Trading Neon for Sunshine Today

It seems like only yesterday
I gazed through the glass
At ramblers
Wild gamblers
That's all in the past
Deacon Blues - Steely Dan

Today my past seems further behind me than at any time I can remember. Not in a bad way. More like seeing it with a clarity and perspective that comes only with distance.

The weather today... my god, it must have been in the mid-sixties! A perfect day. More relaxing and fun than any I've had in a long, long time. And what was I doing that was so amazing? Not much, really. Sitting outside with my family. Cooking hot dogs on the grill, rolling a ball with my daughter, tossing it up in the air and listening to her howl with laughter when daddy would bounce it off his head, then kick it high up in the air.

It was just the three of us - well, four when you count Matthew, with whom I'm 5 months pregnant. Hearing my daughter laugh, feeling my son kick, watching my husband's eyes fill with love as I struggled to extricate myself from my camper's chair - it was all so simple, and so wonderful.

Most of what I write is humorous, or at least attempts to be. Often times it is dark humor. And while it's generally personal, it's rarely about my husband and children. I guess I feel like it's okay to make sport of my own personal folly, but I have an obligation to protect my loved ones from any invasion of their privacy.

Today I want to break from that just a bit. No dark humor. Just a few words from a wife and mother, to say "thank you" to my family for such a beautiful, beautiful day. I am the luckiest woman in the world!

Buyer's "pre"morse?

I used to sit at home silently and wonder
Why all the preference in polishing the chrome
While all the mothers and the sisters and the babies
Sit and rot at home
Car Trouble - Adam & the Ants

This mother and sister has been sitting and rotting at home for far too long, baby.

Long story short: when you have a documented neurological impairment that causes you to wake up in a hospital with no memory of the past 3 days, it's difficult to convince the DMV that you are not a menace and should be allowed to drive.

New York State decided years ago that my history of seizures/TIA/neuropathy should and would bar me from having a drivers license. It sucked, but being a city girl at the time it wasn't a huge deal. I managed.

Now that I live in semi-bucolic bliss (uh huh) here in upstate New York, I really, really need to drive. And thanks to my doctor (and pages 34-37 of the Merck catalogue), I'm getting the chance! That's right, baby. New York is giving me back my driving privileges. Woohoo!

I have to go through the whole prelicensing process again - permit, 5 hour course, road test - which I'm hoping to knock out in a few weeks. And I also have to go (cue horror music) ...car shopping!

Once upon a time, I could do this myself. Once upon a time, cars were mechanical things with recognizable parts that could be removed, inspected, and replaced. Hell, I even did my own sheet metal work on a 1968 Mustang (with a little help from my boyfriend Bobby, who stole the road signs we needed to do do the work.) But today? Oh. My. God. What is all that crap under the hood???

Hubby and I went car shopping a couple of years ago, and that was pretty easy. Brand new vehicle, follow the maintenance schedule, and call the dealer or AAA if needed. The toughest decision was whether or not to pay the extra for the custom floor mats. (Our decision was no, but the dealer threw them in anyway. I drive a hard bargain, hoss.)

This time around I'm looking for a beater. I want to pay cash (no financing, no need for comp & collision!) and yet I want a car that will run decently. My husband is many things, but a mechanic ain't one of 'em. Let others carry a toolbox, he has a rolodex. In fairness, it's a Craftsman rolodex.)

Yesterday I set out with high expectations. Somewhere out there was my car, I just knew it! Under $2,000, with mileage not exceeding 50,000. A few years old. Sedan or hatchback, but sporty enough that I still look cool cruising to Chuck E. Cheese with my kids.

Alas, I am returned home, a downtrodden and disillusioned wreck (which coincidentally enough describes the car I'm most likely going to purchase.) Sigh. After test driving a couple of cars I really liked ("Holy crap, you mean $1,500 is the down payment, not the sticker price???" followed by "Yeah, I love the leather interior, and it looks smokin', but speaking of smokin', there's some funky smells coming from under the hood") I have decided that I am not destined to look cool any time soon.

My new front runner is a 1997 Chevy Lumina with a mere 149,000 miles. I may as well go whole hog and paint the freaking Chuck E. Cheese logo on the side of the thing. Or maybe I'll settle for putting a ball pit in the back. It's big enough.

Here comes a bikini whale!

We were at the beach
Everybody had matching towels
Somebody went under a dock
And there they saw a rock
It wasn't a rock
It was a rock lobster!
Rock Lobster - The B52's

I freaking love the B-52's. They are the music of my soul, the kind of music I try to write and perform myself. Upbeat, off the wall, designed to get you off your ass and on your feet - or, as in the case of their classic "Rock Lobster", wriggling on the floor of your highschool gym. Class of 86, you know what I'm talkin' about!

I can appreciate the lyrical brilliance and cultural impact of contemplative folk singers. I can admire their talent, nod my head in agreement or shake it in defiance. And without fail, I can leave it sitting in its shrinkwrap at Borders Books and Music. My life has been angst and drama-ridden enough courtesy of my own questionable decision making. My cup runnith over, I need not for my ipod to do so as well.

I mention this because, as we speak, I'm supposed to be penning a driving, anthemic rock song for a friend's band. It's supposed to be intense, angry, filled with outrage at the state of the world. And dammit, I am trying. I really am. God knows I'm as pissed as anyone at the debacle that is our current financial crisis. And yet, I can't translate it into a simple four chord blues progression. I had one line on paper... "The American Dream - I tried to grab it". At that point my bunny Alfie hopped by, and the next line instantly became "all I got was a handful of rabbit"! I can hear Fred Schneider delivering that line. Not an angry folk rocker. ("It wasn't a rock! It was a rock rabbit!")

Screw it. I'm gonna fire up some Donna Summer, jump in the shower, and gyrate to "I Feel Love" while I loofa various body parts. And now that I've given you a visual to haunt your day, I'm outta here...

The Soundtrack of my Life

One, two, three-four-five
Everybody in the car so come on let's ride
To the liquor store around the corner
The boys say they want some gin and juice
But I really don't wanna...
Mambo No. 5 - Lou Bega

When I lived in Boston, I worked out at World Gym 5 days a week; 2 days a week with a drop dead gorgeous personal trainer named Chris Ciullia. When this song came on the overhead, the place would catch fire. Weights increased, sweat flowed, grunts echoed off the walls. And that was just me! Okay, no, that was everyone. There's something about a kick-ass song that just gets into your blood and makes you feel capable anything.

Career-wise, I'd have to say the dumbest thing I've ever done was to give up singing for a living. There is a high you get from standing onstage, belting out one of your own songs, that's better than any drug, better than sex.

When I left the band, it was the right thing to do. In 2002, my life was in a definite state of turmoil. Years of living on the road, waking up in cramped hotel rooms with five bandmates and multiple strangers strewn about the place, was taking its toll. My boyfriend was also the band manager and bass player; the togetherness was suffocating. And cliche of cliches, my biological clock was ticking. I'd been told I couldn't have children, but I was desperate for a puppy.

Boyfriend and I had "the talk" no less than 472 times between 2001 and 2002. One memorable weekend in Key West, preparing to take the stage at Finnegan's Wake, I gave the ultimatum. Wrap up the playing for at least a few months, or I was out. Boyfriend said okay, but continued to book gigs, business as usual. I packed my meager belonging, sold my gear for the cash I would need, and bailed.

A lot has changed since then. I met and married the love of my life. I gave birth to 2 beautiful children, one of whom tragically died a few hours after he was born. I'm now pregnant with my third (and last, I'm 40 for chissakes!) child. I moved from Boston, to New York, to Ohio, and back to Upstate New York. I wouldn't trade any of it, my husband and my children fill me with more joy than even the best gig ever could.

But in that part of my soul that's me and me alone, where only what I want matters... I am empty. I miss music. I miss performing. I know I'm going back.

No, not to my crazy-assed touring days. And not to my ex! He and I are still great friends - in fact, I'm currently designing the art work for his new band's CD. But I have no urge to give up my family in any way, shape or form. I am happy with my life in all ways, except in my career.

I took the ultimate cop-out. I took a job in corporate America, and told myself I was doing the right thing. The grown-up, respectable thing. What a horrible, horrible mistake! I don't want to be a gray, mindless corporate drone, and I sure as hell don't want my children growing up thinking that that's the "right" thing to do! No, no, a thousand times no!

Years ago I had a stroke, and for 48 hours things were pretty grim. The doctors said I might survive - but likely not. I came incredibly close to dying. And yet, lying in that hospital bed with tubes sticking into and out of every damned part of me, I was more alive than I am today. Today I am that horrible spectre, the zombie-like creature who is Going Through The Motions.

For me, for Ciara, for Matthew, and for Rory, I have to go back. To teach my children the meaning of life, I have to be alive myself.

If you're a guitar player reading this, give me a yell!

Blahg

And so begins the story of a 40 year old mom, former rock goddess to tens of fans, and organizer of the big rabbit rock festival.

I'm sure I'll have lots to say in the days ahead. Tonight however I'm going to bed. Some rock goddess, huh?