Tuesday, September 29, 2015

An Iconic Rebel Heart

Last night, I went to my eleventh Madonna concert, eight of which I've been accompanied by MJagger, my fellow Madonna Whore.

MJagger and I have been waiting--impatiently--for months for this blessed event, so we were mighty excited when yesterday finally arrived.

Prior to leaving for the event, I was sitting with my niece at the kitchen table, me giddy with delight. In one sentence, she summed it up for her generation: "Young people don't know Madonna's music." Despite knowing this to be true, I had to do some deep breathing to remain conscious and in the chair.

Now, I know many of you don't give a rat's ass about Madonna, but please indulge me with the opportunity to spew adoration via a humble blog. If it helps, imagine me looking like a giggling teenage girl. It was a great concert and I have to talk to someone. There is only so much Madonna talk the wife can handle and the dog is deaf, so you're it.

I LOVED this concert. Madonna outdid herself. How? 

By being happy.

That says a lot. In concerts, she's a machine, perfection in choreography, a spectacle, flaunting incredible physical prowess and duration....but, during the past few tours, she didn't seem happy. She was amazing, her show was indescribable, but she didn't glow with happiness.

This time, she oozed with glee. She genuinely looked happy to be on stage, to be performing, to be live with 20,000 of her closest friends (three fourths of which is comprised of adobrable, uber-pumped, super-sassy gay men). She engaged the crowd more than I've seen in decades, seemingly enjoying the audience connection.

During the past few tours, she gave an slight air that she didn't really give a shit about the audience--we were her minions and she was there to entertain, not embrace. She gave us perfection but not glee or authenticity or humanity. No offense, Madonna. I love your perfection. I was okay with being a minion. The concerts were great, ambitious, awe-inspiring. I go for the show, not to be loved. I get it. But, seriously--we were minions...

Last night, she was OUR minion.

She openly, unabashedly, gladly exclaimed aloud--and showed us--that she PERFORMS and WORKS for US.  Madonna sang "True Blue," a song she has never performed in concert (well, not that I remember), dedicating it us, her devoted fans, her "spouse." That says a lot. She dedicated--blessed--us with recognition that we are true blue and she is true blue to us.

It doesn't get any better than that.

An unbelieveable surprise: her singing was much, much, much improved. I don't know how to say it other than to say she sounded great and was lip synching much less--in fact, very little at all. Go figure.

Maybe it's easier to stay on pitch when one is happy. 

The Madonna tours of old have been grand shows--happenings--not singing events. You don't go to a Madonna concert to hear her sing. You go for the gesalt. If you wanted to hear her sing, you listened to the studio-perfected CD.....

She proved us wrong last night. She proved us very, very wrong. MJagger and I were downright stunned. Her singing was right on pitch, the whole night through. She sounded like a singer.

The concert was delicious. I mean, how can a show not be incredible when the star surfs a nun who is hanging parallel on a pole? Interestingly to me, she sang a lot of "old" hits. Usually, she sticks to the newest stuff and tosses out a handful of previous hits. She put new spins on the oldies, which made them fresh and relevant. With each song, she proved that she really was working for the crowd, not for herself, not for perfection.

My only regret? That I didn't buy the expensive seats. I've spent obscene amounts of money on Madonna concerts. This time, I thought it'd be okay to be further away from the stage, allowing us an overview of the entire happening. Damn, was I wrong. She spent the majority of the time at the end of/on the cat walk, so near to her admirers that it was ridiculous. We could have counted her eyebrow hairs. I think MJagger wanted to punch me in the face for my decision. I regret it with all my true blue heart.

Her latest album, Rebel Heart, has zero hits on the radio. Zero. She doesn't make the top ten any more, depsite having number one albums every time she releases a new album.  Some of that is precipated by the fact you can't play a song that's chorus is, "Bitch, I'm Madonna" or feature the "F word" as part of the lyrics on today's pop hit stations.  It's also because her fans aren't top ten today's pop radio station listeners. Her fans are more likely to be dancing in a gay bar than listening to the radio.

If you ask me, that's okay. 

In fact, that's more than okay. Young people have yet to realize they should respect their elders. We'll keep Madonna. You keep Miley. (I hope Miley gives props to Madonna, as without Madge, Miley would not be flying around naked on a wrecking ball. Just sayin.')

Madonna remains very relevant. Youngsters may not know her, youngsters most likely make fun of her. But, those young pups need to recognize that Madoona is the reason today's performers can do what they do. She is the reason music has evolved, that concerts have stepped up their producton. Like her or not, she paid her dues, put herself out there to be hated, judged, taunted...she deserves our musical respect. Madonna is the reason that women like me--of a middle age--can act however we want and have a good time. Who has time to get old when there is Madonna to prove us wrong? Dear god, one can only hope to have that much stamina at age 57. It's not all about the boys. She made it possible for the ladies to be front and center.

So thank you, Mother Madge. Thank you for speaking in a "normal" Midwestern voice, not some British-tinged accent. Thank you for being true blue to your fans. Thank you for singing to us, for embracing us, for working for us.

Your little rebel heart is iconic. 
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Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Hap-pap-pap-a-ning

You've waited a long time for this post. I best make it worth the wait.

How can a blog about girl parts and the gynecologist NOT be worth the wait? I put off writing the blog until post-pap. I didn't want you to miss a thing. I went to the gynecologist today, so I am fresh and pretty and ready to blog.

Now, I know you've read the story about the lady who had glitter on her lady parts when she went to the gynecologist. There is no glitter involved in this tale, so no worries. You've almost certainly read the post about the lady whose self-waxing job goes horribly, horribly wrong. No waxing was involved in this story, either. (If you haven't read either of these stories, you need to find them on the web. You'll enjoy a loud guffaw, I assure you.) While I don't need wax or glitter, I do need extended use a razor blade--after all, everything you own is in perfect view when you are at the gynecologist. Miss a hair on your ankle? BAM! It's there to see. Haven't shaved the top 1/2 of your legs in a few years? BAM! The nurse can see that stuff from across the room. One does not want to go to the gynecologist with stray armpit hair or a dirty belly button....

As it was time for my kinda-sorta-maybe-not-annual annual pap and exam, I scheduled an appointment. I'm all good with getting a quick check under the hood to make sure all is firing as is appropriate. I decided to go to a friend's doctor, as mine fell off the face of the earth (I'm not kidding--there is no record of him anywhere--I've googled him to the point it is stalking). I've seen this new doctor's "work," as I viewed a DVD of the hysterectomy he performed on my friend. (THAT'S something you don't get to view every day). It was an easy enough decision. The appointment was set. All I had to do was groom and wait. Or, wait and groom, I suppose.

Side note: I am bitter than I'm 53 years old and still get my period EVERY. SINGLE. MONTH.
Side side note: I could be my own child's grandmother at this rate.

Later in the week, while seated at the kitchen table eating lunch, I have this terrifying thought: I could not remember if I removed my "last" tampon from this month's visitation. I experience a rush of thoughts and emotions. How could I not know this? Why would I not have removed it? What if it's still in there? Of course, I cannot for the life of me recall anything about this "event" or "non-event."

There is only one thing I can do: look.

I can't say I have ever really done this kind of "search and rescue" mission and I wasn't sure how to approach this predicament. I'd never really looked before. I mean REALLY looked. Why look? What could possibly be so exciting down there that would require a lengthy gander? I plodded up the stairs, grabbed the wife's "I-need-this-to-pluck-chin-hairs" magnifying mirror, dropped my drawers and popped a squat.

I'm not sure if it was the magnification or the lighting or the angle, but let me tell you, I was stunned by what was going on down there. I daresay I let out a gasp.

Now, since I don't know what it looked like down there before this blessed event, I don't know if things look the same or different. All I know is things don't look like I thought they would look. I found myself wondering WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?

I will spare you the details. Let's just say that I wasn't sure if "this view" was an age thing, a normal thing, an oh-my-god thing, a "something to be proud of" thing.

Side note: My words of wisdom to you are: GO LOOK AT YOURSELF. This was a big thing to do back in the 1970's but I haven't heard anyone talking about this for decades. Well, I'm here to revive this activity. After reading this blog, grab a mirror and take a really close look at what is going on down there. (Well, I suppose this won't be the same for men...but, they have stuff they can look at, too.) By taking a gander now, you'll know if things change. Because I had not looked, I did not know if the view was representative of my entire adult life or the last five five hours or since I sneezed last week. 

I totally forgot about the tampon.

For the next few days, I spent a lot of time on Google, looking for photos of girl parts that matched my girl parts. This is a nerve wrecking endeavor, as one must be careful not to click on the wrong link, lest porn, viruses or malware invade the lands. Suffice it to say, I saw a lot of things of which might or might not look like anything I own. Armed with knowledge, I was ready for the doctor.

Today was the day. Fresh and pretty, I met the new doctor. I'm pleased to report that he spent much time talking to me before I had to show off all my newly shaved parts. That's always a good way to do business, if you ask me--clothes on while talking. I described my concern--tampon, yadda yadda, look in mirror, yadda yadda, is that supposed to look like that????? Being a gentle, kind soul, he described what he was doing and seeing. In detail. Seriously--I really didn't need to hear all that commentary, but it was nice for him to try. At least he kept things moving while he was talking. In an effort to keep conversation going, I managed to say stupid things--like, how I viewed the DVD of him doing a hysterectomy. I'm not sure what's weirder--that I said that or that I watched the video.

Um, yeah--that view down there? It's exactly what it's supposed to look like...or, so the doctor said. I guess I should believe him; after all, I'm sure he's seen a lot of interesting things over the many years he's been in practice and I haven't even seen myself. The doctor added that most people don't look and thus they don't know what things really do or should look like. Points for trying to normalize my weirdness and ignorance. He won bigger points for not laughing. I give the nurse the biggest kudos because she had to hear me ask my questions twice and not laugh. I'm sure she'll have a great story for when she goes out with her friends after work. She smiled and nodded through the entire ordeal. Geez.

He was unable to say much about my bionic ovaries. When it's time, it will be time. Until then, I shall continue my march toward menopause, month by month by month. Sigh.

For the record, he did not find a tampon. 

So, your homework is to go look at yourself. I'm not kidding. Do it in honor of the Addiverse. Do it in honor of the women of the world. Do it in honor of yourself. Do it in honor of lost tampons around the world.

.....Just don't use one of those magnifying mirrors lest you burn that image into your retinas.
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Monday, September 14, 2015

Chinny Chin Chin

In an attempt to keep myself entertained, behaved and distracted, I embarked on an Addiverse experiment last week. I couldn't write about it until I had scientific data to share....

For some unknown reason, I decided to grow "out" my chin hair and see just how many chinny chin chin hairs were hanging out on my chinny chin chin.

I had no way of knowing how many locks of beauty were hanging out on my chin without this experiment, as I usually pluck 'em as I find 'em. I figured it would take a week. If I can go a month in winter without shaving my legs, I can go a week without plucking a chin hair.

I am here to tell you that I have TEN chin hairs, all of which happen to be hanging out in one location: the left side of my lower chin. (For the record: I tried to take a photo of the chin hairs but it was not meant to be. Every photo I took was blurry and did not show the hairs. I did not have time to find my "real" camera, so you'll have to use your imagination.)

It's nice of my chinny chin chin hair to congregate in one location. Not only does that keep things neat and tidy, it will help my caregiver when I'm 90 and need my chin hairs plucked. They'll be easier to find.

Interestingly to me, they are hard to see from a distance. I thought they'd be screaming and waving and scaring small children by the time they got to this "point" of the experiment. Oh sure, if you are within a foot of my face (why you would be there, I do not know) and the lighting is good, you would be able to see these tree trunks. If you brushed up against my face (again, I know not why you'd be in a position to do so, but let's go with it for scientific research purposes), you'd think I was George Michael. (Okay, your eyes are closed and you're delirious and you think you're in a park in England, THEN you'd think it was George Michael.)

I do not understand chin hairs nor do I anticipate thinking about them much more after I rip those puppies out of their holding place. They do not serve a purpose besides to mark the ticking of time.

I assume that as I age I will grow more chin hairs; after all, these didn't exactly show up for several decades. For now, I will celebrate the perfect ten.

The hardest part of this week long experiment was trying not to "play" with the "stubble." If you have ever had a chin hair, you know what I mean. It's like the thing calls to you..."I'm over here! Let me make you insane. Bwaa haa haa!" When you find said hair, nary a pair of tweezers can be found. You are left to your own devices until those tweezer surface.

Now, I know there are some women who have to shave a full beard, so I'm not complaining about ten chin hairs. God love those women. This blog has nothing to do with that. And, don't you ever make fun of women who must shave because I know some of these women and I know that they are NOT happy about this need-to-shave thing because we as a species are very judgmental about that. So, be nice. It would suck to have a women beard. 

The experiment is over. I deem it a complete success. I'm going to pass the findings to Eldest Niece, as I've informed her she will be in charge of my chin hairs once I'm in a nursing home and can no longer tend to my ten.

Let the tweezing begin!


Friday, September 04, 2015

Twins of the OCPD

Happy Labor Day Weekend, party people of the Addiverse! May you be labor free this fine holiday weekend. (Unless you are awaiting the birth of a child and you are bitter because you have yet to go into labor. You should labor.)

Good news: Doctor Who returns September 19th--Season Nine is approaching quicker than the TARDIS zipping to a different dimension. I can barely contain myself. The return is even sweeter knowing that River Song will return for a special appearance this season. Be still, my beating time lord hearts! I know the majority of you don't care about any of this, but I'm just smitten with the whole Who thing. Last season was way too short. Damn those British writers who only wrote 12 episodes in Season Eight. (I hear Season Ten might be shorter or even delayed, what with "Sherlock" in production. Ugh!)

On the homefront, we've made an addition to our family. No, no--not a puppy. Dear god, shame on you for even thinking that. No, we've added a person. A temporary guest has been welcomed into our humble, organized abode. Eldest niece is staying with us while she student teaches in the Cheddarlands.

I was a wee bit concerned that the wife, queen of obsessive compulsive personality disorder, might not fare too well during this endeavor....after all, we've never had anyone live with us or even stay with us for any duration of time...

Turns out I was worrying about the wrong person.

See, the wife and niece are getting along quite handsomely. They are two peas in an OCD pod. They are organizing and cleaning and dusting and bonding like there's no tomorrow. They talk about school and teaching and testing and what not. They speak of math and licensure and keeping things in their time and place. The bathroom has never been cleaner. They are just basking in each other's organized glow.

I live in terror. 

Although she'd totally deny it, the wife is giving me the stink eye more than usual. I can tell I am not living up to the OCPD standards of these evil twins. Try as I might, I cannot live without leaving at least some kind of "trail." It's just my way of being. The niece doesn't leave a trail or a mess or any signs of life.

I live in OCD stereo...or, perhaps OCPD hell, where everything has a time and place and reason.

The bar has been raised just that much higher because the niece is performing beyond measure.

I'd write more but I have to go clean up after myself. I see a glass on the counter and my watch on the table. My work bag is on the floor near the door.....

...Come December, I'll remember the terror in which I swim. See if she gets a Christmas present this year.
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