My First Country Concert

My First Country Concert

Last night I decided to be brave and do something I had never done before—go to a country concert. 

My friend and I planned to meet McKenna and a friend at the venue.

  I picked my friend  up because I didn’t want to deny her the opportunity of having a little somethin’ somethin’ to drink.   I heard that might be part of the whole country experience. 

And even though I hate to drive, I know myself and I know two things:  I won’t ride with anyone who’s had anything to drink and that I’m too cheap to buy myself any imbibes. 

I will say that I felt a little guilty because I didn’t drive to the concert in a pick up.  

I also felt badly because I grew up in Oklahoma and wasn’t a country fan.  My mom is an opera fan;  my dad is a big band fan;  Lance is a rock and roll fan and I am a folk/show tunes fan.  

I ascertain that bringing rock and roll DNA and folk/show tunes DNA has a recessive gene that creates a daughter who took one hour showers and sang country songs the entire time.  We thought it was a passing phase. 

Lance used to say, “Make her stop.”  But I wanted the kids to have creative freedom.  I tried to guide her into a musical theater fiend who sang show tunes at any opportunity.  

But she rebelled.  

I was open to her being a folk singer and singing an allegorical song  about  Puff, the Magic Dragon. 

  But, like most kids, my daughter forged her own way and is now living an oxymoron of being a vegan, country singer.   

I’m worried for her a little bit because I’m afraid that she is going to have to compromise her values and sing about barbeque or eating a slab of ribs.  I just can’t imagine a big hit country song about… I was sittin’ in my truck with my babe and eating some tofu pie”   

...Maybe if the tofu had barbeque sauce? 

So, what is a parent to do but accept our children with who they are?

This is what started me going to my first country concert.  I want to be the kind of mom who buys the T-shirt and supports her child.  We’ve already established that I’m cheap so I didn’t buy the T-shirt because I know in about 6 months, I can buy it at Goodwill.  

Since I’m not a country fan, I don’t know words to one country song.   Well, I know “Home, Home on the Range” but I think that is now categorized into a long car trip song genre.  

 I didn’t know or have any life events with country music playing in the background.  No one was conceived to a lilt of twang.   No marriage vows were uttered that had the “shotgun” in it.  

 I didn’t even know the country singer we were going to see.  

Once we got settled in our seat, my friend leaned over to me and said, “I’ve got to the bathroom because I wore the wrong underwear. “

“Is that one his country songs?” I asked.

I opted to go with her because I thought maybe country concerts had special rhinestone underwear machines in the Ladies room.  How would I know, this was my first country music concert!

 
Plus, I needed to get some toilet paper to wad up in my ears for ear plugs.

In the rest of the story, I will just report what my TP'd ears heard and my weak eyes saw.

Somebody sang a song about Daddy's Buttocks, and Mamas good looks. McKenna made me stop singing along because the words were Daddy's Money and Mamas good looks.

 She said I needed to dance so I started doing the swim, which seemed to make her embarrassed that she was with me.  She tried to teach me some kind of thing where I put my hands in the air and gyrate but she halted my moves because she said I looked like I was directing a choir.

Obviously, there's just no pleasing country fans!

That's when I went back to the ladies room to practice my country dancing skills without an audience. It took me a while because the line was stretched out to Beaufort, SC.

Somewhere when the line was around Jackson, SC, a miffed lady pushed and shoved her way out the exit.   She was mad like we were prison guards preventing her planned escape. But in all fairness, there was a country song about a prison so it could have been true.

I didn’t like one of the acts because he did not seem like an upstanding citizen because he talked about trashin’ a hotel room.  But, he was pretty darn nasal so he could have said that he was splash in' on cologne.

This is pretty much what I heard during the concert.

 Naked, baby...

black cowboy hat, baby...

 dancing, baby...

song on the radio, baby...

six pack, baby...

 Houston,baby… 

 whiskey ,baby…

 fence post, baby...

alone, baby…

 two step, baby…

 redneck, baby...

truck., baby...

boots ,baby...

heartache, baby… 

small town, baby...

and my favorite,

Very Loud Chord, baby...

And what is it with the sleeveless jean jacket guy?  Mind you, I think his inked sleeve tattoo was so weak that I made up a backstory of how he was born poor and he can only get one swirl or feather  a month.   It went on that a debt collector knocked at his door demanding payment so he had to go on the road to pay him back.

Why is it that if Mr Sleeveless Jacket’s guitar solo stance was in warrior pose as he looked up to the catwalk for Divine guidance?  I had in another sentence about his guitar placement but decided that this is a PG audience.

I'm pretty sure that I saw this guy in Florida as a guide at a local alligator farm.

The drummer had a fan blowing on his long mullet locks and foo man choo.  He acted like his name was "Rolph" or Larz on a pay per view movie channel.   At the end of the song, he flashed a peace sign and pointed and winked at a staggering fan.   I’m pretty sure she met him at the tour bus for an “official” tour.

My description of hell is having to stand in front of stage for three acts while top-stitched, plaid shirted guys and their obligatory blonde-haired strapless dressed girlfriend holds up her third 12oz. as a torch to Mr. Skinny Pants Talent.

My analysis of going to my first country concert where I don't know any country songs is:    Country music fans are the happiest bunch of people I’ve ever seen that sing all lyrics to a terribly depressing song.  

All I can say is...singin' country music is better than a delivery Prozac truck blasting theater theme songs, in my one stoplight town...baby.

Picture Day

Picture Day


When I took a job as Drama Director of Grace Methodist Church, I had no idea that they would require a picture. I could have skated through the whole ordeal except they were doing a pictorial directory this year. 

These are things that should have been disclosed with the fact that the drama directors that came before me were super humans with supernatural powers.

They made cities of Bethlehem and had live animals. I was planning to ask someone if they did an impression of a donkey.

The kids told me that last year they put on the plagues of Pharaoh while wearing colored morph suits.  Dang, I wanted to make the kids wear brightly-colored skin!  And by the way, what is the right color for locusts?

Let's just say that I was in over my head before the picture taking session today.

First of all, I tried NOT to obsess over what to wear. I did well until right at the end when I obsessed because I didn't obsess or think my outfit through well enough.

I picked a jazzy shirt that I then covered it up with a jacket. Then I panicked because I didn't have in enough color so I threw on a pick scarf.  I fixed my hair the best I could and threw my pink glasses on top of my head.

Once I got to the official picture place, I am ushered into a kids Sunday school room with a picture of Moses looking me.  I have no idea if Moses liked what he had on in the picture.

The woman tells me to take my signature glasses on the top of my head, off.  I feel naked without my eyewear.  

Then I heard the directive to stand on the blue X and turn right...no the other way... right!  By now, I’m stressed. 

 Then she, as all school photographers and church people with a camera do, asked me to stand up straight. Even though I thought I was standing straight, I readjusted something. 

  Thinking that I messed up again, she repeated.  

Uhhhh, haven't you ever heard of women getting a dowager’s hump as they age, I wanted to say. I restrained myself so I wouldn't sound unchristian.

Next, she asked me to turn my head in a cock-eyed manner like I had just heard a mouse in the kitchen.  Now, tilt your chin up close to Mars.  Up….up…..

Now turn your torso counterclockwise and lean forward. Then wiggle your big toe in an oval direction while reciting the Ten Commandments.  

Hey, Moses, I could use some help right now!

Then she said, “Look like yourself,” so I smiled.

“No, not like that,” she added, so I frowned. She told me again to look like myself so I formed a zigzag worried look like Charlie Brown does.

“That's it,” she yelled.

She snapped a few pictures and then contorted me into different poses.  One was the “hand on chin” pose to simulate that I thought about my outfit I wore.  

Another was to fold my arms like I was sassy.  I did this quite naturally.  Then the gyrations started.  With folded, sassy arms bring your elbows forward.  “Smile like you are mischievous,” she added.   Finally, something I could do!

After twenty minutes of being a circus performer with no props, I went into the “selling room”.   First we looked at the pictures.  I noticed a few things that may be helpful for those who come after me. 

If you wear a bright pink scarf, it will envelope your whole jacket.  It made me look like I had on a pink strapless halter top over my jacket.  It is not a good look.

When you are instructed to lean forward, know that you might look like you are getting ready to sit on a bar stool. 

The folded arm look is deceiving.  At first glance, it looks like I am relaxed wearing a vacation outfit over a jacket that is hiding my perky shirt.  But, looking closer, I noticed that when she asked me to bring my elbows forward in this pose, my arms meshed with my “frontal ampleness”.  This created a look that made me seem like I had a gigantic bicep.  

If you’ve ever seen the King of Queens episode where Karie has a giant forearm, you get the idea.  

I stayed long enough for her to ask me if I wanted to “clean up the picture” by paying a huge chunk of my retirement. It would erase a few lines, fix misplaced hair and cover a scab of a shingle on my forehead.  

“Uh…,” I replied, “I get to be 58 so my answer is YES.  “Erase things.  Eliminate stuff.  Dynamite what you have to. “ 

The woman showed me all kinds of beautiful frames for my retouched photo.  I am not a picture person nor am I photogenic so I probably do not need a frame something that I will turn backward.  

  

She wanted to know if I had framed pictures around my house.  “No, I said, I have some of the grandkids pictures taped to refrigerator because I couldn’t find a magnet. And I have a few snapshots of other grandkids safety pinned to a bulletin board.  

“Basically, I know the people who I have pictures of,” I said, “can’t I just look at the actual person when they are at my house?”

All I really want is a very expensive touched up photo to make me look like someone who spent more time picking out the right outfit, who left the halter scarf at home and did not exercise my arm into one gigantic muscle.  

And my free 8 X 10.

Hanging at the DMV for my Birthday

Hanging at the DMV for my Birthday

It’s 7:56 am and I’m outside the DMV waiting for Mr. Government worker to unlock the rectangle, ugly blonde brick government building with too few windows. 

It’s my birthday and I have to get my driver’s license renewed.  

Right now, I am one of three people who will inevitably push and shove each other to be the first in line.  I am eyeing the people in car #1 and #3.  I think I can take one of them but not both.  

I kept putting off renewing my license because I was trying to bring my weight down to a manageable number.  If I ever go missing, I do not want them to Amber-blast out an incorrect weight when looking for me. 

I can hear the emergency beep, beep, beep on the TV…A short woman who thinks  she doesn’t have grey roots showing and who “claims” to be 76 pounds and wearing size -1 clothes has gone missing.  They say that she has a mysterious bump on her head.  She was last seen chasing after her dog, Josie, the Amazing, neurotic rescue dog and wearing some sort of “costume”. 

Another reason I’ve put off getting my driver’s license is that I have the shingles… on my face…I take that back, I have a shingle. I named him Sherman. 

A few days ago, I started whining to Lance about having to get up early to get my new license.   He said, “Just haul off and do it.”  That was hard to argue with so I made a plan.  I set all three of my alarms and went to bed by 9:30. 

Next morning, I got up, put make up on only ½ of my face because I was avoiding Sherman.  I’m hoping that when they take my picture, I can quickly turn my head mugshot style to hide him.  It was hard to style my hair around Sherman so it looked like a cross between Einstein and Steve Howe, the lead guitarist with Yes. 

I didn’t check out what time government offices open so I guessed 8 am.  I got to the parking lot at 7:45 am along with two other more-than-likely March birthdays. 

At 8 am, First Girl gets out and shouts back to me that the DMV opens at 8:30.  So like all modern people, I pull out my phone and play Solitaire.  At 8:29, First Girl gets out of her car and walks to the DMV door and stands dumbfounded.  She yells out to me in car #2 and an obvious convict in car #3, that there was an additional handwritten paper on the door that read that on Wednesday, only, the DMV will open at 9:30.

Lance has always had a theory that three mistakes must happen before you can get any government document accomplished.  This is #1.

What to do next….Do I go to the drug store and look through quasi-funny birthday cards with googly eyes, drive home, sit for 5 minutes and drive back, or do I sit in the parking lot and hope that Sherman goes down in size?

In the meantime, I’ve had the chance to watch about 30 people walk up to the door and try to sling it open.  I found out that I can now lip read.  I was able to decipher most of the words uttered when people saw the sign.  There have been more bad words uttered than an HBO movie. 

Most cars sped off, but cars #1 #2 & #3 early morning DMVers are waiting patiently in our cars playing solitaire or crushing candy or playing personality quizzes or Facebook.

FYI—I came out as a disgruntled corgi who is most likely named Sherman.

Meanwhile at 9:10, a line started forming by the door.  What? I said to myself. I cannot let this happen, I was 2^nd in line.  I gathered up my mama bear attitude and clomped up to the line.  I used my best Grrrr voice and pointed--that car over there and I have been here since 8 am.  We WILL be first in line…any questions?  I did not add the convict because it’s easier to crash a line with 2 people easier than with 3.  

Then I added with emphasis…and I’ve got a shingle and I’m not afraid to use it!  

The line parted like I imagined the Red Sea did.  I will never know if it was my ferocious Helen Reddy’s 70s I-am-woman voice or Sherman who got me to the front of the line. 

This was incident #2 on the Life is Bothersome scale. 

The government man was actually a well-groomed polite woman who did not answer her personality quiz on Facebook right and ended up renewing licenses.  She and I may or may not be meeting for lunch on Friday. 

I did get my license picture made.  I had on no makeup, added a few pounds to the lie I wrote ten years ago, and had a bad hair comb over and Sherman!

So do not, and I repeat, do not want to hear how bad you think your driver’s license picture is. 

Now for 10 years I will have my Shiny Sherman silhouette glaring at me anytime I whip out my credit card.   But, I’ve decided to embrace the picture because my next picture with be with thinner hair, large age spots and wiggly lip-lined lips. 

Happy Birthday Me to me

                                                  …and Sherman!

 

How Zombies Were Invented

How Zombies Were Invented

I’ve had a headache my whole life…as a kid, as a teen and on and on…. 

At that time, I had a good head on my shoulders until after lunch.  After that, it was headache city. I think my dislike to math is because Arithmetic was after lunch.

My theory is that English was taught at school in the morning sans headache so I did better.

Thereby, I am a writer and not a great mathematician who was a janitor and did stringently hard word problems on the board after hours.   

But now…I can tell what kind of day it’s gonna be when I first wake up.  First, I squint, to see if the sun is shining.  Oops, that means I might have a migraine today. 

Or if I squint and see if it’s raining or overcast, I could also have a migraine that day.

Today, my squint told me that I had major head trauma.  It’s probably because I dreamed about having an aneurism.

When I awoke, my vein was bulging out of my forehead.  I had Lance look at it to confirm if I was dead.  Lance did not concur.  He said it looked like a bug bite.

I knew it wasn’t a bug bite, because it was elongated.  Bugs bite circularly, I stated, trying to get Lance to understand the severity of my having an aneurism in my sleep.

Lance’s basic range of emotion connected with me is, “You are not dying, it’s a bug bite!”

Then I realized that spring was approaching.  That’s when blooms burst forth, color identifies itself, larvae hatch, photosynthesis happens and nature explodes.

That’s also when my head poofs into grey matter.  That’s when my sinuses are so tight that I feel like I’ve had a facelift inside my face. That is when the beauty of creation plays havoc in my head.

I believe this is how zombies and the whole “Walking Dead” series started.  Zombies did not just wake up from the dead.  They were actually migraine suffers. They woke on the first day of spring and they just felt like they were dead. 

No wonder zombies hair is not combed; their heads hurt.  Undead people who suffer post nasal drip, cannot stand the thought of something bristly wafting through their locks.

And the whole ripped shirt with blood stains on it is decipherable too.  I can put on a shirt in my bedraggled state, but when I try to brush my teeth, my head pounds and then I drop toothpaste on my shirt.  Then my nose bleeds and I cannot get the effort to clean it up so it drips on my shirt.

Later, when I see the blood, I try to clean it.  Of course, I don’t want to take the time to change shirts so I dab and stab and pull and yank while spraying a prewash.

My shirt tears a little here and there and my head is pounding so much, I cannot stand it.  That’s when I go outside and roll in the dirt to make the pain subside.

At the end, I usually stab my constant headache with a knife. This brings in the whole “zombie with a knife in head” picture that most people associate with the cult of the dead walkers.

At about 2 pm, my headache subsides for a nano-second and that’s when I declare that it is errand time.

I realize that I’m now out of spray pre-wash.  As I’m headed out the door, I notice that I have on a stained, torn-to-shreds shirt , crazy hair and a knife in my head.  I wonder if I should change into something more appropriate.

Nah, I say to myself, I’m just going to Walmart.  Who will even notice?