Wicked-ly Fun Weekend
Me, the wife, MJagger & hubby Officer Friendly headed to the Windy City with two other couples to take in WICKED (hence, the green lettering. Long live the wicked witch of the west!) MJagger led the way to food, fun and camaraderie for the eight of us. Our journey started at "W," the feng shui-overload hotel on Lake Shore Drive (where art meets function, or so they say). I'm not kidding about the whole feng shui thing--pebbles line the darkened hallways, bathrooms with wooden shudders, metal bowls hold wooden balls of yarn-looking twig thingies, room ceiling painted black. Whoa. I felt like the rich and famous meets the Dali lama. It was a gay boy's dream spot. The first photo is my artsy attempt to take a picture of the hallway; the second is the pebbles lining the hallway, complete with hot-pink room number on the floor. The wife and I had never seen such a thing before. (The photos do no justice to actually being there. Trust me.) The hi-light of "W" for me was the lobby bathroom--you can peek into the men's bathroom and they can peek into the women's bathroom. You think I'm kidding? Check out the sign warning you of the whole we-can-see you thing:

After we finished giggling in the bathroom, we cabbed it over to the Oriental Theatre to see WICKED, a fabulous musical about the wicked witch of the west. If you haven't seen it (even if you're not a Wizard of Oz fan, which I am not), you should really check it out. (That whole tornado thing and those flying monkeys were scary in the movie, don't you think?) There is nothing I can say in the blog that would capture what seeing the show was really like. Suffice it to say, I'd go again. The ladies of the group loved it. I love the Witch of the West--she sure got a bum rap in that Oz movie....No wonder I like the color green. The men looked a little bored--okay, a LOT bored--I think they were worried about the NFL draft while being stuffed in theatre seats--but, they were real troopers.

One of the "bad" things about going to the theatre for women is that the intermission is NEVER long enough and there are NEVER enough bathrooms. (Thus, I severely restrict my intake of fluid when in a very crowded situation, like concerts, ball games, protests, day after thanksgiving shopping...). Poor MJagger had to pee with a vengence. As soon as the lights popped on for intermission, she streaked directly to the potty. Unfortunately, the line for the women's room was frightfully long. MJagger FINALLY got to the stall when she heard, "One minute--the show will begin in ONE minute--please take your seats." MJagger realized if she wasn't back on time, some evil usher person would not let her in for at least ten minutes. So, MJagger passed on the washing of the hands, practically drip dried and literally ran across the lobby--boobs in one hand, dress in the other....she didn't want anything bouncing up or out. Officer Friendly took one look at her and said to the wife, "gosh, it looks like she's been sprinting." MJagger sat down and puffed, "I WAS running!" Of course, about five more minutes passed before the show began, so MJagger was understandably miffed. (MJagger was wearing a dress that most decidedly needed her to use two hands while running. That's what ya get for wearing a dress & having cleavage, I say.) Another "bad" thing is that they don't want you to take photos of the theatre, let alone the actual play. I almost got myself thrown out trying to take contraband photos of the set before the festivities began. I miffed a few ushers off but luckily didn't get the camera confiscated.

Once the final curtain went down (and the men were done cheering), it was off to Morton's Steak House for a carnivorous delight. Now, as a vegetarian, I was mighty worried my dinner choices would be limited--like, "Here's your roll. Would you like butter with that?" I need not have worried--they had a vegetarian plate that made me weep. It had the biggest serving of broccoli I have ever seen on one plate. I had to take a picture of it because it was so spectacular. My spinach salad, which came before the meal, looked like they dumped the entire bag of spinach on the plate. Popeye would have been proud. (I was a little worried about the steroid-sized asparagus, but I ate it anyway. If I start growing more chin hair or if my voice gets lower, I'll know it was the stalks.) As for the meat-eaters, may I say that those were some of the biggest pieces of animal I have ever seen on a plate? We were seated right by the kitchen--I swear I saw a cow crawl by once or twice.

Once we were done stuffing our faces, we headed off to "Howl at the Moon," a dueling piano bar, which on this particular night, was crawling with with drunken bachelorhood. There was nowhere to sit, so we just propped ourselves near the bar and tried to stay out of the way of loaded brides-to-be. You don't need cigarettes when you go to this kind of place--save yourself the six bucks--it's so smoky that the second hand smoke is probably stronger than the real thing. Oh, my aching sinuses! You can see the smoke wafting in and out of your lungs. Even so, I highly suggest dueling piano bars, as you can sing along and no one cares. Where else can you sing Billy Joel and Sir Mix-a-lot in the same hour? (And yes, I really did have long underwear on. I was cold. They were my "dress johns," so I really didn't see a problem. We got a few candid photos of the long johns but I didn't post them to protect my few morself of decency.)

(Im fact, I can't show you most of the photos I took--don't want to jeopardize the anonymity of my friends, even though I've got some pretty good "blackmail" photos from the piano bar. You'll have to ask to see the photos in person. Believe me, I will GLADLY share these tasty tidbits of photojournalism.)

Once we were done smoking, standing and singing at the piano bar (it gets really old having to stand hour after hour, even when wearing long johns), we walked down the street in the rain to find somewhere to sit and drink beer (not me or the wife--we're designated walkers--water for me & the wife, thank you). We ended up a brewery. This was the second time I saw the guys smile (the first was when they saw their steaks), as this was the home of the "Drink Tower." Ah, male bonding over the beer-filled tower is always a welcomed thing. I think I saw Officer Friendly shed a tear in happiness over the beer tower.(The photo really doesn't do the beer tower justice, as you can only see half of it here.) The wife and I called it a night just as the beer tower was drained.

We returned to "W" to find it a-hopping. Loud dance music greeted us at the front door and the lobby was filled with well-dressed-prom-going-teenagers. (Either that, or there were a lot of young types attending wedding receptions somewhere in the building.) The wife and I were worried it would be loud on our floor (god, we are getting old--worrying about such things), but our concern was for naught--it was serene and feng-shui-ee for the night. The feathertop beds were delightful. Too bad we didn't know the alarm was set by the previous patron--that woke us up way before we would have liked to have been up and at 'em. So much for feng shui.

As if we hadn't eaten enough on Saturday, we finished our weekend at Maggianos for Sunday Lunch with MJagger and Officer Friendly. Oh, my poor stomach. My poor colon. My poor digestive tract. I am not used to eating this much food in a week, much less in a 24 hour period. I'm sure it will take me a week to digest all that food. My intestines agree that this was certainly a very WICKED weekend....

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Canine Cranium Conundrum

I think Freckles Warrior Princess gave herself a concussion last night. Seriously, she's got this bloody, yucky, pulpous blob of injury on her head. It looks like she ran into something sharp or something fell from the sky and decked her in the noggin. As she cannot speak, I do not know what really transpired. (Although, if she could speak, she would probably say something like, "Look, you moron, I whacked my head on the corner of the table and it hurts like a bitch so shut the f--- up and leave me alone." She's that kind of dog.) It probably looks worse than it is because she has white hair and blood on white hair never looks very fashionable. We noticed she was much quieter last night--probably because she has a mother of a headache. I've been trying to take photos of the injury so I can share it with you blog readers, but have yet to secure one worth posting. (It's hard to take a photo of an injury on a dog's head. Trust me.) Lucy keeps smelling poor Freck's head. I do not keep smelling her head but have looked at it numerous times. She is not amused that either of us are doing these things. I may have to ask Grover if he knows what transpired--maybe he can understand dogspeak and then he can translate it for me. Stay tuned for canine cranium photos....

Monk-e-mail & Chocolate in the Dryer

In true immature fashion, I suggest you go to careerbuilder.com/monk-e-mail and get a good laugh. You know those commercials with the monkeys hopping all over the business setting? Well, this is even better because YOU get to decide what the monkey says and then you can harass your closest 400 friends. Why work when you can send Monk-e-mail?

As for me, I knew I was in trouble when I heard the wife yell, "CHOCOLATE!" from the basement. I thought about trying to hide behind the couch but before I could get my sorry ass behind the love seat, I heard her add, "THERE IS CHOCOLATE IN THE DRYER!" As I am the chocolaholic of the family, I knew I wouldn't be able to get out of this, so I went to the basement. The wife was standing there, holding clothing up for inspection. I swallowed hard and went to face my execution. Sure enough, I could see chocolate stains on the clothes, the towels, the inside of the dryer. Being stupid, I mumbled something about "how do you know it was me?" but she had the evidence--a purple tin foil wrapper with a bit of melted chocolate left in it. Yikes. That is a Hershey's Dark Chocolate Kiss and I'm definitely the only one who eats those around here. I confess to the crime and take everything out of the dryer and put it in the washer for round two. I pray to the chocolate gods that the stains will come out.

Serve me right that the only stains that didn't come out were on my favorite T-shirt. That'll teach me to make sure I eat all my chocolate and not waste any in the dryer.

Talking to Dead People and Eating Cheesy Potatoes

I wanted to write about the wife’s most recent efforts with cheesy potatoes, but that’s gonna have to wait until after my Moriah the Medium report. Friend Mjagger (as introduced in blog April 12, 2006—you know, the Madonna-ticket-frenzy-friend), her sister Bon Jovi & the wife had the delightful opportunity last night to go out for dinner with our favorite medium, Moriah the Happy Medium. (Shame on you if you haven’t read my previous blog about Moriah—go back and read THURSDAY, JANUARY 5, 2006. How else will you make sense of Grover if you don’t go back and read the January 5th entry?). Moriah the Medium (from here on out to be known as MTM—and that is NOT Mary Tyler Moore, but Moriah the Medium) was in town to do some readings, as scheduled by Mjagger. (What? Do you think we work at work? No—we sit around and schedule mediums to come see us. We have priorities, you know.)

Before I go any further, I want to remind you to do two things: after reading this blog, go to amazon.com and order MTM’s book; and, email Oprah (www2.oprah.com) and tell Ms. O she needs to have MTM on as a guest. You can click on my link to MTM’s book “How to be a Happy Medium” if you are too lazy to go to amazon.com. You’re on your own to find Oprah’s website. (Yes—that’s www2 in Oprah’s address—that’s the newest in web addresses. Leave it to Oprah to get on the WWW2 before everyone else. I thought it was WWOD2 but its just WWW2.)

Anyway, I could go on and on for days about MTM’s readings for the various subjects. It’s always very amusing (in a good way) and usually incredibly amazing for all. (One lady yesterday wasn’t amazed, but she probably was just a cheap-ass-poopy-butt.) My mother will be happy to know that Grandma G was hanging out with me and that my spirit guide was smoking a corn-cob pipe. (This will make sense to my mother. It made sense to me.) Grover the Spirit Guide was also smoking a joint, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. (We WON’T go there.)

Skeptics come out of sessions with MTM as believers. Believers come as believers squared. (It’s not scary. Really. You’re not going to go to hell because you went and talked to a medium. Her head doesn’t spin around. Split-pea green vomit does not spew out of her mouth….well, not that I’ve seen, but I suppose she might have done it during other sessions. That’d be cool, anyway, if it happened. I just hope I am present when it does happen.) Ms. Medium communicates with animals—dead or alive--and anyone who has that skill can’t be all that bad in my book. I’m not sure it’s even “bad” that we held the medium party on the Lord’s Sabbath. (First, bowling for Jesus; now, Mediums in place of Mass. Maybe I am going to hell.)

The “party” was a success, as reported by the attendees. Mjagger got some answers about her daughter and the crucifix, Bon Jovi got to talk to her grandmother & Workgirl (a new character to this blog) got to talk to her dog who just “passed over.” I’ll leave the personal stories to the owners of the stories, but suffice it to say that more than one person came out with a tear in her eye. After the day’s activities were over, we went out for dinner. How many people do you know that can say they have gone out to dinner with a medium? You really should try it. You can scare people right out of the restaurant when you start talking about dead people & spirit guides at the dinner table. (Well, maybe it was the talk about poop and dildos that scared them away, but I still think it was the dead people. I, by the way, was NOT the person who spoke of dildos—I was focused on the poop. Even I blushed about that one. I’m a poop girl.) I’m not kidding—I think we stunned some patrons into horrified silence. If you can do that, you know your day has been worthwhile....

As for the wife's cheesy potatoes, I hadn't mentioned the "Easter Cheesy Potato Incident" until now, as it didn't seem wise to bring up any sooner than I am doing right now. The wife's Land-o-Cheddar-sister makes the ultimate, universe's-best cheesy potatoes. For some reason, even tho she claims she is using the same cheesy potato recipe as her sister, the wife's cheesy potatoes fall short of the prize. (Do you think it's because we don't live in the Land-o-Cheddar? Maybe "Penny Heads" can't make Cheesy Potatoes like they can across the border.) The most recent disappointment came at Easter (yes, the Bowling for Jesus Easter Dinner). My family and I dug in to those potatoes....and.....and, well, let's just say they weren't her sister's award-winning, mouth-watering winners. We ate them, but I couldn't help repeating, "these just aren't as good as your sister's." (Never a good thing to say to anyone, especially a spouse.)

This led to emailing back and forth to the sister, who claims--swears--the wife has the exact same recipe. I think she's holding out on some secret ingredient so no one will ever be able to make the same delicious morsels as she can. The wife got all the directions and made yet another batch of Cheesy Potatoes. This time, they looked a lot better--I think it was the tinfoil (which, in all previous attempts, the wife had omitted--sister says tin foil is imperative and I believe her). I scooped out a steaming hot pile of potatoes (as illustrated in the photo of the steaming hot spuds--isn't that cool that you can see the steam?!), dug in and.... yes! this was much closer to the "real" thing. Two thumbs up for the wife. Maybe her sister wasn't really holding out secret ingredients. I ate so many potatoes that I gave myself a stomach ache. Now, she'll just have to make some for my family so they can experience "true" cheesy potatoes....

Grooming of the Dogs & the Breakfast of Champions

The "Grrrlz" went to the "spa" yesterday. They hate it. You'd think they were being tortured, the way they act when they get to the groomer's den. Who wouldn't love being bathed and shaved and blow-dried and primped and cologne-ized? They shake and hide and tremble and poop and put on the breaks.

I don't know how the groomer does it--Lucy wiggles so much, it must be like trying to groom a greased pig while water skiing. I know I've tried to complete a bit of "home grooming" and it's a disaster. First, I have to catch Lucy. Then, I have to hang on to her. She's like a bucking bronco--you'd think I was killing her. Forget about doing her paws. The groomer deserves a tip bigger than what she charges. God bless you, Saint Linda Groomer Girl! I feel your pain.

Poor Freckles gets blamed for being the wiggly one, but it's Lucy that causes the commotion. Freckles probably just stands there and trembles and resigns herself to the fact that she can't escape so she might as well just stand there and shake as this lady shaves her butt.

The good news is that getting groomed makes Fatty Patty Freckles look much thinner. It's like a five pound instant weight loss.

The photos above include "Babushka Girl," "Hiding under the Table and Pissed about the whole Grooming thing," and "What are you looking at?" Below, Freckles takes a nap--it's tough to be at the groomer's--a long nap is needed after that whole shin-dog.

As for breaksfast today, I had the wife make me some steel-cut oats. Mmm! We learned about this food while at Miravel last summer (on the Oprah trip, living the life of leisure). I, of course, personalize my oats by putting mini M&M's in them--a true breakfast of champions. Here's a picutre for those of you who don't think I'm serious. (I've also been known to put M&M's on my pizza, so beware!) Tasty!

Gum Wrappers, Bowling for Jesus, Wheelbarrel Injuries & Other Nonsense
For those of you following the score, here's a photo of my wheel barrel wound (see blog about mulch spreading). I wasn't kidding when I said I ran myself over with the wheel barrel. That's my calf, by the way. (No muscle tone to speak of in this photo....looks like it could be a fore arm with a sock on the hand. I should have remembered to flex before taking the photo...but, do you know how hard it is to take a picture of your own calf?)

Easter Sunday found me, the pups & the wife with my family of origin. While there, we watched Bowling on ESPN. Not just any old bowling--trick bowling! Professionals doing all sorts of fun things with bowling balls--such as throwing balls out of towels, lofting balls over chairs, throwing two balls out of one hand, etc. Before you blame anyone in my family of bowling addicts for this sacreligous Easter activity, I confess--I am the one who found the show and tuned in the channel. I was so intrigued, I couldn't turn away. Thus, I have decided that "Bowling for Jesus" will be my new Easter activity. Sure beats wearing an Easter Bonnet in an overpacked pew.

As for the dogs: the Puke-a-torium has been getting overtime activity. Lucy managed to projectile vomit while at my parents--a feat that happens every time she visits there--and she puked again yesterday while we were at work. When I say puke, I mean PUKE and I mean on the entire sofa. (For those of you planning to visit: don't sit on the love seat.) Puke even dripped behind the cushions. How do I know it was Lucy? Well, since she was the one with puke all over her fur, I'm guessing she's the culprit. Here's a picture of Lucy "in jail" after her most recent bout of puking.

As for me, I'm in the dog house from all the gum wrappers I've been leaving around the house, the car, the garage, the coat pockets, the universe. I do chew a lot of gum a day and I guess all those gum wrappers jump out of my care and everywhere else. The wife says she is sick of finding all those little balls of paper. The best part about the gum wrappers is she announces every time she finds one. Last night, I hear her yell, "I found one in the HAMPER!" Like I need to know where the little balls of paper have escaped to....if I knew, they'd be in the garbabe. (Well, maybe not. I do tend to lose things and not pay attention to mundane things like gum wrappers. At least I'm not polluting--they're always in the house, not outside on the ground or anything.)

Good news is that Moriah the Medium is coming back to town at the end of the week, and if the Universe brings me $25 more, I'll be able to see her. (Come on Universe--show me the money!)

Finally, I'd like to say how horrified I was to learn that while at the hair dresser's yesterday, I had a giant pimple under my chin. Of course, I did not know about the white ball of love n pus before I went there....I discovered it at home, right after the appointment, so, I'm sure she got a luscious view of the whole Mount Zitney. How many zits, ear crusties and boogers do you think those hair dressers have to see a day? What a great fringe benefit that would be, eh? The stories! The horror! The gossip! Worse, during the hair cut, she says--"Hold Still! You've got a daddy long leg!" and then she proceeded to snip a fly-away scary eyebrow that was longer than the hair on my head. Ugh. Getting older is not pretty.

Well, I'd like to talk more about bodily fluids and bowling dieties, but it's timed for my "Charmed" reruns, so I gotta go...

A Night in the Local Emergency Room

No, no--not for me--I was in the emergency room at the local hospital as part of my job. I won't talk about the client who I was there to see, but I will talk about all the things I witnessed while in the ER....it became a surreal comedy while I was there and I couldn't help but think, "this crap will be so perfect for my blog!" I will tell you "my" client was lying on a gurnee in a public area--there were no available ER rooms--wearing her Blue Blockers sunglasses--her position in the ER gave me GREAT view of the ER happenings. We couldn't help overhearing everything going on....I've never seen the ER so busy. There was a FIVE hour wait for those who needed stitches....there were people everywhere--in the waiting room, outside, in the hallways, in the parking lot. I knew it was going to be a long night but didn't mind because there was so much entertainment to be had.

The client and I were "parked" next to three other patients. The nearest guy was a very, very drunk man (with a blood level of 4.0!!) who had a terminal case of phlegm balls. He was hocking phlegm balls bigger than my car--then, he'd spit and vomit and make all sorts of gross noises. The security guard and I would just look at each other and try not to gag. He kept saying, "Nurse! I need a drink of water!" over and over and over. He then yell, "I'm going through withdrawal!" The nurse kindly reminded him he was NOT withdrawing as his blood alcohol level was still 4.0 and there was no way he'd be detoxing with that much booze in him. So, we were left with his loogies and puking.

Next to him was a lady who was supposedly having an appendicitis. Now, I have had the pleasure of actually having appendicitis and I can tell you this lady was definitely NOT having one. She was on her cell phone the entire time....I'm not kidding. She'd call her friends, tell them, "yeah, I'm in the ER with stomach pain...probably appendicitis....I'll call you when I know more." She was on the phone so much that the nurse actually said to her, "You know, there is such a thing as Terminal Cell Phone-itis." The patient didn't get it but I did and I laughed out loud. Old Cell Phone lady kept yipping and yipping and yipping. I then heard her say, "Chicken? With Barbeque sauce? Hmm hmm. Yeah, save some for me, I'll be there as soon as I can get out of here." Ah, the magic cure for appendicitis--homemade barbeque chicken. (Why hadn't I thought of that? I could've saved myself the surgery!)She called the nurse, told her "I'm not having any more pain--I'm leaving." Off she went, smiling and almost skipping. So much for the belly ache.

Next to her was a kid that had been bitten in the face by the neighbor's dog. Don't get to worried--it was one puncture wound to the face and he looked no worse for the wear. He had a horrible time sitting still while waiting for the doctor...after all, he was probably only seven years old. He was all over the place, announcing that he didn't want stitches because he had stitches EIGHT TIMES before. His very overweight mom was there, complete in teeny, tiny tank top--naked belly hanging WAY out underneath the shirt--and grey stretch pants that were about thirty sizes too small. For some reason, she wasn't wearing shoes but instead only had what used to be white socks on (they were now grey yucky from walking around without shoes on). The kid was covered in dirt and the nurses spent much time trying to get him to wash his hands. They did not succeed. He was a champ when given the one stitch he needed. God bless that doctor--she was fabulous with him....but, she couldn't get him to wash his hands, either.

After what seemed like days (and was really was many, many hours), my client was admitted to the hospital, but there was nowhere to put her because the entire hospital was filled. This meant she got to stay right on the gurnee in the ER. Once she was officially admitted, I was able to leave her to her own fun and enjoyment in the ER. She still had her Blue Blockers on when I left.

While driving home, I literally praised Jesus and Grover that I would NOT be needing medical attention on this night...if I were to have a medical emergency, I think I would give up being a vegetarian and go out and find some of that magical barbeque chicken....

Confessions of a Madonna Whore Part II

Ticket to Madonna Show: $187.50 (or even $400.00)
Parking at the United Center: $30.00
T-Shirt at the Concert: $100.00
New outfit for the concert: $100.00
Seeing madonna in person: Priceless

The Madonna Frenzy continues. MJagger and I continue to plot our way to victory and money for the June 14th concert at the United Center. The wife just keeps saying, "don't tell me you don't have any money when you spent all that money on a Madonna ticket." I hate when she's right. (The Oprah diet exploded when I purchased that ticket.)

I posted my one ticket on eBay, with the hopes of making a small profit. Unfortunately, 430 people also did the same thing at the same time. A gluttony of Madonna tickets does not make a sale profitable or perhaps even possible. Still no bids after four days. I begin to sweat just a teeny, tiny bit. We may have to wait for weeks before we put more tickets up for sale. eBay, don't let me down! (If any of you blog readers want a Madonna ticket for the June 14 concert, I'm selling it for face value--for what I paid for it--$187.50. We'll even drive you to/from the concert as long as you promise to: (1) be on time; (2) be fun; (3) don't get sloppy drunk and puke in the car; (4) be on time; (5) be willing to sit alone in section 115.)

I've been practicing my dance moves and thinking about what to wear to the show. I really don't have money to buy anything fancy, so I'm limited in my day-dreaming. Maybe I can find a shiny disco shirt. I refuse to wear those high-wasted disco pants from the 70's (remember: I'm in mourning over the loss of the ultra low rider jeans). Maybe I'll just buy a new t-shirt and call it a day. Maybe I'll just wear an old t-shirt and buy a Madonna T-shirt at the concert, throw away the old t-shirt and wear the new concert shirt.

Should I forget new clothes and just get a Madonna Tattoo??! That would be a permanent souvenier from the show.

Hey, by the way--today is POOP FOR PEACE DAY! I'm going to poop for peace AND in honor of Madonna. Get into the Groove! And, it's Easter Weekend, so I'm going to listen to lots of sacreligious Madonna music in the pope's honor. Did you know that Lincoln was shot on Good Friday? At least that is what my work brother Randolph says and I believe him b/c he is just as big of a nerd as I am. So, kiss a penny, pray at 3 pm, poop for peace and buy a Madonna today. It's all good.

Confessions of a Madonna Whore

This all started when I heard Madonna was going back on tour this summer. Since Madonna (aka Dita, Madge, Ester) is having the “Confessions Tour,” I thought this would be a great time to confess all my sins to her. I will especially need to confess what it was like to buy tickets for this upcoming tour…First off, I confess that I copied this photo from some unknown link on the Web. Madonna, I’m sorry and hope you will forgive me. For you, I’ll do three “Oh Fathers” and promise to stay away from seeking other Google Images.

Madge, you know I’ve been there through the Boy-toy phase, the Blonde Ambition Tour, the I’m-a-cowgirl-Music-Drowned-phase, the Re-Invention tour, the bad movies, the okay movies, the husbands, the babies, the albums, the Sandra Bernhart phase, the bad accents, the Truth or Dare era, the David Letterman shows, the blonde hair, the red hair, the dark hair, the disco hair. I’ve seen you four times in concert—once in Dallas and three times in Chicago. How could I stay away from you for the “Confessions Tour?” I confess that I cannot. I HAVE to have tickets to your latest concert—at any price. Any. I am truly a Madonna whore.

About that concert: I MUST get the ticket that will lead to dancing and singing and general excitement with Madonna. I MUST GET TO THAT CONCERT! I will sell my dogs. I will sell my house. I will sell my wife!

My friend, Madonna fan #2—we’ll call her MJagger (for reasons known to her)—and I decide that we will both try and secure tickets for the “Confessions Tour” coming to the United Center this summer. We’ve gone to two previous Madonna concerts together, so why stop now? We aren’t stupid—we know those tickets are going to go like hotcakes, so we need a plan. I decide I will be on line at work and she will be on line at home. We will be poised on Ticketmaster with our grubby little paws on the mouse, ready to pounce with the cursor on the BUY NOW button so we can seek the best available tickets. At 9:59 AM, I am sweating. I am in position. I am at my desk, hand on mouse, palms getting sweatier by the second. I confess: these are not cheap tickets. This is Madonna. Tickets are $350.00 or $165.00. I can’t even pay my bills and I’m going to spend money on concert tickets. The wife is horrified.

10 AM rolls around and WHAM! I’m clicking that mouse like there is no tomorrow. Only about three zillion other people are doing the same thing. MJagger and I call back and forth to each other via cell phones. Neither of us is getting anywhere very fast. We decide to start seeking single tickets instead of two tickets at a time. She gets through and swoops up a single ticket for herself.

I get through! I have a ticket in my grasp! I reach for my wallet…and, I discover I DON’T HAVE MY CREDIT CARD! (I’ve been leaving it at home so I don’t use it. Great time to remember that.) I contemplate suicide. I make the decision to use my Bank Card, praying to the banking gods that I actually have enough money in my account to cover the cost of the ticket. I point and click. TA-DA! It is mine. It’s not the greatest seat I’ve ever seen but it is mine. MJagger calls me, screaming, “SHE’S JUST ADDED ANOTHER CONCERT!” MJagger goes into overdrive. She is buying tickets left and right. I can’t keep up. In just minutes, she has tickets for both nights. I’ve lost count of what she has purchased and spend our time screaming and yelling and celebrating and sweating.

After the ticket frenzy, we have time to re-group. She has several single tickets and two floor tickets. I have my ticket. We plot and plan how we can get the best out of these tickets and sell the rest. I get confused and dizzy as she tries to explain all the options to me. I’m not sure how it will work out but I do know that I have concert tickets and that I will be dancing with Madonna in June.

By the way, I ended up having $13 to spare in my checking account after buying the ticket, so nothing bounced across the nation. It was meant to be.

I don’t know what I’ll wear to this concert. Last time, MJagger wore leather pants. I have nothing that exciting to wear. But, at least there are 60 shopping days until the concert. This time, I’ll remember to bring the charge card….