The World According to EDW

I haven't written about Emily yet, but now is the time. I'm sitting here, checking my email, tired and hot. It's humid as hell here in NJ on this Memorial Day Weekend. We are doing work on the house - the endless stream that comes with homeownership. Em and I have been running errands, Lowe's and the local paint store because I have it in my head that I am painting my bathroom TONIGHT! I also have friends coming over to drink and build a half wall in our downstairs 1950's "den" we are remodeling. I will be drinking. They will be building.

She's standing next to me, trying to stand on a plastic blow-up beach ball, the cheap kind you get in a supermarket. I say, "Oh, no, you can't do that!", alarmed.

She says, as she falls off, "Oh no, try again!" and laughs uproariously. And tries again. And laughs some more.

And this is why I love having a kid. They amaze you. They surprise you. Even if you say it can't be done, they will try to prove you wrong. They make you laugh and reconsider.

I was never a kid person. I never wanted to be a mom. I wanted to be free, and have intellectual conversations, and drink coffee and be pretentious. (Ok, I was 16 when I came up with this list, and drinking coffee seemed pretty cool.) Those are all good things - maybe I could lose the pretentiousness, and maybe I have, but the coffee and the conversation and the freedom still sound pretty solid. And I've got those things. But I know, as I think everyone does, that there's another life I could have. I could have gone to graduate school and not taken a job in publishing. I could have headed straight for academia and not corporate. I could have met another guy, bought another house, had or not had another kid.

No one's to say which would be better or worse. That guy I did marry is lugging the painting stuff upstairs, even thought he thinks (knows) I'm nuts to paint RIGHT NOW! The kid I did have is laughing and making me laugh. Right now, in my humid house in need of many improvements, this life looks pretty good to me.

I recently bought a sign for my daughter's room, and we read it to her everyday. It's pretty, she likes to touch it, because the handle has jewels on it. It says, "In a world where you can be anything, be yourself." I'm big on the affirmations and touchstones, I've got some of those "quotables" magnets on my fridge that I switch around, depending on what message I need to hear right then. I like self-improvement books because I like to self improve, and I know there's no end to it if you want to keep growing. I know that there's no life skill you master forever. Being yourself is a continual process. This started as the story of a rock concert. It's also the story of me listening to a sign.

I've led a very sedate life for the past few years. My husband and I easily transitioned from DINKS to parents. We'd stopped going out to the point that having a kid and staying in was not that different from not having a kid and staying in. If anything, it made us feel less lame. We now had a reason to stay home.

So when my husband's obsession with Marah reared its rock'n'roll head, we were in for whole new ballgame.

It stared innocently enough in October. He wanted to go see them play, and he wanted me to go with him. So, one night out, right? I didn't know what to wear, as it had been ages since we'd been out to dinner and a concert. I was really good at the going-out-to-dinner attire. My concert gear was more along the line of Chuck's, jeans, and t-shirts. I consulted the girls at work, who advised me on jeans, boots, and a pretty fall blazer, and Nick asked his only cool, single, city livin' friend and was dressed pretty damn cool. We took pictures and told each other how rock and roll we were. That's how long we had been out of the game.

The next time they played, it was local, so I was back to my jeans, t-shirt, Merrill's, and ponytail. Nick had the cool t-shirt on.

The third time, we were meeting the band. Now we really had to step it up. This required shopping for me, accompanied by the girls from work, and a review of clothes the night before for Nick. Serious stuff. The girls advised me that I would never be as rock and roll cool as my hostess, so just be my self, my inner Rocker, not my outside suburban mom.

Then we entered into double header night. Packing our young child off, we needed to approach this with aplomb. We needed to let our Grup selves shine.

I learned a few important Life Lessons while preparing for Double Header Nights:

I should just let my hair be its naturally curly self, and stop blowing it out. It is what is it.

On the other hand, I'm kissing natural color goodbye - it looks better when it's redder (more like when I was a kid) and the blond it gets in it just makes me look like another Jersey shore mom. It's good to stand out from the crowd.

The girls from work are excellent shopping companions.

All clothes that make me look or feel fat are gone - no more hoping it will look good when I lose more weight.

Buy the second pair of new shoes. He'll never understand, but he'll get over it. And you'll save the time going back to buy them.

It's nice to see Marah (or any other band) in a nice club, with tables and reserved bar stools and carpet and real bathrooms, but it's much more fun to see them in a everyone-standing capacity.

No more beer. Beer is too filling. Wine is better.

I dance like an idiot white girl.

No one cares about that but me.

It's time to stop thinking about what I look like and what I do and just fucking be myself already. I learned this in Target. Target is not only the purveyor of cheap shoes and cute gift bags, but apparently, self-esteem worth years of therapy.


What I love about Marah is that they get my out of my head. I actually have to say to myself, turn off the inner monologue already. But there are moments when I'm in the crowd and don't have to say that, because it's already off. I could really fill this post with shit about how I'm an observer, not a participant, and a mom, not a cool girl up front rocking out with the cool girls. I've said this shit before, many times, to myself and others, and I can believe it if I want, but why? Last year I dragged my husband to this workshop thingy where the guy running it said that we create our own realities with the things we tell ourselves - he called it the crazy monkey in our heads. I'm not going to claim that this was the most life changing thing I've experienced, but that alone was worth the money to me. I thought, no shit. I've got a great big crazy monkey! And he makes shit up!

I let my crazy monkey talk, and then I told him to shut the fuck up, because I had things to do. And how was the show? It was awesome, because Marah is seriously the best band out there. The only thing missing was that my husband was too far back in the crowd from me.

So in closing, I'd like to thank my drink pusher, my cigarette girl, and the girl who never believed my lie that I was shy and wanted to hang back from the crowd. Let's do it again sometime.

Let's just get this over with, shall we? No beating around the bush. I went to see a Journey cover band.

I was visiting my family in Chicago. Well, Joliet actually. Yes, where the prison is. I love my family. Let me rephrase. I completely and utterly adore my cousin, who is one of my best friends in the world and an amazing sounding board and super fun and also the reason we get into Vegas clubs for free. I really enjoy being with her and her family.

It was her daughter's communion, so my mom and I hopped a quick flight, left the kiddo and husbands at home, and headed out to party and eat mass quantities of beef.

Now, I don't eat a whole lot of red meat in my real life. I almost never make it at home - Nick might make some burgers or grill a steak once or twice a summer, but that's about it. I eat hamburgers and steak out, but rarely. But for some reason, I step off the plane at Midway and start chowing down. I eat Portillo's beef sandwiches, I eat Chicago hotdogs, I eat a wonderful creation from Merichka's in Crest Hill, IL, called a poorboy, which consists of a steak soaked in "garlic butterine" and served on a long roll. We are so committed to beef eating that we get a beef sandwich before we even meet up with our family. It's sick.

Besides all the eating, we also do family things like gossip about other relatives late into the night and reminisce and retell stories ad infinitum.

This trip we decided to do something different. Oh, we still got off the plane and ate a beef sandwich. But it was Cinco de Mayo, so we started the search for a fun night out, my mom, me, and my cousin. We put on the cool jeans and heals, the cute tops. We scoured the local yellow pages for a Mexican restaurant ("the worst Mexican food you will eat", my cousin assured us) and a good local band.

After what was indeed the worst Mexican food we've eaten, but cheap margaritas (you just can't go wrong with booze) we went to Harrah's Casino to see Infinity. (Click on the title for their website.)

In general, I'm a fan of both cover bands and casinos - I like the cheesiness they bring together. Casinos, especially well themed ones, fascinate me. They are prime spots for people watching, and anything goes inside a casino. It helps that I don't gamble, so I have more time to observe.

I also appreciate a good cover band, and expect them to have a following. This band was no exception. Normally, casino bands are poorly attended, since people are there to gamble away their hard - or not so hard - earned money. Bands get shuttled away and ignored, which is great if you want some space to stretch out and enjoy the music.

This small stage area was packed when we got there. The band was finishing a set, and we were thrilled - get the fans back to the tables and slot machines. But no one left. They were saving tables, in an aggressive and strange manner. They left coats and purses and digital cameras and guards to protect their space. They were holding CD's, laying in wait to have them signed. (CD's, for a cover band? Why not just listen to the original Journey album, guys?) And they were ugly, and scary.

I am a very judgmental person, but not about looks. More about being an uninformed idiotic blowhard. Looks are not that big a deal to me. I think everyone is pretty, I don't notice if you've gained weight, I think you should spend more time being happy and less time fixing your hair. But, whoa momma, these people were ugly. And mean. And scary.

Please, if you're fan of this band, don't email me and tell me how attractive and intelligent you are. I'm sure you are. I'm sure Nascar has many, many intelligent and lovely fans. I know for sure the Harley Hogs are good people who do lots of stuff for their communities. And dental work is very expensive and sometimes painful. Bleaching your hair yourself is less expensive than going to a salon, and cutting it yourself saves scratch, too. Saving your clothes from the 1980's was a smart move, since skinny jeans are in again. I guess acid wash is coming back, too. My mom's hair from 1982 paid her a visit that night, reminding me that bad hair choices will always come back to haunt you, sometimes on someone else's head.

There's a club here in NJ that seems to house all the holdovers from 1987. It's like they never left, have not gone outside for almost 20 years, just stay at the bar and move onto the dance floor during shows. I don't go there anymore, that's how weird the scene is. I'm not sure if I should be afraid or relieved that there are more of these people out there. On one hand, I now know it's not just Jersey. On the other, the situation seriously worries me. It's scary. I will always look upon cover bands with trepidation now. I can no longer count on top quality, non-frightening entertainment at casinos.

But they really had a good time out there. It looked like fun. Scary, but fun. Pathetic, but fun. A few more drinks and a little less snobbery, and I could have had fun, too. Instead we flicked back our hair, held our noses up high, and floated out of the casino, back home so we could stay up and talk about our relatives.

I haven't been around much lately, and this is partially why.

April 28, 2006
So here's my story for the night, weekend, past week.

I have been running around like a crazy loon getting ready for a family wedding that's tomorrow. The bride grew up with my husband, Nick, and is the sister he never had, thus the family part of the wedding. I am the sister-in-law, and generally the person in charge of making sure the bride has a dress, purse, and other girl things since she was fortunate to grow up a tomboy with three "brothers".

We have been asked to host the groom and his groomspeople (men and women who are standing up for him) on the day of the wedding. To me, this is a great honor, and thus I must obsessively clean every part of my house like a maniac and force my insanity on the one person who will take it, my husband. However, my husband has his own weird thing - he has spent the last week landscaping like a loon, because we might have pictures taken or something outside. We are clearly a good match, no? Also, a good portion of his relatives from Philly will be up, so even more self-inflicted pressure.

Between last minute bridal errands, OCD house cleaning, an interesting week at work, my spouse's landscaping, and my normal stuff like raising a toddler, I have been uniquely challenged. It's fun, but the question, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, SELF? has come up.

Tonight was the rehearsal dinner, and I did what any self-respecting woman in my situation would do - I drank on an empty stomach. In this mode, I mingled with and charmed all the groom's relatives, caught up with the bride's, and had a slight flirtation with the groom's father, who apparently has a thing for redheads (and I have newly touched-up red).

On the ride home, I was starting to feel it, and sort of cursing myself for the indulgence when I have a day of organizing the groomspeople ahead of me. Our soundtrack was IF YOU DIDN'T LAUGH and between "Walt Whitman Bridge" and "The Apartment" I started to feel better. Maybe it was the love of my life singing all the words (there's nothing better than watching that, is there? Such unselfconscious pleasure you get to witness.) Maybe it was the peek into the world of the songwriters I now have. Maybe it was the booze. But I started to feel very grateful for my life, very happy to have this man beside me, very glad I had the chaos of this wedding still ahead, because one day this bride, a sister of my heart, will be driving home to her sleeping child with her love beside her, slightly tipsy and silly and feel the warm happiness of being there in that moment.

The soundtrack mattered, because I could also hear the songs live in my head and see my Marah friends rocking out to them in my memory, and see the men who put so much of themselves into their music. And I was driving the most beautiful stretch of road, over the river and up a winding hill, with the clear night air in the car.

That's my crazy wedding buzzed girl warm fuzzy for the night.