The Odd Broad

Buble!

A retraction to Monday's post in which I dared to propose there be no more renditions of "Santa Baby" imposed upon the people of this good earth:

I didn't realize Buble sang it.  Croon away, Buble!  You can do no wrong in my book.

We've started listening to Christmas music a bit early this year in the Odd Broad household. It's only November, but I'm saddened to report that Hubby has already placed a ban on "Baby, it's cold outside" from being sung or played in his presence.  I'm hoping it's only temporary.  Fingers crossed.

There's a Martina McBride version where she sings along with Dean Martin's vocals that is just disgraceful, I mean seriously atrocious, which I suspect may have pushed Hubby over the edge.  Of course, it also could have been the one where Cyndi Lauper sings with Sinatra, although I give that one two thumbs up.  (Perhaps that's part of the problem.)

While we're on the subject, if I may, I'd like to propose that "Santa Baby" be closed to any future musical interpretations.  Does the world really need any covers after Eartha and Madge's, anyway?  Ryan Seacrest's girlfriend doesn't even sound like she's trying. I say no more renditions, please, it's getting a little yucky.  Of course, the sentiment of a grown woman singing to Santa about diamonds and checks in a sexy baby voice is wretchedly nauseating, but also I'm just not sure it translates anymore.  Or is that wishful thinking? 

On that note, Merry Monday, everyone! Just a few days until turkey day!  xoxo

An evening with Steven Tyler

One of the first decisions I made when I discovered I was pregnant was to sell my tickets to Aerosmith at Fenway Park.  Suddenly I just couldn't justify spending over $400 on concert tickets, even if it was Steven Tyler, and even if I had been waiting nearly twelve years to see him perform.

Have I ever told you that story?  It was December 31, 1998, and my friend had box seats to Aerosmith's New Year's Eve show at the Fleet Center.  Sadly, we never made it past the opening act.  (My pal had too much to drink and got really sick, and we all headed back to my apartment on Hemenway before the band ever took the stage.)  My friend felt so terrible about this, he never spoke of it again.  For my part, I was left with a deep longing to see an Aerosmith show.  Someday...

Even as I sold off those tickets, I secretly hoped that cheaper seats would somehow be made available.  You can imagine my delight on Friday when Hubby told me he'd found seats for $55.  We were going!  We were actually going!  I'm not sure if you're an Aerosmith fan, Dear Reader, but I brought along my Blackberry to document the occasion, so you could be there, too.  Walk this way...

It's a beautiful night for a concert.  I'm wearing a black and white striped flowy shrug that my mother dislikes, but that I think sort of pays homage to the great Steven Tyler. 

There's a motley crew gathered here tonight at Fenway.  Lots of big haired, tough looking broads and heavily tatted middle-agers rocking out to J. Geils.  We've gotten here about halfway into their set, and it's only around 7:15, but it seems everyone is pretty wasted already.  Incidentally, I never realized I knew so many of their songs.  (Love Stinks!)  As I'm listening to the music, I wonder what the baby is thinking.  My blood runs COLD!  My memory has just been sold.  My angel is a centerfold...

It suddenly dawns on me that the one thing I hadn't remotely considered beforehand was the issue of the pot smoke.  Hmmm.  I wonder if myself and the bambino are going to get a contact high.  (Only 17 weeks pregnant and already I'm in the running for mother of the year!)  I send my sister a text:

Everyone's smoking weed.  Can the baby and I get a contact high?  Is that...bad?

Sissy: Well, it's not great.    

Hubby tells me not to inhale.  It's not like I'm taking bong rips or anything; and we're in the open air, after all.  It should be fine, right?

There are few things more irritating in life than being sober when everyone around you is drunk.  I look longingly at my husband's beer.  Hubby has already put in a request that I not become annoyed this evening, at the drunken shenanigans.  After all, I'm pregnant and not drunk, which can be kind of...irritating (case in point: sitting next to Bad Laugher dude at the Conan O'Brien show).  I tell Hubby to have no fear, for I've practiced my Qi Gong today and I'm really quite Zen.  I'm a pebble in a pond. 

Almost immediately after these words leave my lips, the heavy-set man in front of us sparks up a stogie.  He's here with his wife, a small blond lady wearing a Curt Schilling T-shirt, and his adult daughter and her husband.  The cigar smoke is pungent, and blowing directly into my face.  The pretty older woman to the right of us looks horrified and her husband is waving the smoke away with his hands.  "I'm pregnant!" I mouth to her, and she makes a sympathetic face.  (It's true I feel compelled to share this information with just about everyone these days.) 

I'm just about to tap this bonehead on the back when three security guards come barreling down the aisle and tell him he's going to get kicked out if he doesn't put the cigar away.  Crisis averted!  For now.  He pulls out a flask as consolation. 

Finally, the lights go out and a hush goes over the park.  I hold my breath, partly from sheer excitement and partly because someone has just sparked up another doobie.  Dennis Leary is narrating a history of the Bad Boys from Boston.  And then...all of a sudden...THEY'RE HERE.

Steven Tyler is swirling and twirling around the stage in a fabulous white floor-length jacket.  He wears a top hat and shades, with a blue scarf around his neck.  I'm in heat, I'm in love!  But I just couldn't tell her so...Train kept a-rollin', all night long...  His voice sounds frigging awesome.

Joe Perry's hair looks like one of the Golden Girls and he's wearing a sparkly black top.  (Just like me!)  "That's Joe Perry," I tell my bambino, patting my belly.   

Workin' like a dog for the boss man (Whoa-oh) Workin' for the company (WHOA-oh, Yeah) 

Hubby (the Berklee sound design major), says the EQ/mix isn't very good on the vocals, but I'm still pretty mesmerized.  In the air, in the air, honey one more time, now it ain't fair!

Mr. Tyler has been tossing his mic stand around like a feather and is now full on humping the stage.  Seriously, you'd never guess the man is eligible for the AARP. 

You think you're in love, like it's a real, sure thing- but every time you fall you get your ass in a sling...

I've been singing this song all day, ever since I woke up and realized we'd be going to the concert.  I'm a major in love, but in all minor KEYS...'cause falling in love, is so hard on your knees...

It's surreal to finally see them perform live.  There's something wrong with the world today, I don't know what it is.  Something's wrong with our eyes...

Steven flicks his shades into the crowd in perfect time to the music.  He's still ridiculously youthful for his 62 years; he's remained quite the showman, and it's delightful to watch him command the crowd.

If Chicken Little tells you that the sky is falling, even if it wasn't, would ya still come crawling back again?  I bet you would, my friend!  Again and again and again and again...

He's doing heavy, suggestive breathing into the microphone.  Truth be told, it's making me a little nervous.  But you've got to love this guy.  The man is a grandpa, for crying out loud!

The family in front of us take a joint from the beret-wearing weenie in front of them.  I try not to inhale.  The stage is quiet and S. Tyler is singing a capella.  There goes my old girlfriend, there's another diamond ring...and, uh, all those late night promises, I guess they don't mean a thing...

If there is a more satisfying tune to belt out at the top of one's lungs, I certainly haven't heard it.  You spent me up like money, and then ya hung me out to dry...

I wonder if he'll be able to hit all the high notes.  (Oh, please be able to hit the high notes!)  He does it!  He's kind of screeching, mind you, which can't be good for his vocal chords, but still, how exciting!  I sing along.  I can't resist.  Who could?  Tell me what it takes to let you go...HEEE, eeeeee!

"You alright out they-ah?"  Steven shouts to the crowd.  I always loved their accents, the way they sound like most everyone in my family.  "My daddy's he-ah tonight!"

(He is?  Man, how old is he?)

Pink, it was love at first sight.  Pink, when I turn out the light.  Pink, it's like red, but not quite...and I think everything is going to be all right, no matter what we do tonight...

The Pink video is playing on the screen, that one where Joe Perry is the freaky centaur.  I notice Steven's haircut looks strikingly like my own circa 1996.  (I was the first person in my high school to get "The Rachael."  Once it grew out, my father pointed out that I looked a lot like Steven Tyler.  Thanks, Dad!)  

Hubby notices there are no live horns, just synth ones, which he finds a little disappointing.  (It's a show in their home town, couldn't they have brought in some horns?)  As for me, I'm far too distracted by the woman in the Curt Schilling T-shirt to really be bothered.  She's cutting quite a rug. 

I think I can feel the baby moving when he starts into Cryin.'  Haha!  This baby knows a good ballad, just like its mama!    

Someone, either Steven or the band, is messing up a bit.  It's not a delay from the speakers like I initially thought.  I share a glance with Hubby.  So maybe twelve years ago they would've been tighter.  Twelve years ago I also would've been very, very intoxicated.  (And not breathing shallowly.)  But the show is still pretty amazing. 

We're partners in crime, you got that certain something; what you give to me, takes my breath away...  God I love this song.  Curiously, he appears to be delivering it to Joe Perry. 

Steven is wearing these tighty white pants and shaking his little bum all over the place.  His energy is incredible.  I watch as Joey Kramer takes a drum solo.  Steven joins in for a second, and then Joey tosses away his drumsticks before diving into a solo played with his bare fists.  I wish Hubby weren't in the bathroom, because it's really pretty impressive.  The crowd goes wild, and Kramer shouts, "What?" with his hand up to his ear.  "What?" he asks again.  He wants more cheering; either that or he's hard of hearing.

Rag doll, livin' in a movie...Hot tramp, daddy's little cutie...you're so fine, they'll never see you leaving by the back door, ma'am.

A word about my deep and abiding love for this band, in case you're wondering what in the Hell would possess a feminist like myself to enjoy them so much.  It's sort of a mystery, even to myself.  One day I went to Mamakin with a friend for a book signing of Walk This Way.  When it was finally my turn to shake Steven Tyler's hand, all I could do was smile into the pretty man's face.

"Hi!" he said, with that infectious grin of his.  "Hi," I whispered back, awestruck, unable to say anything more.  Someone had given him a pink scarf and he'd draped it around his neck.  The man in front of me was crying.  I was in a trance.  A rock trance.  Pretty man.

Shortly thereafter I was watching the video to Hole in my Soul (which they wouldn't play at Fenway, sadly), when it suddenly dawned on me that I adored this band.  I had always adored this band.  Despite the raunchy, misogynistic lyrics, and the videos with the token sexy ladies in bikinis, I actually really enjoyed them.  They were a guilty pleasure of sorts.  Go figure. 

The Curt Schilling T-shirt woman is now full on jamming.  Yes, I'm movin'...I'm really movin'!  She has absolutely no rhythm and is in the wrong tempo entirely.  Truly, she's a sight to behold.   

Joe Perry is playing the slide guitar.  He invites his two sons up onstage to play a blues number, and I take this opportunity to run to the ladies room.  If I had a quarter for every tipsy skank I'd like to punch, we could send the baby to Harvard.  

Don't wanna close my eyes, I don't wanna fall asleep, cause I'd miss you babe, and I don't wanna miss a thing...

I remember watching Diane Warren, the woman who penned these lyrics, on Oprah, where she confessed that she'd never actually stayed awake just to hear someone breathing.  Who knew?

I give Hubby a little cuddle.  I love him for making this night happen.  He knows how long I've been waiting to hear Aerosmith play live. 

Concerts are a sensory experience.  And the thing about them is, unless you're lucky enough to be the only person in the audience, the experience has to be shared with every Tom, Dick and Harriet around you.  So if the man in the next row is wearing too much aftershave, or suffers from extreme b.o., or if a wiener in a beret wants to spark up doobies all night, or if the lady in front of you wants to slam dance in a passionate manner, well...there really isn't much to be done. 

Steven begins singing the intro to the Beatles Come Together and the beret-wearing wiener's mother (or is it his grandmother?) is really letting loose.  She's wearing an arm brace and is shaking everything she's got.  She moves to the aisle and raises her arms over her head, like the people did that time Hubby and I had to attend church down South.  Her gyrating is really giving Hubby the giggles.  I imagine she's taken a few drags off of her son's doobie, hence the mad dancing.

Tyler is playing the neatest looking maraca.  He's also been playing the harmonica all night and at one point even pulls out a golden looking shell of some sort.  Lots of props.  I dig it.

Sweet...emo...tion!"

You stand in the front just a'shakin' your ass!  Steven's tiny little ass is so funny in those white pants.  He's definitely kind of filthy, the way he runs his fingers over his tongue.  But the audience is eating it up like so much candy.  Me too, for that matter.

The middle-agers to my right are holding up their iphones, in lieu of lighters.  I place my hand to my belly and can feel the vibration of the bass.  I wonder what the baby is thinking.  I hope it's not, "What the f*ck is going on out there, Ma?"

When some sweat hog mama with a face like a gent...said my get up and go musta got up and went...

Hubby tells me the instrument Joe Perry is playing is called a theremin.  I'd say Perry definitely still has his chops.  And I love it when he talks to the crowd, in that familiar accent of his. 

They launch into a rendition of Baby, please don't go! and I start to get antsy.  Why the covers?  There is still so much they haven't played!  Already it's 10:15, and I'm pretty sure they have to close by 10:30.  I also could've done without the interlude where Perry competed against his avatar in Guitar Hero.  I stand there anxiously tapping my toes, channeling Pee Wee Herman at the Alamo, when he wants Jan Hooks to take them to the damn basement, already!

They're playing one of their own songs again, but it's the second one of the night that I don't recognize.  Joe Perry whips his belt from his black leather pants and begins vigorously whipping his guitar in time to the music. 

It's over.  But it can't be over!  Some people are starting to leave.  And then, all of a sudden...

"Hey, Boston, up HEAH!  NO!  Up heah!"

Tyler is atop the Green Monster, dressed in a Red Sox jersey, sitting at a white piano.  The Citgo sign is glittering in the background as he quietly launches into Dream On. 

Every time that I look in the mirror...all these lines on my face getting clearer...the past is gone...it went by like, dusk to dawn...  Eventually the band kicks in from the stage and it's an amazing rendition.  Steven hits all the high notes.  But will they be able to play another tune?  How in Hell is he going to get down from the Green Monster in time to reach the stage?  The man is 62, after all!

Remarkably, it doesn't take him very long at all to reach the stage.  Walk this way!  Talk this way...  Four rows in front of us, a blond woman is passed out in her seat. 

Just gimme a kiss!  A'like this!

After that, the show kind of tapers off.  The bad boys from Boston are talking to the crowd, and eventually pose for a picture on the catwalk.  "This is gonna make the pape-ahs tomorrow!" Tyler shouts to the crowd, before pulling off his shirt to reveal his skinny little torso and sauntering offstage. 

"That's how they're gonna end it?" Hubby asks.  I shrug, a little surprised myself.

Hubby and I walk through the crowd and feel lucky we no longer live next to Fenway.  It's utter insanity.  We stop into The Hong Kong Cafe to grab some quick takeout and then catch a cab back to Southie.  Hours later, I crawl into bed, with visions of Steven Tyler dancing in my head.  What a night. 

This gives me the Kozmic Blues

I almost retched into my milkshake last night when a friend's Facebook status mentioned something about Amy Adams to play Janis Joplin.

Amy Adams?  Seriously?  Is nothing sacred?

With all due respect, that redhead with the sickly sweet voice is set to portray Janis?  It was all I could do to get past that treacly voice of hers in Julie and Julia, but for her to be chosen to represent one of the most important musical icons of the Twentieth Century?  It's not right, I tell you!

It was almost enough to send me into complete hormonal overdrive.  Not that I harbor a strong opinion on the matter or anything.  (And not that I'm particularly hormonal lately.)

I was still able to finish my milkshake, luckily, but just barely. 

Throw your hands in the air! Pause. Kick the ballistics, Santa Claus!

I was sipping a pomegranate martini at King's on Friday when I glanced up at the television screen and saw a lovely, familiar face: Donnie.  Donnie Wahlberg!  Donnie Wahlberg was at the Celtic's game!

Oh, Donnie.  Why do I immediately revert to being eleven years old whenever I think of you or any of your boyhood cohorts?  There is a good deal of giggling involved.  Hubby will go on record as saying it's "weird."  I don't disagree.

I watched intently and read the words aloud as the captions flashed across the screen: House of Blues, this Sunday, performance to benefit Toys for Tots.  Holy crap!  The New Kids on the Block were playing right in my neighborhood, and not only that, they'd be performing their Christmas album.

Reader, are you familiar with this album?  I can still recall the day it became mine, or ours rather, Sissy and me.  Uncle John had taken us to the Pheasant Lane Mall and was driving us home in his red jeep.  Resting there on my lap, inside the plastic Strawberry's bag, was a little piece of Heaven.  It was dark in the back seat but as I glanced at the liner notes I couldn't help but wonder, "Funky dope jam...Sissy, what does ballistic mean?"

I'm pretty sure she didn't know, either.

It was one of the finer artistic creations of the twentieth century, with riveting lyrics like:

"Did you ever really start to cry over something that was said?

Well I'm writing you, Dear Santa, it's the saddest thing you ever read."

...and...

"Many people are happy, and many people are sad.

Some people have many things, that others can only wish they had.

So for the sake of the children, show them love's the only way to go; cause they are tomorrow and people, they've got to know..."

(It's imperative that one sings these excerpts in a Boston accent while simultaneously using Jordan Knight's falsetto.) 

The show was sold out.  It effing killed me not to be there.  Truly killed me not to hear the New Kids sing Funky, funky Christmas:

"Slipping and sliding through the city streets, of Bean Town, gettin' down to the Christmas beat.  It's Danny D, I'm here, with Christmas cheer, no feeling to end the party of the year.  It's going, I'm showing, fresh rhymes I'm throwing, it's snowing outside but we ho ho ho-ing.  Santa's on the way, sleigh bells are ringing, swinging, everybody start singing..."

Curse you cruel fates!  Why was I not there!  How could I not have known!?

I won't lie, around 9pm on Sunday I turned to Hubby and announced that I should probably be waiting outside the House of Blues at that moment, stalking the New Kids, if I were to consider myself a true fan.  But alas, I was far too cozy, curled up on my red couch, by the tree...

JOEY!!!!!!!!!  Danny!!!!  Jordan!!  John!!  Donnie!!!!

I wish I could have seen you. 

I'll be loving you, (Forever),

Sincerely,

The Odd Broad xoxo

Springtime flowers bloom, with an air of mystery...

Poor Corey Feldman.  If reports are true that he and Susie are indeed headed for splitsville, I'd like to offer my deepest condolences.  I was really hoping those two crazy kids were going to make it. 

One wondrous, rose scented thought does spring to mind: I smell a reality series!  Let's get those two Corey's back together!  What could be a more appropriate time for them to reunite than in this, Feldman's hour of need?

Please, God, I don't ask for much.  These two boys belong together!  For the sake of our nation.  America needs the Two Corey's.  The world needs them, for that matter!

I'm just saying.  It's a good idea and stuff.

Remember the episode when Feldman sang for Susie?  When he shouted/rasped into her face, "I REALLY LOVE YOU, BABY!" and made Susie cry?  (It would have made me cry, too, if Hubby screamed into my face while simultaneously projecting his voice into a microphone.)  Riveting television.  I had to cover my eyes and could only watch this musical monstrosity unfurl in bits and pieces.  But I want more.  Dear God, I want more.  Who the hell doesn't?

Mrs. Whimby's Daughter

I've been singing to Lukey the Wonder Nephew since before he was even born.  He's definitely the most receptive audience I've ever had. 

I sing him songs, mostly improvised, the most colorful of which is about a woman named Mrs. Whimby and her illegitimate daughter, who is just about to be married. 

This little ditty blossomed into existence right after I moved back to Boston.  We'd had a Brigham's ice cream party at work and the delivery man brought along a small yellow stuffed dolled.  That doll's name was Mrs. Whimby.  Anglophiles that we are, my sister and I decided almost immediately that Mrs. Whimby would have a cockney accent.  Lukey really took to Mrs. Whimby; indeed, the two became nearly inseparable.  (Luke loves her dearly in spite of the fact that she's kind of an old slut.)

When I first moved into my apartment I had virtually nothing to entertain a baby with.  Nothing, that is, except the little stuffed bear wearing a wedding veil that Sissy bought me when I got engaged.  It would have to do.  I began to sing, child star style.  The tempo was upbeat, maniacal, with a Polka/German drinking song feel:

I'm...Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

All I'm asking, Lukey, is would you give me away?

Walk me down the aisle, to my fiance...

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, won't you give me away?  HEY!

Mrs. Whimby's daughter didn't know who her biological father was, you see.  My sister was more than a little disturbed.  She told me to stop, if I remember correctly.  Luke looked at me as if he was having a bad acid trip.  And then he laughed.  More than laughed, he guffawed.  Naturally, this song became an instant staple in my repertoire, with several verses ensuing. 

My collectible Michael Jackson doll and Harry Potter action figure were both eventually incorporated into the song:

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he up and flew away...

He's summering in Maui now with Michael J...

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he's off with Michael J!  HEY!

On a side note, my Michael Jackson doll has been resting on a shelf in our hallway since his untimely passing; and we've since set my Harry Potter action figure next to him.  Hubby has placed Michael's hand on Harry's...wand.  It's not right.

And I digress.  It's remarkable how babies really listen to everything you say.  Lukey already knows his numbers, can sing his ABC's and a bevy of other songs.  Last weekend my mother was singing a song she'd sung since Lukey was born, and he was finishing each line for her, in tune even.  (Yes, this baby even understands the concept of pitch!  I know I'm his auntie and all, but musically he's extremely intuitive.)

"When did you work with him on that?" I asked my mother, impressed.

"Oh, never really, I've just been singing it to him forever..." she answered.

A light bulb went off in my head.  I turned to Luke.  And I began to prompt him, singing:

I'm......Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

And today's my wedding...

"Day"

What I'm asking...

"Nokey"

Is would you give me...

"Away!"

Walk me down the aisle to my fee-an...

"SAY!!"

I'm Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

Won't you give me...

"Away!  Yay!"

Christ almighty, Luke David had been listening.  And now he knows how to say the word fiance.  This boy is not even two.  God I love that child.

Back on the horse

My heart was pounding and I was petrified my hands were going to shake.  But I did it; I sang in public again for the first time in years.  It wasn't my worst performance, and it certainly wasn't my best, but I did it nonetheless. 

I love weddings.  Afterwards, as I sat next to Hubby and listened to his cousin recite her wedding vows, I gave his hand a sweaty little squeeze at the words, "In sickness, and in health..." 

I had certainly been testing the boundaries of the in sickness category as of late...mental sickness, to be exact. 

I experienced a brief but potent meltdown on Friday evening, you see, after I ran through the song with the church's ancient resident organ player.  She didn't know the song, she told me, but she would learn it before the wedding tomorrow.  I was also singing it at a much faster tempo than she seemed comfortable with, but she told me she would follow along.  I'd be singing from up on the alter, out in front, holding a wireless microphone.  (We'd forgotten to bring a microphone stand, hence my worry over shaky hands.)  It occurred to me that if I was fourteen years old I wouldn't have batted an eyelid at any of this information.  When had I turned into such a wimp?

Back in the car, I called my mother for comfort but found she had none available.  I had made my own bed and it was time for me to lie in it.  This is when I hung up the phone and cried heavy, sloppy tears, my chest heaving in rapid, panicky gasps.  I was going to make a fucking asshole out of myself!  Holding a microphone, up on the alter?  Like Ted Neely or Carl Anderson in Jesus Christ Superstar?  I couldn't do it!

Hubby continued driving, the very picture of calm.  He reached out his hand and patted my knee, gently telling me I was being ridiculous, but still allowing me the freedom to blubber away.  I was hot mess central: broken, pathetic, and very, very ugly.  Ten minutes and one phone call to Sissy later, I wiped the smudged mascara from my cheeks and entered the rehearsal dinner wearing a happy face.  What was the alternative?  I had to be an adult; Sissy said so.  She also told me to make like Mary Magdalene and just sing!

My husband is an exceedingly kind person.  All the same, ten years ago it would have killed me to put on such a shamelessly vulnerable display in front of him.  These days it's a different story.  He loves me even at my very worst, when I am at my most atrocious, and for that I am truly grateful.  I trust him, more than I trust anybody in the world, and there's something very freeing about that. 

"I was being really pathetic and horrible," I tell my husband tonight, back at home on our red couch with Kittie.  "I was acting ugly and childish and hysterical, all for no reason." 

"Yeah," Hubby agreed, squeezing my hand, a smile flickering across his eyes, "But it's okay."

God I love that man.

PS: I capped off my singing performance by getting very, very, very drunk.  (Fast dancing drunk.  Telling my brother in law to shave off his beard because I hate it drunk.  Peeing without putting a liner down on the public toilet seat drunk.)  I then commenced to tell all of my in-laws how much I loved them, again and again, and apologized profusely to Hubby's parents for not providing them with grandchildren.  I also promised to get on this right away, in a year and a half or so.  (Thanks, chardonnay!)  Hiccup. 

All in all, the evening was quite a success.

Being braver

When I was younger, I started to sing.  I was a painfully shy child, and fought against that every day, but somehow when I got up onstage it didn't seem to matter.  This was a godsend, seeing as I probably wouldn't have made it through Englesby Junior High School otherwise. 

I sang all the time.  I sang at nursing homes and dinner theatres, I sang on the local telethon.  I sang in community theatre and even nerded it up show choir, where I was forced to sing wearing...spandex. 

I sang because I couldn't not sing.  It was almost compulsive.  I would stand in my parents kitchen, all alone except for Trustie, our Golden Retriever, and sing until I was hoarse.  I sang with complete abandon, at the top of my lungs, and didn't give a damn who heard me.  In college that started to change, but I'd come home on weekends and sing every song I heard my classmates sing that week, until there was literally nothing left to sing.  Trustie would howl along when I'd hit a note above high C.  I never thought I'd be able to stop singing. 

But then one day that's exactly what I did.  I don't even sing in the shower anymore.  In my defense, I've been living in apartment buildings for the past decade and you can hear a pin drop through those walls.  But why do I even care?  Does the maniacal violinist from downstairs care that I happen to think he's just horrible?  It doesn't stop him from terrorizing us all with his bow.

If I were to be honest, the last time I sang in public was at an audition for Temps, the Musical! which definitely went awry.  I'd come straight from work and hadn't warmed up, and the accompanist kept screwing up the tempo and it became an all around nightmare on Elm Street (parts 1, 2, and 3...)  There were people I knew from the Conservatory standing outside in the hallway, and when I exited that room I felt...dejected.  I don't like to think of it, really, for fear my inner child may try to off herself.

I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a certain amount of guilt involved in giving up on a dream.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally wake up in the middle of the night feeling an odd sort of panic.  It's a biological clock of a different sort, but it's just as irksome.  Even more twisted is that I continue to define myself by something I haven't even done in years.  Why was I so much braver back then?  What changed?  And why can't I let it go, if I'm not willing to go out and actually do it?  In the sage words of my mother, should I not just shit or get off the pot?

That crappy audition was probably three years ago and was also the last time I sang alone in public.  Oh, I went on a few non-singing auditions after that, but after a while I even stopped going to those.  But when Hubby's sweet cousin Elizabeth asked if I would sing at her wedding this weekend, because she thinks I have a "beautiful voice," how could I say no? 

Hubby told me I could say no.  "It's okay," he assured me, probably more for his own sanity than mine.  (Somehow he sensed, after knowing me all these years, that this might be a source of self imposed stress, to put it mildly.)  But I thought back to this Spring, when my grandmother was sick, and the times when Elizabeth's mother would come and visit her. 

This was something I should probably do.

Which is why tomorrow, I'm getting back up on the horse.  It helps that my husband is a musician and was able to lower the song a minor third.  Even so, I really hope I don't make an asshole out of myself.  God wouldn't let that happen to me, would he?  In His own house, even?  Pray for me, Dear Reader!  I think I'm going to need it.  xoxo

Oh yeah! Alright! Are you gonna be in my dreams tonight?

Hubby, myself, Ma and Dad are all heading into Fenway Park for the McCartney concert.  Our seats aren't together, but we're all still very excited.  By the third song or so I pull out Blackberry and start to document this momentous occasion.  A sort of live blog, if you will, only it's not because I come home and fix all of the spelling errors...

Got to get you into my life! is pure magic.  Even though the boy sitting to the left of me smells like shoes from a bowling alley.

Let me roll it.  Let me roll it to you.  Paul makes the same face as my character in Rock Band.  All big eyes and crazy grin and lots of pointing and nodding.  I'm into it. 

Sir Paul tells us, "I'd like to play a song off of my new album," and I immediately take this opportunity to pee.  I did, after all, suck down two Rieslings at the Cask'n Flagon beforehand at dinner.  It occurs to me that tonight will be the closest I ever get to John Lennon, in a roundabout sort of way.

During The Long and Winding Road I stop worrying about the terrible nearby stench and give Hubby a cuddle.  We're having a nice time.  But there's trouble.  The cantankerous older man in front of us is starting a fight with the woman from security.  He refuses to stop stretching his legs out into the aisle.  (He has rheumatoid arthritis.)  Another security person comes over and tells him if he doesn't pull in his legs, there's going to be a problem.

Paul dedicates the next song to Linda.  And when the cupboard's bare, I'll still find something there, with my love.  It's understood.  My love does it good...

I wish the old man in front of us would stop causing such a ruckus, because Sir Paul just started singing Blackbird and I want to listen.  He wrote the next one, he tells us, after John died.  The crowd cheers, and I clap hard even though I know John is probably turning over in his grave.  But I kind of want to cry a little, too.  And if I say I really knew you well, what would your answer be?  If you were here today...

But then Sir plays some newer stuff again and I really do start to cry.  (Not really.)  But I did sort of want to: Everybody gonna dance around tonight...

Hubby needs a bathroom break and on his way out he trips over the old buck's outstretched legs and I nearly pee myself laughing.  Old dude looks PISSED.  Hubby gives him his best dirty Hubby look. 

A word about Sir Paul.  He looks good.  Damn good.  How old is he again?  I will hold you for as long as you like, I'll hold you for the rest of my life.  I wonder, does he ever miss Heather Mills?  Did Linda want to come down from Heaven and stab her?  I probably would have wanted to, if I were her.  But then again, I'm the jealous type, and prone to supernatural acts of violence.

Security is back, but all rifts appear to have been mended.  This time she's just warning the old folks about the impending fireworks to come.  Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in a church where a wedding has been, lives in a dream.  Reminds me of Mrs. Jarvis' 7th grade music class.

Paul would be such a nice grandpa.  

Stuck inside these four walls, sent inside forever, never seeing no one nice again, like you, Mama you, Mama you...

It happens so quickly but suddenly I want to have Sir Paul McCartney's babies.  A little.

I've got to stand up for Band on the Run.  I look around at all of us Massholes, and I'm the Massiest of them all.  But I don't even care.  I'm dancing.

The ballpark is abounding with lots of middle aged skanky types with bad Mass accents in tight Sir Paul baby tees.  Hubby has often remarked that this is one of the most foul accents a human could possibly possess.  Except for my Massachusetts accent, of course.  Because mine is nice.  Really.  He swears.

Back in the USSR!  Cue fog machine.  Go Sir!  After the song Paul remarks, in that impossibly impish way of his, "The USSR.  That doesn't even exist anymore."

How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?  His voice sounds great.  I bet my mother is going absolutely crazy.  Now a tough young broad is fighting with the old buck in front of us.  He tripped her (surprise, surprise), and she's getting right up in his grill.  Oh boy.  I hope this doesn't come to fisticuffs. 

Paul is playing a ucalayly he got from George.  Let's hear it for George!  I liked George, so I really woo woo!  He sings Something.  You're asking me will my love grow?  I don't know, I don't know...

Paul can really work a crowd.  As he bounces around I can still see traces of that moptop of yesteryear.  We can't see any of the photos they're flashing on screen, because our seats are kind of crap, but Paul tells us a lot of them were taken by Linda.

During I've got a Feeling, Hubby texts an old band mate and tells him Paul is rocking it.  Everybody in that band was so nice and groovy and thought Hubby and his horn were just the greatest things since sliced bread.  (They are, of course.)  I wish Hubby could find a band like that in Boston.  Sigh.

Sir pulls out his Les Paul.  He changes guitars a lot.  I drop my new ladies sunglasses just as Paperback Writer begins.  Crap!  It's too dark and I can't get at them.

I read the news today, oh boy...I sing along.  But I just had to look, having read the book...

All we are saying...is give peace a chance.  I heard him do this last night, so I already knew he was going to perform it.  Again, I wonder if Lennon is rolling over in his grave.  For a moment it sort of feels like we're disrespecting him so I don't sing along.

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me.  Shine until tomorrow, Let it be.  I have chills running up and down my spine during this number.  Paul plays the piano and I sing along.  It's effing awesome, Reader, and somehow I know everything that has been stressing me out as of late will be okay.  I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me...Speaking words of wisdom, let it be...

Live and Let Die.  Holy pyrotechnics!  Paul puts Axl's remake to shame.  Used to say live and let live...(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did...)

Hey Jude, don't make it bad, take a sad song, and make it better.  It feels as if Paul is singing directly to me.  And don't you know that there's just you, hey Jude, you'll do, the movement you need is on your shoulder...

I remember watching the Concert for New York on TV after September 11th, and Paul just went on and on with this one.  It's kind of turned into a running joke in our house.  But tonight I eat it up like so many Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzels.  Because it's pure genius.  I sing with abandon, at the very top of my lungs, and Hubby sings along using his rock star voice.  (Have I told you he has one of those sometimes?)  We sing the Na Na's forever but we keep doing it because Sir Paul is asking us to, for fuck's sake!

Paul is threatening to leave us.  But Hubby and I already know he'll do two encores because we heard him do so last night.  I still scream bloody murder.  She was a day tripper.  A one way ticket, yeah.  It took me sooooo long to find out, and I found out.  By this point I am unabashedly dancing and gyrating.  I cannot help myself.  The guitar player effs up slightly and McCartney glares at him.  I actually don't notice this but Hubby does, and points it out to me.

Lady Madonna, children at your feet.  Wonder how you manage to make ends meet?  Paul's back on piano.  He's so youthful!  I don't know how he does it.  "I believe you want more?" he asks us. 

"Well my heart went boom, when I crossed that room, and I held her hand, in my-eeeeeeeeen-eeeen!  I imagine my mother going hog wild, somewhere out there in the sea of faces.  I wish we were sitting together.

Is he really gone?  Last night he played until 10:30 and it's only 10:00!  Nah, he's back.  Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.  Now it looks as though they're here, to stay.  Oh, I believe, in yesterday.  Haven't we all felt like this at one time or another?  I sing along in my full child star voice.  Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be.  There's a shadow hanging over me.  Oh, yesterday came suddenly...

There's a dude sitting next to us and Hubby calls him The Craig's List Killer.  But he seems harmless enough to me.  "The next song is going to be crazy," he tells us.  I bet it will be, Craig's List!

Helter Skelter!  This song always kind of scared me.  But Paul rocks it.  Makes me think of college, when I should have been cast as Squeaky Fromme but never was.  When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide, where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride...

I'm really shaking my moneymaker now.  Full on jamming.  I am a sight to behold.  Get back, JoJo!  Go home! 

I love Sir Paul even though I read he didn't want Heather raising their child in the US because he didn't want her picking up a terrible accent.  I don't blame you, Sir Paul.  We yanks talk filthy.

NO WAY.  Sergeant Pepper's one and only Lonely Heart's Club Band!  We're getting very near the end.  I remember being little and asking my dad who the heck was Billy Shears?  He didn't know, but he told me he asked his mother the very same question when he was younger and Grandma didn't know, either. We didn't have Wikipedia back in those days.

Oh yeah!  Alright!  Are you gonna be in my dreams, tonight?  Wait for it...I know it's coming, because it's The End...

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make...

It's time for Paul to say goodbye.  It's nearly 10:30 and this 67 year old man has played two and a half solid hours of music.  Utterly amazing.  Hubby turns to me and yells, "That was fucking awesome!!  The man's a musical genius!!  Where are your sunglasses at?"