M. AT MY PREFERRED CONCERT VENUE!!!

Can you say Fucking Crazy Deliriously Happy?  I can.

(Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre in Boston?  Incorrect data, that’s all.)

So, that night, before going beddy-bye, I made sure I was logged in to the ticket sales site, that my account info was entered and up to date, had my credit card nearby just in case, and set two alarms for 9:45 a.m. even though I’m up earlier than that.

Hardcore, baby.

You see, after enjoying Tool from afar last year, I knew I wanted to see them again, but a little more up close.

I purchased the tickets as soon as my fingers and the interweb would allow.

SECTION 3, 19TH ROW, MOTHERFUCKERS.

That’s 19 rows from the stage.  Off-center, towards the side of the stage where Maynard was doing his sing last year.

After much rejoicing, I let it sink in further.

Close to the stage.  Close to the hot lights.  Packed in with a bunch of energetic fans.  In mid-July.

Last year, far from the stage, on an unseasonably cool late September evening, I was comfortable.

This year, I very well may die in a pool of my own sweat.

That is, if I don’t freak out, hyperventilate, and suffocate first.  Yeah, I don’t do well in crowds. Tight, unmoving, seemingly endless crowds = hyperventilation.  Been there, done that, several times.

What was I thinking?

But then I thought, 19th row, and smiled.  I’ll manage, just this one time.  Also, I made a mental note that sandals might not be the way to go unless I want broken toes.  Which I don’t.

So much for “from a good, safe distance.”

Stuck in my head:  “Trip Like I Do” – The Crystal Method

Comments:

Life Is Better Without Socks

That was a very lovely Mother’s Day.  Second only to two years ago, when Mom was at the rehab hospital.  (Yeah, I know that might not sound so great, but considering how far she had come since being in ICU hooked up to a respirator, basically in a drug-induced coma for nearly two weeks, well, you’d feel celebratory, too.)

This year was the more traditional Mother’s Day cookout at Tim’s.  However, I think this was the first time in the past four or five years that it wasn’t overcast or rainy.  In fact, it was the most splendid weather one could wish for – dry, sunny, and warm (not hot), with a gentle breeze.  I would sell my soul for a month of days like that.  (That is, if I hadn’t already sold said soul to The Devil that is Corporate America.)

Jackie decided we should eat indoors, though, in case it was still a little too cool outside for the moms.  I think my mother would have been okay dining al fresco, but Jackie’s mother is older and the guy she married a few years ago is even older, so they probably would have felt chilly in my 67 degree perfection.

Tim barbecued chicken and pork and grilled some veggies, and there was corn and black bean salad (Tim’s recipe – yum!) and my potato salad.  Jackie’s sister was supposed to bring dessert, but I don’t know what happened there (she flaked out, as usual, with some lame excuse or personal crisis), so Tim made a Heath bar trifle.  (Have I mentioned that Tim is a much better cook than Jackie?  ‘Cause he is.)

Hanging out in the family room, Red Sox game on (what a finish!), I looked out the sliding door and noticed that the badminton net and croquet wickets were set up.  The Wonderful Emma was sitting next to me, and I asked her if she would like to partake later.  (I thought it would be polite to hang with the “grown-ups” for a while.)  A few minutes later, Emma got up to get some soda or something, and Mom leaned over and said, “She asked if you’d play badminton with her.”

“Yeah.  I just asked her.  We’re going out later.  When did she ask you?”

“Just before you got here.”

Heh.  Emma knows who the big kid is, who likes to play.

We started with badminton.  I kicked off my flat sandals, choosing dirty feet over a wipeout on the grass.  Emma did the same.  Still, we had a couple of little wipeouts – the half-split variety, not both feet out from under you/land hard on your butt.

We played for about an hour or so, and Emma was ready to switch to croquet.  I went inside to get some water and invited Mom to join us.  She’s a big kid, too – to the extent her back injury permits.  She played (and won) one game before succumbing to back pain.  Emma and I went another round before Tim came out to join us.  We played a few more rounds and then switched back to badminton.  Mr. Jock Plagued with Knee Injuries teamed with Emma for two against moi.  (Tim can still play hockey and golf, but running is out.  Too many years (10+) playing first base have not been kind to his knees.)

The highlight of all this game play, however, had to be my Big Stumbling Fall.  The stuff that “America’s Funniest Home Videos” is made of.  Pity, the cameras weren’t rolling.  Lady Klutz lost her balance while running for the shuttlecock, and it turned into one of those can’t make it stop, staggering, traveling stumbles.  Seriously, I was gaining momentum throughout the fall.  When I finally made landfall, a good five seconds and twenty feet away from the initial loss of balance, I just rolled over on the ground, laughing so hard there were tears streaming down my face and I was unable to speak.  I looked up and saw Emma doubled over laughing, too.  Tim was smirking.

“Are you done with that fall?”

Best.  Fall.  Ever.

Kudos.

The only thing that could have made it better was if Mom had witnessed it.  I know she would have absolutely loved it.  It would have been a great Mother’s Day gift for her.  She would have been so proud.  “Yeah, that one’s mine.”

Now, all this time that I was outside playing with Emma, not once did dud Jackie, her mother and her fossil of a husband, or her lazy lump, fat-ass sister so much as step outdoors.  Did I mention it was splendid weather?  ‘Cause it was.

Unbelievable.  To me, anyway. I don’t get these people.  (They don’t do board games, either.  My family is all about the board games.)  Jackie’s mother and the fossil aren’t exactly invalids.  I know they golf.  So, why, on a perfectly lovely day, wouldn’t they play a little croquet (I’ll excuse them from badminton) with the only child in the family?  With a wonderful, not at all bratty child?

I don’t get it, and I don’t want to.  And I certainly didn’t let it ruin my day.  I had fun.  Sunny, glorious, falling down silly fun.  Emma did, too.

It was so worth having to scrub the dark forest green, grass-stained soles of my feet.

Stuck in my head:  “Right in Two” – Tool