Love Bites

Let me tell you something else about me; I love good ol' rock music.  The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Eagles, The Doors, The Who, The Guess Who, Pink Floyd, Black Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult, Van Halen, and pretty much anything else that might show up on any radio station called "The Hawk" or "The Bay" is my bread and butter.  Led Zeppelin is my main course.  These bands create music that nourishes some deep part of my soul.  When I hear the harmonies of "Seven Bridges Road" or the opening riff to "Whole Lotta Love," I melt and truly feel like the person I am supposed to be.

That said, if that music satisfies me in a wholesome satisfying way, my dessert is my hair metal: Motley Crue, Poison, Kix, Cinderella, Scorpions, Warrant, Ratt and Quiet Riot to name just a few.  And my absolute weakness, my chocolate lava cake indulgence, is Def Leppard.  I fell in love with them back in high school when my boyfriend's friend found out that I was interested in hair metal and turned me on to them.  Then college hit and like many of my female counterparts, "Pour Some Sugar On Me," became my anthem.  Oh college...

But as that song grew old on me (and I grew too old for it) I found more of their songs that I loved: "Rock of Ages," "Love Bites," "Hysteria," all had the best of my classic rock deep harmonies and throttling hair metal guitar screams.  And yet, despite my best efforts, I kept missing them when they toured.  

Until last week...

My brother's birthday just so happened to fall on the same day that KISS and Def Leppard were performing in Tampa.  My sister and I decided to surprise him with tickets and take him there for his birthday.  We were pumped- we had seen KISS before and they always put on an enjoyable show, but I was thrilled to finally see Def Leppard.  They were opening for KISS so I was determined to get there early so as not to miss a single single.

I had purchased tickets on Groupon for Drew and me.  Lindsay kept planning on getting a ticket for herself, but since all we were getting were lawn seats, I assured her there was no rush.  After all, they're just lawn seats.

So the day arrived and after a few pit stops to the gas station and a delicious pre-show dinner of Wendy's, we pull up to the Florida State Fairgrounds.  A long line of cars worried us, but after a little maneuvering we drove into the a vast field filled with every kind of car.  We sat for a while sipping our drinks and chatting with the two fifty year old guys hanging out next to us by their car.  We found out they were from Boston and the taller of the two of them had seen every great classic rock band perform.

"Except Zeppelin.  Still haven't seen Zeppelin, but in a few years it will be their anniversary so there's hope!" he said.

"I'd like to think so, but I heard in an interview Jimmy Page said it would never happen," I said.

"They will.  Trust me."

I said I was just excited to finally see Def Leppard, whom I have been wanting to see for years.

"Oh, you will NOT be disappointed.  You name the song, they will play it.  And it will be awesome."

I started getting giddy.  Meanwhile, my sister asked the guys if they thought there would be any danger of them selling out of lawn seats.  She had been anxious ever since we were parked and though we wanted to tailgate for a while, we knew we had to get to the box office eventually.  

"Oh sure.  Yeah, no worries about that.  But uh, just so you know...the box office and entrance is ALL the way over there," the tall guy said pointing far in the distance towards some buildings.  "And it sounds like the last opener band just finished so Def Leppard should be coming on soon."

We thanked them and waved as they began their own trek to the stage.  After a few more minutes of tailgating we figured it was about time for us too.  As we began to walk the long dirty road, we slowly began to realize just how far this walk was going to be.  We kept passing more and more rows of cars and people everywhere all making their way to the same destination.  A few times some men would call out "Tickets, tickets here.  Buying and selling."  We figured it was just scalpers trying to sell their actual seat tickets, not lawn, so we passed them and continued on our way.

After several heat-stroke inducing minutes, the three of us finally made it to the entrance.  We let Drew wait off the line and hang out while Lindsay and I waited.  

"Man, I just really hope they don't sell out..." Lindsay kept saying.

"We're fine.  We want lawn seats.  It's not like they can sell out of lawn seats," I said.

Finally our turn came and we walked up to the counter.

"One lawn seat please."

"Sorry, sold out.  The cheapest ticket is one in this section for $60," the woman behind the glass said.

Our hearts and jaws dropped.  Immediately, Lindsay jumped out of the line before I could even think and began racing back the way we came, yelling that we needed to find one of the scalpers.  As she took off I explained to Drew what was happening, just as my ears recognized the opening to "Foolin'"  They were on.  Def Leppard was on.  And I was out, missing it.  I tried to hold down my frustration as I chased after her.  We were nearly halfway back to the car when an idea suddenly dawned on me.

"Lindsay, why don't we just pool all the money we have and get the seated ticket?  That way you can at least get inside and then sit with us?"  It meant going back on the box office line, but it was our last chance.  

Lindsay began running back to the box office again, breezing past Drew who had finally began to catch up to us.  Once again, I tried to explain the game plan and kept running with her.  Poor Drew was trying so hard not to appear frustrated.  It was so hot out still and this wasn't going the way we had planned.  I waited for Drew to start to follow as Lindsay began blowing up my cell phone.

"I'm next in line!" she said excitedly.

I told Drew just to make his way to the box office and I sprinted, clutching my bags and blankets to me.  I got to her side just as another window opened.  

"One of whatever is the cheapest, please," Lindsay said.

"Ok, so lawn?" the woman asked.

We were dumbstruck.  We told her we had just been told lawn seats were sold out!

"Oh they just released more," she said nonchalantly.  Just then one of the workers got my attention.  

"You might need this.  You dropped it back there," he said gruffly, holding out my ticket!  I thanked him, and the Concert Gods, for what could've been the final blow to a stressful evening.

I was livid that we had made that jog at a cost of two songs, but elated to not have spent more money than we meant, so I figured it was a wash.  The Birthday Boy got himself a beer and at last the three of us found our own little patch of lawn.  We set ourselves up just in time to enjoy the rest of Def Leppard's set, and though it was a long time coming, in more ways than one, it was so well worth it.

So often these older bands have the impossible task of trying to sound the way they did back in the 70s and 80s, when they were at their musical prime.  I have been burned by other bands before (I'm looking at you, Klaus Meine of Scorpions), but Joe Elliott still brought his chops and they were goooood.  Their harmonies blended magically, from melodiously sweet to teeth gnashing tough, and Phil Collen and Vivian Campbell sent shivers down my spine with shrill shredding.  The best was probably the drummer, Rick Allen, who's bionic arm received more cheers than anything, not out of pity, for the man needs none.  He tore it up better than any I've seen, especially on "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Armageddon It".  I was more than satisfied.  I was stuffed.

The night could've ended there, and I would've been a happy lady.  Of course, it wouldn't be me without more inanity happening, such as breaking my glasses and fighting traffic for almost an hour on the way back.  

Still, it was a great night.  Drew seemed happy with his birthday and Lindsay saved herself some bucks at the concert.  And as I laid my head on my pillow that night, the echoes of heart-pounding drum beats and falsetto voices lulling me to sleep, I smiled.

Until the next tour....

How about you?  What bands/musicians are on your bucket list?

Chinese Food Lady and Me

I worry the Chinese food lady doesn't likes me.

We have been going to the same place ever since we moved here and it's pretty great.  They have online ordering, fast service, they're right around the corner, and the food is actually the best we've had around here.  Joe especially likes them because he has finally achieved the pivotal moment of every carry-out food relationship: recognizing his food order.  It's like when the person you are dating finally takes you to meet their family- you're in.  You get the benefit of being "a regular" which means they know you by name, allowed to make changes to your order without ridicule, and other fun surprises.

With me, however, I think I'm still working to get out of the "friend-zone."  But I'm making progress.  Take tonight, for example...

My mom needed a lift to Happy Dragon to rectify her order.  She had ordered the shrimp with vegetables and was disappointed to see a gel-like sauce instead of a savory brown sauce.  She called the restaurant and they offered to redo her order for her. 

I came in a few minutes afterwards and waited to make eye-contact with her.  She saw me and rather than a jovial smile, she simply said, "Can I help you?"  I sidled up next to my mother and before I could explain she said, "Are you with her?"

I nodded smiling and then she just turned back to the kitchen.  I was disappointed, but I wasn't going to give-up.

I considered the fact that I hadn't made a plan for dinner yet and since I was already here, maybe I ought to order some food for Joe and me.

I gathered up some courage and went to the counter.  She saw me and came forward.  And then, as usually happens when I'm trying to get someone to like me, I fumble and bumble.

"Uh, I uh, yeah, I think I will..um...make an order..."

She looked at me blankly, but I couldn't stop.

"I'll get his usual...the thing with the noodles, and the extra sauce...The chicken...the white meat...extra sauce.."

"The General Tsao's?"

"Yes!" I said as excitedly as if we were on the game show Password.  "And uh, I'll have the chicken with broccoli, please.  You know I wasn't even sure what we were going to do for dinner but then we came in here and the food smelled so good and I realized I had such a craving because the food is so good I figured we should treat ourselves because it smelled so good..." It was embarrassing.  I was mining for a smile, a wink, even a friendly nod.  I got nothing.  She wrote down the order and walked away.

I was like a frustrated loser at the bar that was getting no where.  I considered that for a second and then I realized what usually works for those guys that haven't got a prayer: money.  I opened my wallet and saw I had no bills so instead I'd leave her a tip on my card.  When she took the receipt back, I figured I had done it- I was finally in!  Maybe this would open the door to some awesome treats like free Won-ton Soup or bonus dumplings and egg rolls.

Instead, she uttered a thanks and handed me the food when it was ready.  It was over.  I had been shot down.  Disheartened, I slumped over to get our drinks.

"Hey, do you need a bag for the sodas?" she called to me as I grabbed the two cans from the fridge.

"Why, yes.  Yes, I would please.  Thank you," I said and gratefully took the bag she offered.

We left the restaurant, saying our thanks again and made our way to the car, and I couldn't help smiling.  I think I finally scored...

A Day at the Derm Office/"Zit's Ok!"

I have a declaration to make.

I have bad skin.

Yes, I might as well admit to it and say it out loud.  After all, it's as plain as the over sized pores on my face.   

It first came to my attention right around the time puberty hit when my skin erupted like a Biblical plague.  I was in middle school desperately trying cake batter-like make-up that only exacerbated my face to break out more.

There was a war happening on my body, a battle of good skin against bad skin, of pores against pores, of facial tensions, a....Cleara-civil War, if you will.

I would flip through beauty magazines and look at my friends and classmates, unable to understand why I was cursed with redness and pimples, while everyone around me had smooth clear faces.  My family consoled me, telling me it was just a phase, and that it would clear up soon.  It didn't.

Finally my mother took me to see a dermatologist who gave me some strong prescription acne cream and, save for bleaching some towels and pillow cases, my skin finally relaxed.  But much like a real war, there were scars that remained.  My skin never fully recovered from the battle wounds from decades worth of blemishes, and while I don't have deep pock marks, my skin will never be truly smooth.

Once that had passed, a new threat arrived.  Moles.  Years of sitting in the sun with basically cooking oil as my protection had given me a plethora of moles all around my arms, back, and legs.  I didn't mind them so much though, until years later when the news came that skin cancer could develop from them and I started seeing my aunts and mother all getting pieces of skin cut off their faces and shoulders.  Then on a routine check-up my doctor commented on my need to get them checked out, but I didn't heed her warning until I moved here to the Sunshine State.

So the status quo for a long time was a simple truce between me and my skin; I'd find the combination of skin care products that pissed it off least, give it ample SPF and in return I had manageable skin with few surprises.  For a while.

And then it betrayed me.  

A few months ago, just as my wedding date was nearing, I noticed an odd bump at the top ridge of my nose.  I thought it might just be another pimple, but it never went down; in fact, it hardened.  I had so many things on my plate at the time, I kept forgetting to get it looked at and eventually the wedding came and went, and I realized this damn thing will forever be in my wedding pictures.  My evil skin had come back, and it had a new hideous weapon.  However, fearful as to what it might cost to get it taken care of, I tried to ignore it.  This made my skin angry.

Then about a month ago, out of nowhere, I developed this awful red rash of blemishes along the right side of my neck, jaw, and cheek.  I had changed facial washes because my usual brand wasn't in stock, but when I finally did get it and start to use it again, my skin still wasn't appeased.

That was it.  The final straw.  I made the appointment to see the dermatologist.

I called and when the receptionist asked what I needed to get looked at, I gave her the rundown: a skin tag, a rash, and a whole lotta moles.  

On the day of the appointment I arrived at the front desk and checked in.  I was instantly struck by the receptionists working at the desks; they all had this immaculate clear bright skin.  I wondered if they got some kind of special deal or discount, like how you see these Barbie dolls working for plastic surgeons.  Nothing makes you feel more troll-like than seeing what you long to look like looking back at you.

I was taken into the back and told to put on the traditional paper towel dress and wait.  I begin to fidget, wondering if I stand out amongst the typical teenagers fighting their own skin battles or the elderly patients that are here to get something zapped.  I calm down, reminding myself that these are professionals and they've already seen it all.  

The dermatologist finally comes in and after a few pleasantries, looks me over.

"Ok...wow.  So you are quite mole-y..."

Awesome.  She spends the next 15 or 20 minutes looking over and categorizing each of my moles.  When she comes to my face, I mention the skin tag.

"Oh I can take care of that for you right now."  And with that, she takes her blow-torch of liquid nitrogen and blasts at the blemish.  It feels weird and she says it will fall off in a couple of days.  That's one mission completed.

When the examination is over, she says that none of them look malignant but she says she wants to see me again in a few months to check them again and then once more every year.

"Because, you know...you're pretty mole-y".  Thanks Dr. Derm-ento.

I left, grateful that things look normal and that this weird growth will fall off soon.  Still the whole experience brought back a lot of memories and feelings of my past.  I said goodbye to the porcelain-skin ladies at the front desk, and sighed heavily.

I'll never be one of those girls with clear smooth skin; it's just not in the cards I was dealt, and no pity party is ever going to change that.  I just have to find a way to accept how I am.  I'm sure all people have some issue with their bodies, weight being the most complained about.  But really, I think I'd rather have a weight problem than a skin one.  Before you blast me, hear me out- there's no "cute" way to dress for your acne.  Curves are awesome and sexy, except when they are on your face.  Even the best of cover-ups and concealer still show bumps- I know because I've tried every kind.  And think about the characters from fairy-tales, our first foray into understanding what beauty is.  In all the fairy-tales I've ever read (and after taking Folklore and Literature in college, I read many), they never mention the princess having a tight butt and flat stomach.  She's always described as having silken hair, a lovely face, and soft smooth skin.  

It broke my heart that I could never be that.  But I'm not going to destroy myself over it.  Instead, I'm going to take a cue from others, and try to celebrate it.  Find a way to build support systems for other women that have tried everything and have just come to accept their skin's condition.

We're here.  We're not clear.  Zit's Ok! 

Got something you've gone to war with your body over?  Share the good word.  Don't make me be the only one here!

Stand-Up

Last week, Joe and I were walking towards Burns Court Theater to grab some dinner before the movie when we heard yelling in the distance.  As we approached we noticed a group of protesters (mostly female) holding up posters of aborted fetuses.  It was sick sad irony that at the time I was craving spaghetti and meatballs.

Surprisingly, the yelling was coming from a woman facing the protesters, who was shouting "I don't need to see pictures of dead babies when I am going to the movies!" to which one of them (a man) said back to her, "Then stop killing babies."

We walked on, and while I ruminated on whether or not this man knew this woman was NOT in fact the head of the Baby-Killing campaign, another normal-looking woman extended a pamphlet to us, which we politely declined.  I watched as more people busily avoided eye contact with the protesters as we made our way to the restaurant.

On our way back, the rain had begun again and fewer people were walking around.  However the protesters remained, some still holding their babies under an umbrella.  Just as we were entering the theater, I heard one of them call out, "Abortion isn't funny", to which I so cleverly replied, "Yeah, but life is."  I don't really know what I meant, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

The film they were protesting is called "Obvious Child," starring Jenny Slate (whom I think I recognize from "The Kroll Show") and Jake Lacy (from the later seasons of "The Office).  Slate plays Donna, a twenty-something stand-up comic who finds herself dumped, jobless, and pregnant by a nice young man, Max (Lacy), who also happens to be her professor mother's best student.  It's an honest take on the ridiculous curve balls life throws and Slate is simultaneously vulnerable and hysterical as she maneuvers her way through. 

The most poignant scene is, not shockingly, when Donna goes to have the abortion.  After discussing with her mother and best friend, both of whom reveal their own experiences, the topic becomes less demonizing and isolating.  Max joins her for her appointment, staying by her side until she is taken into the procedure room, and then again as she's recuperating in her apartment.  Lying on her back, her eyes glassy from an anesthetic, there was a small part of me that was waiting for her to stop the operation; not in a hopeful way, but just in an expectant way.  But just as her eyes close, (spoiler alert) the scene cuts to her sitting in a recovery room with several other women, quietly sipping their beverages.  Donna gazes around the room and shares a glance with a young woman sitting next to her and they exchange a comforting smile, and you feel their acceptance and peace right along with them.  

Although the issue of abortion was a key subject in the story, I truly felt the main focus of the film was on something much more universal and relatable, especially now as I crossed over into my 30s; growing up, and specifically, making the transition into adulthood.  The changes often happen drastically and are unapologetically rough during this part of our lives, and its all any of us can do to just make the best decisions with the choices we have. 

I was thinking about this even as we walked out of the theater, excitedly discussing the themes and completely oblivious to any protesters that hung on outside.  And it seems pertinent now since the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby's refusal to cover certain forms of birth control.

I could go into another whole blog post about my rage with that whole thing, but rather than be another voice that can be shouted down with statistics and Bible verses, I think I'd prefer to behave like the women in film did (and unlike the protesters); with quiet dignity.  Because the truth is, it's never been easy to be a woman and I fear it never will be.  And in a small way, it's gotten even harder now.  This small step chips away at our doctors and our own ability to make the best health choices for our bodies, having to choose between cost and diagnosis.

I fear it will continue to be eroded until it is accepted that we can be trusted with our own bodies, having known them since birth.  And until we understand that it is not God, or the government or each other that we must answer to, but to ourselves.  We understand that whatever choice we make, we live with, no one else.  And there's a comforting freedom in that.

But that's just me.  And that's ok.

Anyway, I better go for now.  I need to head over to protest the new Michael Bay movie.  Wonder if I can borrow one of those abortion posters...