Reel Big Fun

I think I've pulled my man into my mid-thirties crisis. We've been out dancing past our bedtime several times in the past couple years; I'm starting to layer silver chains around my neck for special occasions; and just this past Saturday we went to a concert that had a mosh pit. If my guy starts painting his face with black make-up and wearing high-heeled boots like his once-favorite band Kiss, then I'll know we've gone too far.

Speaking of that Saturday concert, it was totally worth it until Matthew and I had to wake up early the next morning for church with bags under our eyes and slush in our veins. It occurred to us then that instead of going to a concert that started at 9:30 at night, we should have gone to one that ended by eight. We would have been home in time to watch our Brit-coms on PBS!

But we just couldn't miss this band. During his college days Matthew was big into Ska music, and the first concert he ever went to was Reel Big Fish, a Ska band. He still has the T-shirt, in fact.

Our cool friends, Holly and her husband Chip, who started dating in high school and attended two proms together (how many married couples can say that?), once upon a time followed Reel Big Fish (RBF) around the East Coast from one venue to another. Holly heard that RBF was playing Octoberfest in town and invited us to come along for a night filled with dark beer and deafening music.

Like a bunch of college kids, we waited in long, packed lines for beer from plastic cups and messy food served on floppy plates, and I really began to regret my wardrobe choice of skinny jeans, cowboy boots and a jacket on a very warm first night of October crowded with festival-goers.

Somewhere around nine, we found seats not far from the stage. In the spirit of Octoberfest, we procured more beer and ate warm, sticky fry bread with powdered sugar as we chatted and waited for the band to take the stage.

Being the only one in the group unfamiliar with the band, I listened as Holly and Chip recounted the concerts they had attended, then told of a handwritten note in Sharpie from the band's Hawaii-shirt-and-checkered-sunglasses-wearing lead singer and of how Chip checker boarded the hood of his car in high school with permanent marker to show his devotion to the band.

Then Holly told us about a recent Madonna spectacle; Matthew and Chip mildly debated the merits of Def Leopard as live performers; and I said we should all go to a Tom Petty concert if we ever got the chance.

At last, with instruments held high, RBF jogged out to cheers and applause from an exuberant crowd. Ska music, combining elements of reggae and rhythm and blues, is nothing if not good for dancing, so everyone began to move as soon as the trumpet player blew that first note, and the mosh pit quickly developed into a cyclone of jumping, jostling young men - one with green and purple spiked hair at least a foot high. Soon everyone was flattening folding chairs and pushing them into piles like unruly fire wood. I shoved my suffocating jacket off one shoulder, swinging my hips. Matthew, Holly and Chip sang catchy lyrics, flashing broad smiles of nostalgia at one another, and I joined the rambunctious choruses.

Of course, as Holly promised, the members of the band were also great showmen. Several times they started to play huge radio hits from the 1990s, putting their own punk style into the arrangements, and then stopped and announced, "Oh, that wasn't us! That was so and so," purposefully naming the wrong famous group, causing the crowd to laugh and whistle. The lead singer also teased his bandmate about how many trumpet solos he was racking up.

Matthew had kept his hair natural and free for the occasion - no spray gel! - so he kept pushing his left hand through his thick mop to keep it off his forehead as he danced. I found it sexy and adorable; it made him look like that college boy I never actually got to spend time with. From my man I turned often to look at Holly and Chip jumping up and down to the beat like a couple of teenagers and dancing together virtually nonstop, obviously reliving high school days. Chip even braved the mosh pit, though Matthew warned that he wouldn't rescue him, but soon returned with this critique: "It smells in there!"

Though I thoroughly enjoyed the music, if not always the rambunctious crowd and warm weather, my favorite part of the night was watching how much fun Matthew, Holly and Chip were having together at the concert of a favorite band.

Observing my enthusiasm as I danced and sang along, especially when they covered Morrison's "Brown-eyed Girl", Matthew asked me if I still wanted him to get rid of his RBF T-shirt from college, full of holes and faded from years of faithful wearing.

I quickly shook my head and grinned.

"No," I assured him.

Love Songs and an Honest Man

Darn Brad Paisley! I don't even like most country music, but I like his. Still, I contend that he is doing the world more harm than good with his special brand of love song.

While listening to "The Mona Lisa" on the way home from one of the kids' activities, I asked my husband, "Do you feel like the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa?"

As soon as he paused, I knew I was not going to get what I wanted from that question.

"Uh, I don't know....what does that mean?"

"It's in this song by Brad Paisley. Haven't you heard it?"

Of course he'd heard it. The man, not raised in the south as I was and certainly not born in Dixie, loves his country music nonetheless.

"Yeah, but I haven't really listened to the lyrics. I don't know if it's good or bad."

"It's good, obviously!" I cried. "The Mona Lisa? One of the most beautiful paintings in the world?"

"Okay, but I don't know the lyrics."

"Really? Really? Humph." I crossed my arms, disgusted.

"Mama, I feel like the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa," my eldest boy said in sympathy and some fear.

"Thank you, Berto. I'm glad at least you do." I threw a dirty look at my man. "Even he knows it's a good thing."

Of course I should know better. My husband is completely lacking in the ability to dissemble for the mere sake of romance, to whisper sweet nothings. I know that's a good thing. I know. But there are just a few times when I wish he'd talk pretty to me like some hero in an Austen or Bronte novel. Or like a Brad Paisley song.

Way back when our relationship was a long distance one, and I found out he loved that old song The Letter (not the original version but the cover by Joe Cocker, to which I had introduced him), my mom suggested that it probably reminded him of me, and how sweet and romantic! I should have wandered down the primrose path of that suggestion like a lovesick fool, but I decided to ask him about it.

"My mom said you like that song, because it reminds you of us - does it?"

"No, not really," was his immediate reply. "I just like the song."

Once we were engaged I asked him what his favorite feature of mine was. I didn't know. He'd never said, and I'd gotten the suggestion that I should know from some frou-frou ladies' magazine. Poor guy! He'd had a long day at work and probably wanted to say "breasts" or "fanny" but felt he couldn't get away with it, so he remained mute.

I began peppering him with questions, "Is it my silky hair? My cute little ears? My eyes?"

Okay, I've always known I didn't have a single outstanding feature - unless it's the deep purple hollows under my eyes, my eyebrows completely lacking in arch, or my crooked and prominent nose. You kind of have to lump the imperfections together to end up with something surprisingly presentable, but I didn't expect his answer to my query to be, "Well, sometimes you wear pretty eye makeup..."

Oh yeah, he did say that. And I'll never forget the warm and fuzzy urge I felt to hit him over the head with my makeup bag.

I heard another Brad Paisley song recently. It has a beautiful chorus:

To the world/
You may be just another girl/
But to me/
Baby, you are the world!

You can bet I will not be asking Matthew if I'm his world. He would likely say, "You're part of my world. At least Arizona. And maybe a sliver of Texas."

As for that whole Mona Lisa misunderstanding, my husband actually listened to the lyrics and later texted me this:

I am the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa, and I don't care if that's all I ever do. ;)

I texted back: That's all I wanted to hear.

And I tried to ignore the wink at the end.

Alcohol Conditioning

I am not a connoisseur of alcohol. As a young woman I did not sip mixed drinks with my cool, fashion-conscious girlfriends. (Once I did sneak some of my dad's scotch to mix with orange soda in order to cure a cold; the only thing it cured me of was drinking scotch and orange soda ever again. It was something like putting cotton candy in your martini, I imagine. I highly unrecommend it.) I thought I knew something about wine, but I proved my ignorance in a servers' meeting post-hours at a nice cafe where I worked. The owners were trying to teach us about red and white wines. When the question-and-answer session broke out, I spoke up and said, "Whites are all sweet and reds are dry." My boss made an example of me, the poster child of blatant alcohol ignorance.

I was even more clueless about other liquor. Nine months pregnant with my first child and balancing a menu on my belly, I sat in a steak house with my Man and spied a tea I wanted to try.

"I'll take a Long Island iced tea," I confidently told our waiter.

The waiter stared, pen suspended, and my husband almost startled me into labor.

"Whoooaa! She doesn't know what she's saying," he assured the wary server. "Just regular sweetened tea for her."

Then he leaned over and whispered, "Honey, that has alcohol."

"Oh," I said. "I just thought it was like Texas tea."

"That has alcohol, too...LOTS of alcohol."

"Oh. Glad I didn't order that then."

Many years later I would discover per a friend's suggestion that I liked a Zebra or Preacher's collar. So when I found myself in an Olive Garden with several friends, and there was a long wait that prompted someone to suggest we get something at the bar, I knew just what I wanted.

I sauntered up to counter, leaned in and with a smile told the young man there that I'd take a Zebra.

The clever guy knew just what I meant, but he held up a bottle of wine and said, "Ma'am, we only serve wine here. We're an Italian restaurant."

My friends broke out in merry laughter, and I'm good for that. But I really could have gone for that beer.

The one I will never live down, though - the one that will haunt me every December 31st - happened only a few years ago.

I love Champagne, love, love, love, love, love. I don't need to know much about it, because my love is unconditional. Still, I did read a column in the paper that listed several great sparkling wines to enjoy for New Year's Eve, so when my husband casually asked me what kind I wanted him to pick up for the big celebration, I spoke up excitedly, "I've heard Dom Perignon is good!"

"Dom Perignon? That's a hundred-something bucks!"

"It is?"

My husband burst out laughing.

"You could get me some, you know," I retorted. "Maybe it's worth it."

"No I couldn't. Dom Perignon!" And then he laughed some more.

Now every time there's a special occasion, and my Man has to make a sparkling wine run, he smiles and teases in a high, snobby voice, "Do you want me to pick you up some Dom Perignon?"

Yeah, alright, alright. Put a cork in it. Because one of these days, one of these Valentine's days, I'm going to swing by the grocery store...or the French Embassy...on my way home. Then when my Man walks in the door, I'll be sitting in a sweet little red dress with a nice little bottle of wine. I'll extend a glass to him and say smoothly:

"Care for some Dom Perignon, Darling?"

Like Marilyn Monroe, I might even bathe in it - or at least wash my hair in it - because life should be sweet...or dry...and expensive, even for a dork like me.

My poor sophisticated guy and his crazy, Champagne-loving lady

4 Blessings on a Weds. - Julia Child

Life is good, and here are a few reasons why:

1) Julia Child

I do not own a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but I love Julia. Today she would have been 100.  And, truly, the only reason that I do not own her famed cookbook is because French cooking is too far above me, and I haven't the time currently to climb the cuisine heights to master it. I'm still biding my time at base camp, waving cheerfully at those on their way up, and relying on grilled meat, steamed veggies and canned beans for my family's sustenance.

Today on a radio program they were asking home cooks to call in with their cooking disasters in honor of Julia's birthday. Well, I've done it all - started a fire in the microwave, dumped a whole tray of chocolate chip cookies on the oven door, forgotten to add sugar, leavener, or half the butter, made snackle when I meant to make frosting, and served raw cinnamon rolls to my unsuspecting in-laws.

But, like many home cooks, natural or unnatural, I carry the light of Julia Child in my heart.

2) My husband would throw me across the Swiss border...

(movie spoiler alert!)

At the end of the movie Shining Through , Ed Leland (Michael Douglas) carries an unconscious Linda Voss (Melanie Griffith) over the Swiss Border while Nazis shoot at them. I recently watched the movie with my husband on Netflix, and I found it as romantic as the first time I saw it - just a young girl dreaming of a man who would do the same for me. Well, now I have that man, or I thought I did. I asked him the next day whether he would carry me across the Swiss border under enemy fire, and he replied, "No, I'd throw you across. Then you wouldn't slow me down, and we could both get across quicker."

It may not be as romantic, but it made me laugh uproariously. Eat your heart out, Michael Douglas!

3) City Parks

In a metropolis like ours, city parks prove as diverse as America itself. We have one in a rougher part of town with a beautiful meditation garden. There's one near South Mountain that has so little shade it ain't funny, but it also has some of the neatest, most life-threatening playground equipment that reminds me of my childhood. There are many with splash pads, ponds and kiddie trains. And there's one close to home with a wide open field, tall trees and great shade that makes you feel as if you're in a world without smog.

4) We ate, we played, and I lost all our spending money...

My husband and I had our first date night in months, and for a change we went to a casino. When I told my mom we were going for the buffet with crab legs, she told me that I would stay for the slots. I didn't believe her since I had never really understood the attraction.

For the date I wore new and quite uncomfortable heels and a sexy little red dress that probably had a "not for mothers with four kids" warning label on it. I wore it, anyway, and despite the fact that it fought to be a whole two inches shorter than I let it.

While we ate we watched a huge dust storm blow in, a typical enchanted summer's evening in our part of the world. The buffet was okay, but the slots were a blast. My husband played only a little, because in his words, "I have more fun watching you, because you're so cute." Of course I should have stopped when I was a couple bucks ahead, but I was fired up for the big pay off and spent us down to our last eight cents.  We left early to pick up our kids, but the quiet car ride was even romantic. We were satisfied.


P.S. I'm thankful for all your comments lately.

Romance Cravings

I have been bitten by the green ogre of jealousy where it concerns a few of our friends. They have family in town. If you are a parent with young kids, you understand my envy.

At a swim party, my girlfriend brought up a conference she attended recently for her job. It lasted three days, and her mom needed to watch the kids from about 8am to 4pm. But since her mom lives an hour away, she offered to just take the kids for the whole entire time to stay at her place. My friend and her husband had three consecutive date nights. They probably camped out at the local casino with a couple kegs of beer.

Upon hearing this I raised my fist from the pool and shook it around at anyone who even looked like they had the in-town support of relatives and said, "Grrrr! That's why I'm jealous of you guys who have family in town!"

Obviously, we have none. Well, get a babysitter! you're telling me. No, no. My Man and I are very careful about who watches our kids. There is no way in hell we will leave them with someone without knowing that person(s) for a minimum of five years. That's the bare requirement. Seven is more ideal. And, okay, yes we have good friends we have known for the specified amount of time, but it's a fair-trade barter system. We are always there for each other in case of emergency, and that certainly eases the mind. As for a date night, they babysit for us, and then we wait for them to ask us to babysit for them. If they don't ask we have to start dropping subtle hints: You guys should have a date night. When was the last time you went out? Gosh, I don't even remember...so long ago. Did you hear about that new restaurant by you? I bet you guys would like it. Classy place. Of course, it's not kid-friendly...But, hey! We'll watch them for you! What time?

During my Man's company Christmas party last year, our longtime friends watched the kids. Our youngest was only 18 months, and my friend had to walk and sing him to sleep. When she stopped singing he kicked her, she told me, so she sang til he drifted off. It was great knowing our children were with people we trusted, people who would sing bedtime lullabies.

Still, the night wasn't what it could have been. I spent half the party in the restroom because of tummy troubles, and the other half of the time my husband and I waited around for the DJ to play a song we would actually dance to instead of the ridiculous hip-hop that mostly got played. We felt very anxious about the music selection, because we enjoy dancing and we knew time was marching. I also made a disparaging comment over dinner about not ever wanting to live in California to one of my husband's co-workers who grew up there and loved it. My adult manners were out of practice; my husband, the sophisticated guy, had to remind me about the formal place settings as if I was at etiquette class. Mostly, we felt this huge pressure to get the best out of our rare, limited date. Maybe that accounted for my stomach issues. Anyway, we hurried out of the shindig later than we meant to, despairing of our chance to dance to one more swing song and worried that our friends were tired or our kids unsettled.

Everything was fine. The kids were all asleep. But the date would have been better if, like some of my husband's co-workers, we knew that the kids were safely tucked in at Grandma's house, and there was no need to pick them up until the morning. We could have had a few drinks and stayed at the hotel where the party was, stumbling up to our room in the small hours. With friends, even close friends as ours are, you feel that it would be such a huge imposition to ask them to keep your kids overnight and part of the next day, too.

And there's where the ogre finds me and begins to gnaw. I have a fantasy about going to one of these ultra-fancy resorts here in town with my husband during the summer. You can get excellent deals, because no one likes vacationing next door to hell, and that's exactly where this desert valley is from June to October. Anyway, all the locals have their staycations when the hotels offer their cut rate deals to fill the rooms. Staying at one of the most glamorous with my husband for the whole weekend - swimming in the luxury pools together, drinking cocktails, sleeping in to the ungodly and now unheard of hour of 9am, eating meals in nice clothes and with adult decorum - it sounds like an enchanted tale of marriage-enhancing romance, and my lust for it is rapidly growing. But we have no family in town.

"Aren't you jealous of our friends?" I asked my husband passionately a couple of days after our friend's disclosure.

"No."

"Why not? Three days! They got three whole days!"

"Because if we had that many date nights, we'd have six kids by now. We do fine without the date nights."

I saw his point and felt slightly better. And, thankfully, our friends agreed to give us a date night in the next weekend. Nevertheless, as Scarlett O'Hara is my witness, next summer I'll be lounging by a ridiculously lux pool, cocktail in hand, flirting with my shirtless husband.

Odd

Last night I was comparing Luke Skywalker to George Washington, and I caught the look in my Man's eye. That look, dammit! I'd know it anywhere, because I've seen it in the eyes of my fellow humans a few thousand times in my life. I'd seen it in his family's eyes and the eyes of my own kin - what on earth? Where'd that come from? Did she just say that? In public? Before us? Before strangers? Why is she still talking? The look said, to be brief, She's weird.

Did your siblings ever tattle on you for being weird when you were a kid? No? Mine did. "Mom! Dad! She's acting strange again!" To be fair, it was warranted. I was the one talking aloud to herself with accompanying hand gestures. The kid pretending a tiny vial of sample perfume was my secret agent communication device, and I'd run around the corner to have a classified conversation with my handler - when I was 12. I was the girl who sang to the boy she liked while he was standing in line for recess with all his friends in sixth grade. Good thing I was odd AND confident.

My best friend in grade school got me a birthday present, a key chain that proclaimed, "I'm not Weird! I'm Gifted." Well, I'd like to say that that is true, but so far there's been no evidence to support the gifted assertion. And I've gotten used to the periodic looks of weird from my family, friends and strangers. I can even shrug them off, explain to myself that they don't understand my special point of view, but the one person who can never give me the look or say the words is my Man. It hurts. He promised to love and adore me the way I am - forever and ever, I Do. Weird, warts, and all.

So last night when the kids had gone to bed, I gave him a talking to. He denied the look (probably remembering my tirade when he had actually said, "You're Weird," to my face a few years ago), wearily claimed he didn't remember thinking what must have inspired it. In my turn I told him that if he's irritated by what I have to say, he should come up with his own contributions to the conversation.

He responded rather disdainfully, "Star Wars is not my thing."

"Well, don't give me the look then."

He looked away.

I let him off with just the warning.

I remember a conversation he and I had a week or so ago inspired by some television show. I said, "If we had known each other as kids, you wouldn't have had anything to do with me. I was too strange. You wouldn't have liked me."

"No, you wouldn't have liked me."

"Sure, I would. I would have tried to be your friend, but I would have scared you off."

"You would have found me too boring," he asserted.

There was a pause as we looked at each other with something like mutual admiration and embarrassment, and then we burst out laughing. Because it was true, of course. We wouldn't have gotten on together then, oil and water personalities. But somehow as adults it works out, A strange girl and her quiet, steady guy.

As long as he never, ever says I'm weird.