Confesssions of a Madonna Whore, Part 78

Not that I'm counting, I have posted about Madonna/Madonna concerts 77 times over the lifespan of this blog. (I cheated by looking the labels. No, I didn't go back through 1007 posts to count one by one.) There are probably more than that because I stopped using labels a while back. Well, here is post #78.

I'm not sure if I want or don't want Madge to read it. I'll leave it up to her.

Last blog, I told you how MJagger and I were set to go to the Madonna concert in Chicago--last Thursday, to be exact. I also noted in said blog that the concert didn't start until 10:30 PM.

Who starts a concert at 10:30 PM on any day, let alone a school night? I've been asleep for at least an hour by the time she was scheduled to take the stage.

I've seen Madonna in concert 11 times. The thought of not seeing her for the MadameX tour doesn't even register in my brain. It has no meaning. I've seen her in Chicago ten of those times and once in Dallas. I've seen ten of her eleven tours. Her shows blow me away. Her persona intrigue me to no end. Her music delights me. Her balls scare me.

I did a bit of research about this 10:30 PM start time. Turns out, the tickets didn't actually say that in the beginning. Doors open at 7:30 PM. Hmmm. Tricky. I didn't think MJagger and I would totally miss that start time when buying the tickets.

Every review indicated that Madonna started later than 10:30 PM... which didn't surprise me. According to the myriad reports perused, her Madge-esty took the stage at 11 PM. Good to know. The shows were described as being just shy of three hours long. Ooooh, that's good news.... but, wait.... if she starts at 11 PM, that means the concert isn't over until.... People were writing about how they got out of the concert hall at 2 AM. Confirmed in writing made me nervous. Itchy. Befuckled. That's late. Really late. As in "I'm usually getting up at the time we'd be getting home" late.  We would be getting home at 4 AM. On a school night!

You know where this is going, right? Yup. My Madonna Whore confession is: 
We sold our tickets and instead went to dinner in town... at 5 PM.

Go ahead. Laugh. It's okay. We did. Madge and the gay boys may be up at 2 AM but I'm not. We ate dinner at 5 PM and I was sound asleep for hours before Madonna took the stage.

I remain mortified by and disappointed with myself but I am also relieved. Decisions need to be made. I needed sleep. I love Madonna but I love myself more. I've got a busy few weeks. I know life is short and that it's important to do things when possible, as there is no guarantee there will be a "later." Madonna intrigues me like no other. But, for this moment, for this day, for this concert, I had to sacrifice the Toys of Boys and sell the tickets.

FTR, I take consolation in knowing I am ten years older than MJagger--since she's young and found it to be "too late" of a start time, I feel a wee bit less distressed. 

The reviews for her Chicago tour are great. They ooze with delight. There is much mention of the late start time but the reviews glow, nonetheless. Kudos for Madonna for making it a cellphone/camera free event. (GREAT decision by her--watch the show instead of staring at your phone. Be present!) Most of her songs were from the new album which is fine by me. My only question for Madge, if I should meet her, is why she sings La Isla Bonita at EVERY show on EVERY tour???? There has to be a reason. Maybe it's a lucky charm, like a lucky star???

For those keeping score, here's the set list (of which I will be making a CD and pretend to have heard in person): God Control. Dark Ballet. Human Nature. Express Yourself. Vogue. I Don’t Search I Find. Papa Don’t Preach. American Life. Batuka. Killers Who Are Partying.  Crazy. La Isla Bonita. Sodade. Medellin. Extreme Occident. Frozen. Come Alive. Future. Crave. Like A Prayer. I Rise.

Unless matinee tickets surface or free tickets for a Saturday night fall into our laps, MJagger and I will watch the performance on a DVD instead of live in a concert venue......

And yes, we'll go to dinner at 5 PM before watching the show.
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Write, Right, What??!!!

Greetings, fellow Earthings!

Where have you been? Oh wait--it's me I should ask. Where have I been? Writing. Traveling. Shopping. That's where I've been. Where have you been while I've been where I've been? I hope you are well.

I've been avoiding political banter as part of blogging. I am fueled with anger when it comes to today's world. I really don't want to blog about it. It takes a LOT of effort and energy on my part not to spew about the ridiculousness of our country's fine leaders. I have MUCH to say. I try not to say it. You can read of it elsewhere. Or, maybe here sooner than not. There's only so long I can bite my tongue.

I've also been bitter. Once I learned that the wife had stopped reading my blog like a year ago, I became jaded. If you can't get your own wife to read your blog, what's the point? It's taken me awhile to let go of the bitterness. The result, now that I'm over my bitter way of being? I've decided I'll write about her. Ha! That'll teach her. She gives me much fodder of which to use in a blog post. You just wait, missy....

Let's start with writing. (Madonna can wait until the end of the blog.) My job has morphed into this bizarre, no-title entity of which requires me to write/type/be witty a lot more than previously... every day is spent in front of a computer. I do NOT know how anyone sits at a computer all day. I find it so impossible that it led me to buying a standing desk. I'm supposed to be doing our social media, writing and up-keeping our website, spend oodles of time managing our electronic health record, writing policy and procedure, training staff.. in addition to anything else deemed appropriate. You get the drill. (I'd post the links to the stuff I'm writing but this blog is weird and I'm not sure my employer would want the two connected.) All this computer-work sounds fun and the increased writing/creativity IS fun and doesn't sound like a lot and it isn't...

....until you combine that with the side gig I picked up "teaching" (and, I do use that term loosely) three sections of a college class. One in-person night class and two on-line sections. Ninety students keep me hopping.

Whose idea was it to assign 90 students a paper the first week of the semester? Oh wait--that was me. I'm not sure what I was thinking but 90 papers to grade... and make comment, well that keeps me busy during the time I used to blog. Every week, I respond to ninety discussion entries on discussion boards. It's only far I chime in when they are taking the time to pour their hearts and souls out. There is also other homework but the discussion boards take the most time. I absolutely love reading what the students are writing. It's a whole different world in comparison to my college days. It blows me away.

Professor Addiverse

I have no idea if I'm doing a good job or not with the on-line sections as I've never taken an on line class. My evaluations are great but that doesn't actually tell me if I'm doing what an on-line class should "do." I'm thinking about taking one just so I can see what other professors "do." I'm open to suggestion. If you've taken an on-line class and have an opinion, please let me know. I'd love to hear from you, especially in regards to the things you DIDN'T like.

Lest you find me too whiny, let me assure you that much time has been spent traveling and shopping. Costco opened a store only two miles away from our house. Have you ever been to Costco? They are massive and they are chock full of items of interest and they are FABULOUS. We've gone there twice on "date night" because that's how much we like the place. We have so much more to explore. The last time we were there, they were turning off the lights. We couldn't figure this out... until someone finally told us the store was closed. Oops!

As for traveling, I have another side gig which requires me to fly places so I can survey other agencies. This is an awesome side gig, although I'm not sure the wife agrees, as she's the one who has to stay home with the dogs. I'm getting really good at the "I only need an under-the-seat-bag" means of packing--I gladly share packing tips as needed. Since these places tend to be far from the bigger airports, I get to take "baby planes" as means of getting to where I'm going. The next trip, which is not for quite some time but they plan ahead, requires me to fly to Dallas on a big plane and then to a town in the middle of nowhere on a baby plane. Here's to good weather and on-time flights.

On a different note, MJagger and I are supposed to go to a Madonna Concert on Thursday night. I say supposed to because we just figured out the concert doesn't start until 10:30 PM ON A SCHOOL NIGHT! Who starts a concert at 10:30 PM on a weekday night? How we missed the start time of the concert, I do not know but we both did. Talk about "....and, what?" We love Madonna but I'm not sure I love her that much anymore--we both gave a collective "WHAT?!!!" several times when figuring out this concert start time. Since the concert is downtown Chicago, we have to add 1.5 hours travel time from the concert. God knows she won't start on time, so if she starts at 11 PM, which is probably what will happen, we won't get home until 2:30 AM. Work starts at 8 AM. I will be one crabby patty. I know Madonna will be very disappointed in me, seeing as she is older than me and she's staying up into the wee hours.

Listen Madge: MJagger and I have to work the next day. Don't you believe in the matinee? I'd rather get into the groove on a Sunday afternoon. Besides, I have 90 discussion entries to grade.

The dogs are fine.
The wife is fine.
The tattoos are fine.
But, Madge--that isn't fine.

That's where I've been. That's where I'll be. Glad to be back. Get ready to read about the wife.

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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Late but Great: Madonna 2012

MJagger and I went to the Madonna concert Wednesday night as scheduled.  This is our seventh Madonna concert together--we are true Madonna whores. (This was my tenth time seeing Madonna in concert. Can I claim this on my tax returns?) After weeks of anticipation, the day had come.  We survived our work day, got into my stick-shift car and headed to Chicago, tickets and money in hand.  Thankfully, MJagger had taken motion sickness pills, as there is NOTHING like being the passenger in a stick shift car in stop-n-go Chicago traffic.  I did my best to keep her from getting "stick-shift-induced-car sickness" but with the rush hour traffic, anything I tried was a feeble attempt....it literally took us one hour to go nine miles.  That is not a typo.  The 1.5 hour trip took us three hours.  So much for being early.  (Thankfully, we had heard that Madonna was starting her concerts later than advertised, so we didn't feel stressed. Worse come to worse, we'd miss the opening DJ and I can't say either of us gave a rat's ass about that.)

We took our traffic-tortured selves for dinner at a nice Chicago restaurant, seated in one of the better window seats.  I think it was my Madonna t-shirt that inspired the hostess to give us such a nice window seat--or, maybe it was my stick shift car...the valet guy seemed very impressed that I drove a stick shift car--"One in a thousand" he claimed. Dinner was indeed delicious, very enjoyable, perfect preparation for the concert. Word to MJagger: when they say "the special," this refers to what they are featuring, not the price.  Oh, to see MJagger's face when the bill came...although the special was indeed very special, it was not on special. Yum!

We parked our car in the "crack lot" and got to the venue without incident. We were pleasantly surprised by our seats--much closer to the stage than anticipated, a clear view of the catwalk, sure to be able to see Madonna without issue, even via my trifocals.  We settled in and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Madonna didn't take the stage until 10:30 PM.  This on a weeknight--a school night!  TEN THIRTY.

I'm used to waiting for bands to start--they are almost always somewhat late...but 2.5 hours late? It just seemed rather disrespectful.  I hate to say that--I hate to say anything even remotely negative about the lady who's changed the music world--but it seemed very disrespectful toward her fans. For Pete's sake, I am usually asleep for an hour by the time 10:30 PM rolls around.  Doesn't Madonna know that half her audience belong to AARP? Look around--we're her people. MJagger was probably the youngest female there and she's 40.  (Gay guys don't count--many were in their 20's--the gays of all ages have a healthy respect the Queen of Pop.) I was so tired by the time Madonna took the stage that I could barely stand up and cheer.  I think my agitation kept me awake.  Sure, there was a DJ for a half hour (around 9 PM or something) but I didn't pay to hear some Rick Astley looking DJ.  I paid to see my beloved Madonna, preferably more on time than not.

Thankfully, I loved the show.  Madonna will never be a great singer--that's not why you go to one of her concerts. You go because she is an amazing show woman.  Amazing. There is nothing like a Madonna concert--it is an experience, a happening, an artistic event.  It's lights and technology and music and visual overload. It's wonder. You don't go because you want to hear her greatest hits--that's not going to happen.  Madonna is true to her most recent album, in this case MDNA.  If you bought your ticket with the hopes she'd sing all her songs from the 80's and 90's, you were one mighty disappointed ticket holder--that's not what she does or has ever done.  (Well, besides the Re-Invention Tour, but that long ago and unusual for Madge. You missed your chance for greatest hits if you missed Re-Invention.) Here's a blurry photo of the opening act (all my photos are blurry--what can I say--camera phones can only do so much), complete with the largest Catholic Incense thingy I have ever seen.  Praise the baby Jesus, Madonna is still struggling with her Catholic roots.  Someone get her an exorcism!

People have been complaining that her opening act is too violent and too bloody.  Um, have you people watched TV in the past 25 years? This was no worse than those crime shows on television, so don't be having a double standard.  Did I like that she had guns and blood and yuck splattering everywhere on the big screen? Not particularly.  Did I get upset or disturbed by it? Not at all.  It had a point and it really wasn't worse than anything on Prime Time.  Here's a really blurry photo of Madonna striking a gun pose, complete with posse of gun-toting women. Bang, bang!

(Don't even get me started about the double standard about age--why is it that men in music can easily be 60 or more years old and no one says a word but bring on a 54 year old woman who happens to be in amazing shape and can run circles around most 20 years olds and you get a bunch of criticism that she's too old to be doing this or that.  Grrrrr.) 

She sang several of my favorite songs during the not-so-shocking-supposedly-horrible-blood-bath Act One, so I was all good with everything even more-so than I would have been.  I happen to like her old and new music.  I listened to the new album non stop in preparation for the concert.  I checked out the set list.  I read reviews. I did my homework. I embrace the ever-changing world of this genius. Anyone who features Lil Wayne in a pop song is all right with me.

My favorite part of the show was when the "marching" drummers came out, suspended over the crowd, banging out a killer cadence.  MJagger says my jaw dropped open and I believe her. Being a drummer and a marching band nerd, I was in hog heaven. All that marching and baton twirling and loud snare drumming....I didn't think it could get better, despite it being 11:30 PM.  I wasn't a big fan of this song prior to the concert but I have to say, this rendition made it a favorite.

Leave it to Madonna to make baton twirling cool.

Thankfully, Madonna's concert was two hours in duration. Although that left me incredibly sleep deprived, provided a challenge of driving so late at night & made it almost impossible to think/function/speak/perform while at work the next day, I was glad she gave us our money's worth once she bothered to take the stage.  The concert itself was exactly what I was expecting and for that I am grateful. The chance to go to another Madonna concert with MJagger was completely appreciated.  The audacity of Madge being so late was disappointing.  I gave it four out of five stars in my official review (I know, what a nerd--I do concert reviews on line.  What ARE we going to do with me?)  I took away a star for her starting so late.

Would I go to another Madonna concert?  Are you kidding me? Did you even just ask that question?

Yes, of course I would.  Next time, though, we'll skip dinner and take a nap instead.
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Getting things off my chest

As long-time readers know, I am a fifty year old with a subtle (okay, not so subtle) flair for the dramatic. I wasn't going to write about this but I decided it's only fair.  I tell all to my readers.  (Correction: almost all.  The wife has requested a few boundaries be kept.  In her words, "is NOTHING sacred?")  I write this for entertainment value and to show solidarity with the peri-menopausal, anxiety-ridden hypochondriacal women of the world of which I am sure exist.  Stay strong, sisters of the middle age!


No need to panic.  I am alive, well and healthy and have been cleared by Western Medicine and by myself...without the help of a surgical-scrubbed doctor, I have been able to rule out all diseases and conditions that require fever, rash, sweating, weakness, fatigue, blood, phlegm, incontinence, foul smelling urine, diarrhea, constipation, weight gain, weight loss, recent trip to a third world country, loss of appetite, feminine itching, coughing, involuntary movements, distended belly, hair loss, hair growth, eye crossing, gas, hallucinations, voting for Republicans, anal pressure, rectal burning and/or swelling of any body part. Scurvy, syphilis and dandruff have been 100% ruled out.

It was quite surprising. About ten days ago, I was minding my own business, walking down the stairs at work, when the unidentified pain started. I didn't know how to decipher this pain.  As I didn't feel like something was squeezing the piss out of my chest and I didn't have any pain radiating into my left arm, jaw or back, I decided to rule out a heart attack. Still, it was rather disturbing--I stopped walking and grabbed my chest in wonder...

Instead of plain old hysterical panic, I quickly thought about my underwear and arm pit hair--if I'm having a heart attack or other bodily emergency, I need to have on clean underwear. I winced with regret upon the realization that I did not shave my armpits early in the day. (Heck, I did not shave my armpits earlier in the month.) My mother always stressed the importance of clean underwear but I don't remember her saying much about armpit hair.  I took a gander and checked that yes, I had on a pair of my brand new undies, very much fresh and pretty.  Good for me.  Despite the clean, new undies, I couldn't fix the armpit thing.  Sigh.

(I'm not kidding.  I lifted my shirt and took a gander down my pants to see what underwear I had on.  Didn't care that I was standing on the stairs at work. One must have priorities.)

I come from a family full of clean underwear and heart disease. My father, a man who I am sure ALWAYS had on fresh tidy whities, had bypass surgery when in his 40's. That does nothing to soothe the soul of a 50 year old person experiencing the advent chest pain, clean underwear or not. A glimmer of histrionic, distorted thinking began to ooze to the surface, which of course did nothing to abate the mounting anxiety....

Ah, anxiety! I'm not sure I've ever been happy to have anxiety but I have to say that I am all good with anxiety when comparing it to other potential medical issues. After removing myself from the stairwell, I tried out some of the coping skills I teach my clients.  I used all that self talk I profess. I challenged my thoughts. I slowed my breathing.  I went to a safe place in my mind.  I was one in the moment.  I reassured myself and tried not to think about how ineffective these skills seemed to be....

Yeah, that didn't work. What a crock of shit!  (Remind self to apologize to clients.)

...As I contemplated my certain doom, I wondered if hormones could play a factor here--after all, everything is in flux in my body. I may still be able to shoot out a baby but I'm guessing I'm shooting out all sort of other nonsense instead of bouncing babies.  As many of us know, hormones can do just about anything to rational women, turning them into psychotic freaks, which in turn fuels anxiety, which in turn could cause just about anything (well, except scurvy--I don't think changing hormones can cause scurvy).

Thoughts turned to Gertrude Goiter, my beloved thyroid.  Now, you might think this is a weird train of thought, but it's really not.  Have you ever thought about what it's like in my brain? This is a clearer train of thought than usual. I have the thyroid from hell.  God only knows what the hell Gertie Goiter is up to. I haven't had her checked out for awhile. She could probably the cause of just about anything, bitch that she is....

I quickly diss Gertrude and wondered what if it IS the return of pleurisy?  That'd suck but it would still be better than other options. (I'm still happy about the clean underwear while considering all this.  Big points for my love of new, clean underwear.)  I tried to remember what pleurisy was really like.  I have to admit that in my blog came in handy--I was able to go back and read about it.  Huh. Same kind of thing I'm having but it seems different somehow.  Maybe it's my armpit hair multiplying the feeling.

Fast forward to eight days later.  The stupid chest pain has gotten worse, coming and going with no rhyme or reason.  Seriously--I go for a two mile jog with MJagger and I'm no worse for the wear.  I sit down to enjoy some brain-cell-losing television and it starts again.  Everyone who is in the know believes it is anxiety and I don't argue with them. Oh yes, people know--I didn't want people to know but you can't walk around work clutching your chest while sporting a weird look on your face.  These people know me and my drama-soaked brain well.  The wife stares at me and indicates she isn't worried.

Now, it's last night.  (That's kind of a weird sentence.  NOW it's LAST night. I'm leaving it.  I have no time to edit in the Addiverse.) I barely slept at all, stupid pain that it was.  I tossed and turned,  flipped and flopped, unable to get comfortable. I went to the couch and realized that my left arm was bothering me and that my heart was pounding and that my neck was tight.  Imagine how comforting all that was.  I listened to music, played video games and tried to ignore my predicament.  I sat up, I laid down, I rolled on my side, I stood up. Had I any anti-anxiety meds, I would have taken them.  (Note to self: get some good drugs and keep them on hand.  Mark them: for emergency use only. Do not become addicted or sell on the black market.) I thought about taking Benadryl, Norco (leftover from the wife's hysterectomy four years ago--she didn't use them), aspirin, muscle relaxers (left over from the wife's back surgery--again, she didn't use them, what a trooper), ibuprofen, Ex-Lax or stool softeners (they were the only other things left to try in the "medicine bucket") but figured none of these would solve the problem.  I got about two hours of sleep and that's being generous. 

So, the wife gets up at 5:30 AM and asks me what I'm doing and why I'm on the couch.  I give her the "oh-my-god-what-if-this-is-a-heart-attack" look and softly announce, "I need to go the ER.  The pain kept me up all night."  She stares at me, alerting me that she has seen "THIS LOOK" on my face before and that although she is sure I am fine, she knows that I must do what I must do.  I mumble something about my left arm bothering me and she gets a fleeting look of terror.  She agrees to take me to the ER.  I remind myself how it is much better to be embarrassed by being wrong than being dead from a heart attack.

Now, most people would just get up and go to the ER.  Not me.  This time I am going to have shaved arm pits! So, I took my time and took a shower and shaved my arm pits.  I also shaved my legs for good measure.  I washed and scrubbed and put on newly purchased, clean undies, all the while having low-grade chest pain. 

If you want immediate service when going to an ER, just say the words, "I'm having chest pain" when you walk up to the receptionist.  Geez, it was a blur from the moment those words came out of my mouth.  Electrodes flying, buzzers buzzing, IVs inserted, blood samples taken, questions blurting out from here and there, the doctor in the room immediately instead of like three hours later, in the "real" ER world.  EKG, blood work, chest x-ray, quick physical.  The whole time I am telling everyone I see, "I have a history of anxiety.  This might just be anxiety."  They smile and nod but pay no heed.  I have uttered the word "chest pain" and that is all that is needed to be heard. 

Oh, the questions--the questions are enough to give you more anxiety.  Yes, my left arm is bothering me.  No, there is no rhyme or reason.  Yes, I just jogged two miles yesterday without incident.  Mostly "no" answers to the questions, which I take as a good sign.  The poor wife looked green and had to leave the room several times as she does not "do" blood. I tell the nurse that I am embarrassed to be there. I also tell him that I think my counseling ideas are a crock of shit.  He laughed.

Guess what I was diagnosed with?  I bet a whole bunch of you are going to say, "anxiety."

You are wrong.  I was diagnosed with "chest pain" and given a prescription for Norco. 

WTF???? Norco? A pain killer?  I'm not in "that kind" of pain.  I think most people would be giddy with delight to score some Norco.  Not me.  I've got a vat of that at home and I don't ever want to take that if I can help it.  I am left with "chest pain."  Duh. I knew that.

The great news is, no surprise to the wife (or, to MJagger, I am sure),  that I "have a text book EKG" and that all the tests came back negative.  I'm fit as a fiddle.  I am told that I should follow up with my primary care physician in case he wants to do a stress test, although being able to go two miles without issue suggests I don't need one of those.  He asks if I get heartburn often.  Oh brother.  I am rather insulted by this.  I would know what heartburn is. No, no I do not get heartburn--I can eat anything and I never get heartburn. (Knock on wood.) Off come the monitors and out comes the IV.  I am sent home with papers that say I have chest pain. 

I can't complain too loudly about my diagnosis: after all, the wife's birthday is in three days and the Madonna concert is in four days.  I have no time for heart transplants or other dramatic medical interventions.  I have to buy a present and figure out an outfit for the concert.  MJagger and I have to memorize the set list and try to figure out traffic so we are not late.  I have to take the wife out for dinner. 

I have to shave my armpits for Madonna.  

I will probably go see my PCP for shits and giggles (and maybe a prescription for some more appropriate drugs) and he'll give me that concerned doctor look, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will nod in a consoling way and say reassuring things, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will write "anxiety" in my chart.  He'll patronize me and ooze support.  He'll tell me to come back if the pain doesn't decrease and he'll send me for a stress test.  He will write this in the chart but he'll be thinking "anxiety."  Mental illness always trumps potential medical issues.

It will be up to me to take true action. While I'm not ready to give up coffee or Dove Dark Chocolate, I am willing to make concessions.  I will eat one pound less of sugar per day. I'll keep exercising.  I'll eat something green every other day. I'll eat seven less scoops of ice cream a week. (That one is going to be very hard.)  I'll remember that my thoughts are prayers and we are always praying.  I'll make fun of my thoughts and focus on the positive.  I will hang out with friends more and with work less.  I will work with the wife on lower our cholesterol (might as well drag her along for the ride). I will continue to maintain my sense of humor and commend myself for being insightful enough that I have quite the flair for the dramatic.  I will honor my pain and ask it what it needs, wondering what I need to get off my chest. I will balance my chakras and envision a big green ball spinning brightly in my chest. I will stop telling my clients to envision a happy place--I'm going to tell them to take medication and go out and have fun. I'm going to make sure my clients know they need to wear clean underwear every day and, if women, shave their armpits at least once a week.

Okay, once a month.  It's all good if you shave your armpits once a month as long as you are always wearing clean underwear and are agreeable to medication.

Madonna or bust, clean underwear here I come.
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Fourth and Four

Ten more days until the Madonna concert. What to wear, what to wear?

It's my absolute favorite time of year.  Well, besides my birthday week, but that's a given.  I suppose I could say it's my favorite time because it's the time of the wife's birthday and the falling leaves and the closing of the white pants season, but I would be lying.  Those are all really nice things but it's not what makes September rock. It's my favorite time of the year because professional football is back.

Pathetic, I know.

I can't help it.  I love football.  I cannot think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.  (No disrespect to the baby jesus.)  I can't think of one thing I don't like about it.  If the wife can watch reality TV all day and night without too much whining from me, I can watch one day of football without judgment.

(By the way, what IS that mess of a honey boo boo? Oh, the lost thirty minutes I'd like to have back.)  

This year, I have taken football to a whole 'nother level: I am in four fantasy leagues.  What WAS I thinking? It sounded like a good idea at the time but now I'm not sure.  I am super confused and it's hard enough just remembering to check my players' injury status let alone decide who to start. Thankfully, one of the leagues is "only" a confidence pool, so I suppose I should call blog this Fourth and three, but I still have to remember and complete my confidence picks so at four I shall stay.

Thankfully, I was able to figure out how to have two of the leagues on my smart phone, so I can keep track of them from wherever I might be on any given Sunday (pun intended).  It doesn't work out as well as I thought it would, though--I accidentally waived one of my starting running backs when trying to move him up on my list.  It's hard to read on a smart phone when you're 50 years old--that tiny print will get you every time.  I was sick over that and couldn't get him back.  Something about have to wait about the waiver.

This was the first time I participated in a "live draft;" meaning, a bunch of us got together and sat around some stranger's living room while wearing our favorite team jerseys. We stuffed our face with food  and chose our teams, one by one, player by player, all picks displayed on the big screen.  MJagger invited me to the league and she knew the majority, if not all, of the people at the draft.  It happens to be an all-women league, which is really not here nor there except for it's important for blogging purposes: I ask you to envision 14 middle-aged women (sorry, MJagger, you are now middle aged upon crossing that 40 mark) sitting in a living room, 12 of which are wearing Bear jerseys. (I was rocking my McFadden Raider jersey and some poor lady was wearing an Alabama t-shirt. So you can envision how good I looked, here is a photo of me wearing said jersey at a Packers game last year. I've got balls to wear the opposing team's jersey while at Lambeau.) I sat on the couch, cheat sheet in hand, quietly surveying the crowd.  They were obviously well versed not only about football but also about fantasy football.  MJagger had a fantasy football magazine in front of her and it was clear that she had been studying.  Me? I had a few new apps on my phone and decided to go with technology for my information.  We sat by each other and whispered things to each other in an attempt to make sure we didn't end up picking players that were injured, released, on strike or in jail. The Alabama lady picked a guy that was waived and a guy that was no longer on any team.  I didn't have the heart to tell her.

Okay, I'm lying--I was giddy with delight that she picked those people because that means I have a better chance of beating her.

The thing that left me incredulous is that these Bears fans are so hard-core that none of them would pick Aaron Rogers for their quarterback.  I mean, come on--here's the top-rated quarterback in the league and they are all passing him up.  I was number 12 in the draft and almost got Rogers as my starting quarterback. That's unbelievable. The wife would have been pissed off had I gotten him (it's true that every player I ever pick ends up getting hurt) but I would have been a rock star.  Unfortunately, someone finally decided they'd rather win than be true to the orange and blue, so I just missed my chance.

The ladies sounded sincere and polite, gently cheering on each person's picks.  One lady would say, "good pick!" after every pick made by MJagger.  I found this strange and turned to MJagger, who explained to me that was this lady's way of saying "F*ck you."  Oh my.  There was indeed some competition going on.  Sure enough, once MJagger had alerted me of this, I watched carefully and I could tell that the lady was being a complete and total ass.

This was pretty serious stuff.  Too serious. I thought there might be a cat fight if things didn't lighten things up, so I took things into my own hands: I announced I was taking a kicker in the second round.  I thought they were all going to die.  I'm sure they thought I was a moron, but I knew what I was doing. It is fun to toy with the draft.  (I actually didn't take a kicker until the third round, which was terrifying enough for these ladies. I love messing with people.  Keep 'em off balance, that's what I say.)

The draft took over three hours.  I was exhausted by the end.

The next draft was a live on-line draft; meaning, we were all sitting at our computers in the comfort of our homes doing everything electronically.  I was number nine, which meant I had a wee bit better choice of first pick but not much better.  They had a live chat going on so I joined in.  MJagger was also in this pool-- again, these were a bunch of her friends--so, I asked if we could say whatever we wanted in the chat.  MJagger said "of course!" so I typed in some naughtiness, trying to get some banter going.

Silence.

Thanks for nothing, MJagger.

The live computer draft only took an hour, which seemed like drafting on crack in comparison to the live in-person draft.  I thought about drafting the exact same players for both teams, helping me keep track of my Sunday antics, but this was not possible as many of my players were drafted for other teams.  I suppose I should be happy, as my computer draft scored me a whole bunch better players.  If I don't do well in that pool, it's my fault for starting the wrong players.

So, today I will study my three teams (the confidence pool was done and locked by Wednesday, thank god) and try to figure out who to start, where.  I will have NO idea who to cheer for today, as I have players scattered across the league; in fact, I believe I have no "team-duplicates" on my rosters (meaning I have one player per team per league).  I am going to have to rely on the NFL channel, my computer, my phone and the wife to figure out what I'm doing, if I'm winning, if my players are even playing. The remote control is going to be ON FIRE!

I'm gonna need an assistant to keep track of all this.  An assistant and a bookie.

Today, I will not think of Madonna; rather, I will think about cheering for players on teams I hate. It's the weirdest thing to do that, but I will do what I must do to cheer my players to individual victory.

If things get ugly, I can go back to thinking about Madonna, but I'm hoping to stay focused, not distracted by Madge.  I can think about Madonna on Tuesday....after Monday Night Football.

It's fourth and four....I'm ready for some football!
*******************************************************************

Happy 54!

Today is Madonna's 54th birthday. Being the Madonna whore that I am, this is big news.  I am indeed sporting my Madonna t-shirt in her honor.  I will listen to her CDs all day.  I will stare lovingly at the concert tickets I have for September 19th. I suppose I am a bit old to be any kind of musician whore but if Madonna can wear an almost-there mini skirt at age 54, I figure I can obsess about her all I want at age 50. 

Since I am limited on time today, I am going to cheat--I am going to re-post (albeit updated) a previous Madonna-related blogging.  I chose one from 2006, as I figure many of you weren't reading my nonsense back then and those of you who were probably don't remember one word of this.  I know most of it came as a surprise to me.  This was written just after I returned from the a 2006 Madonna concert, attended with the wife and MJagger.  (I can't believe the wife went with us. What a woman!)  We did indeed have an awesome time, as we always do at Madonna concerts.  So, reminisce with me.  And, happy 54 to the material girl.

THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 2006 (as re-posted in honor of madge's birthday 8/16/12)

CONFESSIONS OF A CONCERT-GOING MADONNA WHORE

You can call her Madge. Call her Dita. Call her Ester. Call her Boy Toy. Call her Madonna. I call her orgasmic!

I have returned from the concert and I am here to tell you that Madonna is orgasmic.

Before I go on, I want to confess that I am way too old for things like orgasmic concerts. I could barely get out of bed this morning, and I don’t even drink. I feel like I was hit by a truck. My muscles ache. I’ve got to step up my McYoga.

The contestants in this night of debauchery included MJagger, MJagger’s mom-in-law, the wife and moi. MJagger and I were so excited we could barely sit in the car. I was sporting a smelly-brand-new Madonna ICON fan club t-shirt (smelly because it was new & unwashed), while MJagger was a vision in white—white everything, from sparkly tank top to white flip-flops. What a virginal view of beauty! The trip to the United Center was harrowing—traffic out the wazoo. A 1.5 hour trip took three long hours—terminal traffic thwarted our efforts to get to the concert early. MJagger is not one to be troubled by traffic. She weaved in and out and did the best she could to get to the concert early; however, there is only so much you can do in bumper to bumper traffic. We parked in what MJagger called the “crack parking lot;” she said it’s where she always parks and that you can buy crack as well as park your car. Gee, crack is right on the top of my list of things I want to buy at the concert. MJagger clarified that we wouldn’t be buying crack (please—neither of us has put our lips on a crack pipe, so don’t start rumors). The lot was cheaper than the official lots and promised an “easy in, easy out” parking. I prayed to Grover the car would still be there after the concert. (The wife looked skeptical but said nothing. I think she was still chewing on the whole crack thing.)

Despite the traffic, we had plenty of time—we were in the arena with plenty of time to spare…and, since Madonna didn’t start the concert until 8:45 PM (um, the ticket said she’d be starting at 7:30 PM, but she’s Madonna and she can start her concert whenever she damn well pleases), we had time to pee two times, have a snack, titter about the various fabulous outfits being sported by the fans and meet the fifty zillion gay boys sitting around us. As MJagger is a professional “concert seat hopper,” I was invited to learn her seat-hopping skills. She NEVER sits where her ticket says she should be sitting—she goes for the best possible seat she can confiscate. Since we all had single tickets, she encouraged me to sit next to her (her assigned seat was much better than my cheaper assigned seat) until I got kicked out. So, I snuck by the usher (some high schooler who was not paying attention—not a hard thing to do) and plopped my sorry ass into the seat next to her. It was very entertaining, as the people around me were also not in their assigned seats—it’s like a game of chance. We found ourselves next to “Kenny Chesney” (a good ol’ gay boy from Kittyhawk, North Carolina sporting a cowboy hat and a tight, no-sleeved T-shirt) and his favorite boy toy. They actually flew in from NC to see the concert—my kind of people—and were very proud members of the Madonna ICON fan club. (They were in their assigned seats, by the way—one of the few behaving at this point.) Surrounding us was a fag-hag supposed DJ (who we think was really a pole dancer), her best gay boyfriend, a Chinese girl (who I do not think spoke English) and two Polish persons (who definitely did not speak English). I worked with the crowd to make sure I’d have a seat to jump to in case the rightful owner of “my” seat showed up. Several people thought MJagger was my girlfriend (one person actually asked me if she was my “bitch!”)—we had to explain that my girlfriend (my “bitch”) was sitting in a different, far-away section while I was sitting inexplicably with my friend. Only true Madonna fans can understand this. (We did, by the way, talk to the wife by cell phone before the concert began. We could see her from where we were sitting, so it was kind of like we were almost connected.)

Enough about us--let’s talk about Madonna. She arrived on stage via a giant disco ball. Now, that’s the way to start a party. She was dressed in her best horse-jockeying outfit and the stage was filled with galloping horses. (Madge is really into horses these days.) Quite to my delight, her second song was an updated dance version of her oldy-moldy “Like a Virgin,” sung while riding up and down on a black leather horse saddle. Yee-haw!

Madge is really, really, really tiny. Very thin these days. She has what the wife and I call “arm legs;” meaning, her legs are so small they are like a “normal” person’s arms. Muscle and bones. Lots of muscles but still very teeny. It’s hard to look good in leotards—especially a white leotard, but she is the exception to the rule. I’m worried about her. Falling off that horse must have led to her being teenier than I remember. She still looked amazing—just teeny weeny and incredible in a leotard. The catwalk made it really easy to see Madge up close and personal—very crowd-friendly.

In my humble estimation, the crowd seemed rather poopy. Madonna even flipped off the front row because they weren’t dancing and having a good time. Geez, I would have taken my clothes off to be in the front row! What is wrong with these people? She chastised the crowd for not showing enough effort—and I agreed. MJagger and I were dancing our little legs off, but others were just standing there. Madge got the crowd going by changing the words to “I Love New York” to “suck George Bush’s dick.” (And, the Dixie Chicks get grief? Good God, she just told the crowd to give a blow job to the president!)

There I was, dancing my life away, when I suddenly noticed MJagger was nowhere to be found. Alas, she had made her break for the floor seats. You go, girl! She weaseled her way in next to two “we-don’t-want-you-standing-her-but-we’ll-tolerate-you” boys. MJagger is the master of getting the best seat possible and she is always successful. I aspire to glean some of her skills.

The show was incredible. The wife absolutely loved the “Saturday Night Fever” part of the show—Madonna came out in the best “John Travolta” white pantsuit with black shirt. She recreated the John Travolta movie solo and did a kick-ass job. Then, the dancers came out on rollerskates—a true 70’s flashback. I was beside myself. (Terri, you would have loved it! You would have been right back in 1979 at the roller rink!) Madonna got the crowd grooving and singing (all except those boring farts in the front role—ass wipes!) and hopping up and down. She even put on a “Dancing Queen” white-disco-lit cape. By the way, the “Madonna on a Cross” thing was no big deal—although, I suppose being on a disco-mirrored cross while wearing a crown of thorns could be construed as rather sacrilegious—actually made sense in relation to what was happening at the point in the concert. (It was about the 12 million orphans in Africa, orphaned by AIDS. Madonna has always seemed to hold education and prevention of AIDS near and dear to her heart.) Once she got off the cross, the dancing went into overdrive. Madge wanted to dance, and dance she did!

Suffice it to say that most of the songs performed were from her "Confessions on a Dance Floor" album, which was fine with me as I'm a big fan of that CD. My favorite song of the night was "Sorry," which also happens to be my favorite song on the CD. (I dedicate that one to MJagger, because I am very sorry, as well as I should be.) I don't understand, though, why Madonna insists on performing "La Isla Bonita" at every concert. It's not a favorite of mine and she always performs it. Blech. No offense. I'd rather hear "Holiday."

The two-hour sweat-filled concert ended without an encore. Hell, I wouldn’t have given an encore to that crowd, either. It wasn’t a let down, though, as the ending of show packed a punch. Gold balloons floating from the rafters, pounding bass rattling the chest cavity, disco ball a-spinning. I was exhausted and satisfied. The show was as good or better than the other four Madonna tours I have attended.

For the record, everyone should go to at least one Madonna concert in life. 

Why.Em.See.A

Oh my goodness, is it Friday night already? Okay, so I'm feigning surprise.  I know what day it is. I consumed a vat of brownies earlier in the day and am in a sugar coma, but I still am coherent enough to know what day it is. Tonight, I am trying to stay awake long enough to go to a party in honor of our dear friend, so I have no excuse for not writing this blog.  I.must.stay.awake!  We're not used to going OUT at 8:30 PM....we are used to coming IN at 8:30 PM.

I have had oodles of things on my mind....happy thoughts for our Golden Apple friend....conflicting thoughts about the wild turkeys meandering in our yard (they seem to be making a daily visit, tossing mulch left and right)....wondering what to do about my M D N A license plates, as I'm sick of everything thinking they say MONA....putting out good thoughts for Jobi the Wonder Dog (who, thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, is the recipient of new new eye lenses---who knew dogs get cataracts?)...healing thoughts for Captain Harley.....fun memories of American Bandstand.....contemplating the merits of the 17th Annual Day of Silence....pondering how naughty substances became associated with 4/20....and, truth be told, December 2012.

Now that Dick Clark died--after all, he is the king of New Years Eve--I predict things are going to start getting weirder and weirder, faster and faster.  Damn those Mayans.  MJagger says I'm the only one thinking about these things, but won't she be sorry when she didn't take December 21st off and I have the day off. These three diddies were on my Book de la Face wall yesterday, so don't tell me people aren't thinking about these things. (Thanks to those whose artwork is depicted here.  I'd give you appropriate credit but Book de la Face isn't very helpful in this department.  I do see that the ecard thing is appropriately acknowledged, so one out of three ain't bad.  I make no claim to these illustrations; I am merely sharing their genius with you.)

I think I shall stick to talking about Mr. Clark, as that is a much happier topic than the stupidity that might surround the end of this calendar year.  I loved American Bandstand.  L.O.V.E.D.  My mother claims that she used to plop me in the playpen (located conveniently right in front of the TV) and have me watch AB while she did household duties.  I believe her because I adore music and I love the concept of musicians performing/dancing/lip-syncing on the tube. I'm guessing I didn't even move when AB was on--I probably begged to be put in that aptly-located pen. Can't you just hear Barry Man.O.Low singing the theme song?   I honestly really can remember seeing ABBA, Blondie, Andy Gibb (yum!), The Osmonds, Michael Jackson,  Madonna, Adam and the Ants (oh, how I loved Adam!), the Carpenters, Barry Man.O.Low and, of course, David Cassidy on AB.  The Number One band (and, I do use that term loosely) on my list of "Most Memorable Memories of American Bandstands of Addiverse Past" is....

....The Village People.

I'm serious.

When I think of AB, I think of the Village People.  Cop. Biker. Construction Worker. Cowboy. Soldier. Indian. I can remember thinking, "who ARE these people and why are they dressed like that?" I wanted to BE one of those people.  Macho Men, YMCA and In The Navy can make a bad day so much better, even 30+ years later.  (How I didn't catch one iota of all that gayness oozing from the songs and the band until I was at least 35, I do not know.  Sigh. I'm the same person who missed what Kiss You All Over and Afternoon Delight had to do with, so no surprise I didn't catch on quickly to my People.)

I loved the Village People.  How can you not love a band of six grown men in such stereotyped outfits? If memories serves me right, I do believe my sister owned two of their albums and that we would imagine ourselves being a Village Person (which is way weird because I was in high school when they were at the top of their game and I should have been way too old to worry about being a village person).

This jog down memory lane brings up thoughts of Midnight Special, Soul Train and Solid Gold....the glory days before the arrival of MTV in 1981 (which is a whole 'nother chapter in my life).....

.....but, really it was all about the Village People.  Spell it with me!

Have Filter, Will Travel

I'm not ignoring you.  I swear.  I've been busy trying to figure out the new blogger way of being, repeatedly listening to Madonna's album, trying to figure out if I am or am not pregnant in the State of Arizona, getting my myo fascial released, chasing turkeys out of the backyard...and, changing the car cabin air filter on my own. Sweet! I was so excited by that adventure that I made the wife take a photo of me at the completion of my conquest. (That's one dirty filter, if you ask me.) Now, many of you are not impressed--after all, if you know how to change a car cabin air filter, you are chuckling and wondering what the hell I could be excited about.  For those of you who didn't even know we had an air filter in the car cabin, you are probably at least a wee bit impressed.  I thought I'd save some money by doing this task by myself.  I went to the auto store, bought the filter and brought it home.  I wasn't sure what to do next and the car book didn't say anything besides "change your cabin air filter."  I didn't even know where it was located (the dirty one--the new one was in the box in my hand).  The wife asked only one question during the endeavor:...

The wife: "Did you read the directions?

Me: "Of course I did!"

Okay, I lied.  I didn't even know there were directions.  I looked at the box and I looked in the car book but I didn't read or even see any directions.  Thankfully, when I pulled the new filter out of the box (to take one last look at it), the directions fell out and floated to the ground.  After reading them and seeing that it would take me "twelve easy minutes," I was good to go.   I changed that puppy in under three minutes.

No, I am not going to tell you where it is located or how to change it.  You can pay me for that information. It'll cost you.

In case you think I'm kidding about turkeys, here they are, milling about in the backyard:

They are making quite the mess.  They do this weird thing with their feet/claws/talons/hooves and throw mulch all over the place.  Maybe they were trying to throw mulch at me so I would move along.  That's better than them trying to spray me with something, to be sure.  The wife has been wondering what/who the heck is messing up her mulch--the holes are obvious and much bigger than I would anticipate from a mourning dove or ground squirrel (which are back and remain on my poop list--photos sure to follow in a few weeks).  I should have taken a video  of the "tossing turkeys" because it was pretty impressive how far they were chucking that mulch.

Just so we are clear, the Madonna album has grown handsomely on me; in fact, at times I feel like there is an ear worm eating into my brain and I can't get this or that song out of my head.  The wife will sigh and say, "is that ALL you are going to sing?"  I appreciate that a few of you have emailed me/messaged me/posted comments here about the whole MDNA thing.  I've decided that the louder you play the album, the better it is.  I was meant to dance.  I've read a ton of blogs and articles about the album and it's a mixed bag.  The only thing mixed about it for me is a dance mix.

While I'm dancing, I think I'll enjoy our trees, which are out of control.  We have two trees that I swear are growing carnations.  The wife says they are some form of cherry tree but I don't see no stinkin' cherries--just carnations.  The entire tree is one big pink carnation.  The warm winter and early spring has led to an explosion of color of which is at least four weeks early and much brighter than usual.  The freeze hasn't been good to the hydrangeas but the rest of the flowers look no worse for the wear and the trees look spectacular.  Take a peek at the tree behind me in the car filter photo--that's a carnation tree if I've ever seen one. You know, I could make a few bouquets and hand them out--change a filter, share a bouquet.

I think there might be turkey on the menu if the wife has her say about it.

All is well in the Addiverse as my new license plates have arrived and they just happen to match my new Madonna album.  I know this is shocking to you; after all, what are the chances that my new plates would have anything to do with Madonna, let alone be the SAME as the album title?

Unfortunately, I have learned that the title of her album is not only reference to her name (sans vowels) but also a nod to the drug ectasy (otherwise known as MDMA).  So we are clear, I do encourage use of Madonna albums but do not encourage the use of dance floor drugs, even when Madonna albums are playing under the disco ball.

Enough about pop culture and license plates.  I need to talk about our lawn.  I can't wrap my head around it.  The grass is the greenest, plushest, healthiest it has EVER looked. EVER.  I mean since the day we moved in, it has never looked better. Usually at this time of year, it's still brown-straw-ish and there are all sorts of dead spots from dog pee.  This year, I am supposing because of the ridiculously mild winter, the grass never really got brown and we never seemed to develop the dog pee rings.  We've already had to mow three times and we just crossed into April.  As long as it keeps raining now and again, we are going to have the most beautiful green carpet for a front yard.

I went to lunch with two youngsters earlier in the week.  They are half my age, so they qualify as youngsters. The grrrrlz asked me to go with them so they could ask questions of their elder (me).  They have been together for one year and wanted to talk to someone who had been together with someone for longer than that.  The wife and I definitely qualify.  Since the wife was unable to attend the lunch, I was left to my own devices to answer the questions posed.  For some reason, they started with the topic of arguing.

Grrrl 1: "What do you argue about?"
Me: Blank stare.  "Um.  Argue?"
Grrrrl 2: "Yeah, what DO the two of you argue about?"
Me: "Now? Or, way back when?"
Grrrls look at each other. Grrrl 2 shrugs her shoulders.
Grrrrl 1: "Now."
Me: "Gosh.  We tend to bicker.  We don't argue very much anymore. Um, I guess we argue about the lawn."

Talk about blank stares.

Me: "Well, I don't think the lawn needs to be cut yet and she does.  She worries about things like that.  I don't. So we argue about that."


I can tell they think I am from another planet.

Me (trying again): "I guess that sounds silly.  Huh. We argue about me not taking my shoes off in the house."

Now they are SURE I am from another planet.

Me (trying not to sound so old): "We used to argue about money.  Does that help?"

I can tell this does not help.  What the hell are they arguing about? It's certainly not about money, shoes or the lawn.  There is nothing I can do but ask, "Why do you want to know what we argue about?"
Grrrrl 2: "Do you argue about having friends?"

Ah! Now we are getting somewhere.  Me: "You mean about having friends? Like our "own" friends?"
Grrrrl 1 gives a dirty look at Grrrl 2, then spits out "That is exactly what I mean."  I swear I see  Grrrl 1 stick her tongue out at Grrrl 2.
Me: "You mean do I have my own friends and does the wife have her own friends and do we have together friends?"
Both grrrrls light up and exclaim "YES!" at the same time.

So, this is what they are arguing about.  Dear god, you could not pay me enough to be their age again.  Never.  The mega-millions would not be enough.  I sure do like bickering about the lawn more than this kind of thing.

Me: "Well, I have my own friends, the wife has her own friends, we have together friends, we have work friends, we have non-work friends, we have gay friends, we have straight friends, we have old friends, we have high school friends.  We have lots of friends. We have all kinds of friends. Why do you ask?"
Grrrl 1: "Oh, I don't know."
Grrrl 2 (with a growl and a glare): "Oh, you do too know.  SHE doesn't think I should have any friends besides her.  I think I should be able to go out with friends without her. I bet you can go out with your friends and the wife doesn't care."

Ooooh.  This has potential to get ugly.  There are steak knives at this table. I've got to figure out a way to diffuse the situation.  I decide there is only one thing to do--talk about something else.

Me: "Did you see my new license plates?"


This works like a charm.  They are totally thrown off kilter.  Me: "My new plates are all about Madonna.  She has a new album out, you know."

For the record, 25 year olds do not care that Madonna has a new album; in fact, I'm not sure they know who Madonna is.  I can tell that they have decided to stop asking questions and find someone who is a little less elderly to talk about such things like arguing.  There is only one other thing I can do:

Pick up the tab.

This also works like a charm.  Old people like me have more money than young people like them.  Who can argue when someone is paying for your lunch?

And so, the rest of the meal went swimmingly.  I don't think I helped them solve anything in regards to their relationship but I do think I reinforced the fact that getting older isn't all that bad...after all, I've got nothing more to worry about than if the lawn needs to be cut or if people understand my license plates and I have money to pay for lunch....

I think they decided that getting old people as friends is a safe way to go.

Lest you think I didn't leave them with any pearls of wisdom, let me assure you that I convinced them NOT to get each other's named tattooed on themselves.  I told them that is it NEVER okay to get someone else's name tattooed on your person unless it is your mother or your children's names.  NEVER.  I don't have the wife's name tattooed on me and I never will.  Call me superstitious but that would be like the kiss of death.  I made them promise not to do anything ridiculous like that.

See? Old people still do know what they are talking about, even if they don't have anything to argue about besides lawns and shoes.

Mega-Madge and Me

I don't know what you've been up to but I've been busy googling of myself, securing mega-million tickets and listening to the new Madonna album.  You DO know that you are supposed to google yourself every now and then, don't you? I am always tickled of how many of "me" there are in the world--there are at least 18 people in the US with my same name.  I think there's more but I stopped counting after 18.  The most prominent one seems to be some lady in Florida who writes math books.  Definitely not me.  The majority of the same-named women happen to be minorities and live south of the Mason-Dixon line.  There is one who prances around dog rings in show dogs, one who made comments about how much she loves Doris Day and even one that lives in two places I have lived--oh wait, that is me.  Funny how some search engines think I still live where I lived 25 years ago.  I'm all good with that--stay away from where I am now.  I was a little shook up at how many photos of me there are on the Internet...all my blog photos show up as me.  Dear god, that's a lot of me.  I'm not sure how I can stop this, as I don't really have my name publicly tied to the blog, but I will be working on a way to make myself a little less visible.

I can't believe I just wrote that.  Me, the hog of the limelight, wants to be less visible.

My co-workers have decided to join the mega-million-madness by pooling our money and buying a pile of tickets for tonight's drawing.  I figure I could live with ten million (after taxes, of course) as my portion.  I don't play the lottery very often so it was exciting to go buy a ticket or ten.  I've already planned out how I will be spending it.  Relatives, take note: you will be getting a chunk of the highest amount allowed to be given tax free as a gift.  While that won't make you rich--I think it's only $10 or $!2,000--it will allow you to go buy new clothes and a few of Madonna's new album.  When I told the wife about my plans, she said, "Can't we spend the money on ourselves first?" I assured her that we would have plenty of money for ourselves.  I told my boss that would continue to work because one cannot live off of ten million dollars and besides, I really like my job. Well, okay--maybe I could live off of ten million dollars and I'm going to want to travel.  Maybe I can work part time.

Don't worry--after we win, I'll still blog.  After all, I will have all sorts of time to blog and I'll have actual things to blog about.  No more mundane subjects of no redeeming value.

As for Madge, I have to think about this new album.  Last time she put out a new album (a real album, not a greatest hits compilation), I didn't like it very much after the first few listens.  I blogged about that, you know. I believe it was 2008--I'll double check.  I grew to love that album and thought the world tour that accompanied it was great.  So, I'm not too concerned that I am not in love with this album. I believe it will grow on me and that I'll enjoy the accompanying concert.  Until then, I'll try and figure out why I think the album feels a wee bit desperate.  I do like a few of the songs and already have them stuck in my head, so I take that as a good sign.  I think my biggest "complaint" is that she wrote this pathetic diddy with the "F" word in the title...the first line of the song is the title of the song, so the "F" word is front and center. Why she had to do this, especially in a ballad, I'm not sure.  It just makes her sound like someone who is old who is trying to be cool. It's my least favorite song and the most desperate.  I have no problem with the "F" word. It's just that there was no need for it that I could figure.

Oh.my.god. I sound like a curmudgeon.

I don't think any of this album will get any play on top 40 radio.  The last album didn't, either but that didn't hurt sales and didn't keep her from making a bazillion dollars  I think me, MJagger and all the 50 year old gay boys of the world are keeping her in business.

Someone's gotta do it.

My ten million mega-million dollars will NOT give me enough money to become Madge's new friend so I'll have to look elsewhere. She poops more than ten million dollars a day. She eats ten million dollars for breakfast. I bet Lucy Lawless would gladly be friends with my ten million dollars.  I bet the other 18 people with my name would be friends with my ten million dollars.  I know the people living in my old apartments would gladly visit me and my money.....

....all I have to say is: Wait til I win that money--THEN google my name.  That'll keep all of us busy.

Face It

I could talk about how much the Republican candidates freak me out or how I much I've been contemplating the meaning of the warmest winter on record or how I'm excited about the arrival of my new Jillian workout DVD or how classy Peyton Manning was as he was cut from his team, but I think it's more important we talk about my face.

Now that I am 49.75 years old, my face--as I lamented about just a blog or two ago ("Freeze Frame, 2/16/12)--has taken on a mind of its own:

My facial skin is now incredibly pliable, which can be quite entertaining, albeit in a disturbing way.  I think I can get ten to twelve inches of skin stretched away from my face, which is perfect for making faces to scare small children. I like to scare tiny tots, so I am all good with this development.


Speaking of small children, I think I've lost a few in my frowny brow.  It always looks like I'm serious or angry but I'm really not serious or angry at all.  It's just what my skin has done. I can thank my grandmother for these deep crevices. They are an inheritance of the maternal type.  I best check them every once in awhile to look for dogs, dust bunnies and Jimmy Hoffa hidden in there. I've heard botox will help me not look so stern but really? Wouldn't I rather have more Madonna tickets than get botulism shot into my face? I'll keep my grandmotherly gift and Madonna tickets, thank you.

Lest you think I've always had those frowny brows, here I am in younger years, frowny brow free:

My jolly jowls are developing in a most droopy, surprising way.   I noticed this on my friends before mine became apparent. Now, they are giving me little waves "hello" when I look in the mirror.  I think the jowls are my least favorite change, not that it matters how I rank the changes.

I'm not bringing facial hair into this discussion, so cool your jets.

I am not alone in this adventure....thankfully, most of my beloved friends understand my plight.  They too are experiencing the change of the middle age face. Technically, we are more than middle age, but that's how we roll in America.  We are middle age qualified.  (Some of us are already AARP qualified.  I am awaiting my invitation.)

The wife and I went to dinner last night with three of our most wonderful friends.  A great time was had by all.  Because we are all in the general vicinity age-wise, we are all enjoying the same age-related issues, including changes in our facial presentation.  We embrace it and laugh about it because we really are powerless over our skin and our crease lines have become unmanageable......unless, like I've said before, you are Madonna and can have plastic surgery.  None of us have the inkling or interest in such nonsense, so embrace our faces we shall do. 

We cannot fight gravity.  Or, so they tell me.  No wonder all those parts are going south (and east & west, in some cases).   Life would so suck if we didn't have gravity, so go with it.

I embrace my gravity-changed face but I'm not so sure I'll ever be able to embrace my wobbling triceps, though.

I am SO going to have to take video of that.  My triceps, not gravity. 

Here is one of my triceps in 1987:

Here is one of my triceps in 2011:

Okay, okay, so that's not my tricep. It's Madonna's tricep.  I'm fantasizing. It COULD be my tricep.  She's older than me, so she gives me and my triceps hope.  I don't think she's had tricep-enhancing surgery, so I am motivated: this is what I aspire to by the time I'm 50. POW! POW!

Hmmm.  I think I'll stop pulling the skin on my face and do a few push-ups.  

Ah, hell--I'm not gonna do a push up.  I'm gonna go eat another piece of chocolate and pretend I did the push-ups. Then I'm gonna go scare some small children.

Anyone seen the dogs lately?