And Now For Something Completely Serious…Part 2 November 12, 2008

The mom of Voxx came on the second day.

She came in like a bat out of hell.  A large woman with the poodle perm and a cane like her daughter’s,  the old gal had a mission: to tell Voxx and anyone else who would listen the exact dollar amount of all their delinquent bills and how much money they do not have in their bank account.  Voxx and Ethan Frome owe over $600 to Nicor.  That’s a lot of gas.  And they are really really late.  But they only have $64 dollars and some change in their bank account.  And not one iota of this is something that I should know.

Our very sweet and patient Phillipino nurse, Bandaid, came in announced Movie Tuesday!  She let us pick a DVD and she ordered us some popcorn from food services.  The mom of Voxx pulled up a chair and the two us enjoyed a little Meg Ryan/Kevin Kline French Kiss, while Voxx shaked with the DT’s.  I actually really enjoyed her company.  She was my second favorite visitor.

The only problem was she just couldn’t stop talking about Voxx and Frome’s financial situation.  I was actually starting to sweat and get he DT’s myself.  I was withering and writhing to hear about someone else’s uncomfortable and unfortunate financial troubles.  And when mother of Voxx insisted on calling Comcast right from the room, I decided to go try to take a shower .  All my trials, Lord, will soon be over.

The shower?  Not successful.  I washed my hair with what felt like nail polish remover and was I really clean?  I mean REALLY?  Was I? I felt like as I was standing in there, little amoebas of germ nasty sprung from the walls of the institutionalized shower and stuck onto my flesh.

But it was fun in there compared to pity payment party in bed area two.

Mother of Voxx left and the damn woman took with her Voxx’s hand lotion.  Shit.  I heard about that for the next 7 hours.  She told me about 9-10 times.  She told Bandaid.  She told One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room.  She told the food service lady.  She called a lot of people on the cell phone, too.  In the end, I gave her my lotion.  I think she threw it at her closet later on but that’s okay, she can go ahead and keep it.  I’ll get more.

On Day three, I woke with a migrane.  I have no idea why.  Hm.

I have never have one like that before.  I even rated it a sad face number 10 and I have NEVER picked that one in my life.  Every flicker of light was a BBQ skewer in my cornea.  Every sound was a swinging bat over my head.  It even hurt to move.  So, it was so frickin awesome when Voxx’s Kenyan Physical therapist came in the room for her workout session.   BECAUSE HE TALKED LIKE THIS AT ALMOST SCREAM LEVEL AT ALL TIMES IN A VERY THICK KENYAN ACCENT AND APPARENTLY HE ALSO THOUGHT MAYBE VOXX WAS NOT JUST A DRUG ADDICT BUT COMPLETLY 100% FUCKING DEAF.  FOR ONE HOUR. Who was the one whimpering now?  Me. I did.  I whimpered for 60 minutes.

Again, *sigh*

This was about the point that I realized that this is not really happening.  Like scenes like thisare made for movies or books, just so fucking ridongulous that they are a cliche.

A cliché is a phrase that is so overused that it has lost its meaning.

My existance in that room was a true dead metaphor.  I was worse off than when I got there, but I needed to leave now more than ever.

Here came the groan. I heard her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain.  She ripped it back and then I had to look at her sagging tits again hanging out the sides of her hospital gown and she thrusted a pencil at me with a menu that had a piece of macaroni and cheese on it.  “Write your address on the back.”

THINK MAN, THINK.

WhatnameshouldigiveherwhatnumbercanImakeupcanIgiveherafalseemailaddressbut shewillknowshewillknowandsheknowswhoiambecausethedrsmadeabigdealoutofmebeingaperformer

andwhensheheardthatshefreakedoutandtalkedandtalkedandralkedaboutcomingtoseemeeperformand

whatnumbershouldigiveherifilieshewillstalkmeandcometoashowandkillmeafterwards

I gave her my name.  I gave her my address and my phone number.  I even gave her my email address.  The good one.  Because I had nothing left.

I am home now.  Every time the phone rings, I do a Voxx check.  She hasn’t called. Which…is sad.

And I really hope she is okay.

But I really, really, really need to start taking vitamins so I NEVER end up in the hospital again.

And Now For Something Completely Serious… November 10, 2008

It has been a long time since I have been inspired to blog.

My hospital stay with pneumonia last week was a catalyst for me jumping back on the wagon here.  Actually, it was my prescription drug-addicted roommate that put me over the edge.

It was bad enough that I struggled to breathe with a viral cement in my chest and my out of control asthma, horrible that I was on (and still am)  8 different medications that prevent me from sleeping.  But I was forced to endure three straight days of her moaning and screaming for her next round of meds. It was something out of a bad dream, to be completely cliche.

With every Shirley McClaine/Terms of Endearment rant she went on, I felt the box of hell that I was trapped in enclosing around me in the little corner of Good Shepard hospital room 342, bed one.  At one very low point, I was was in fact begging the nurses myself to not skip her dose and wake her up because when she would waken, she would already be withdrawing and I could not handle one minute more of the mania.

She was actually in there for a week already before I got there, with a torn rotator cuff.  She fell and her daughter found her.  I don’t know why she fell.  She has a cane propped up near her bed.  I don’t know what it’s for.  She pees in a bed chair an arms length away from my head.  Behind the curtain, of course.  In my mind, I secretly discouraged her from drinking any liquids so I didn’t have to lie there and listen to her spray in a plastic container next to my head.  Just to let you know, she hadn’t had a bowel movement in a week.  She told everyone this.  I was actually quite relieved about that.  And let’s call her Vexx.  I will save you the Google: Vexx means Goddess of Pain.

When they initially wheeled me into the room on my gurney, Vexx looked at me and said, “What kinda shit is this?  They told me my new roommate was gunna be a guy.”

Charming.

Fantastic.

Vexx sadly also suffers from internal lupus, fibromyalgia and side effects of diabetes.  Although, one of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room insisted that she was borderline diabetes and does not need to be on a special diet.  And then she would cry.  Because I think she wanted as many ailments as possible that might qualify her for an extra narco or V.

It is no wonder she is on a lot of medication.  It is NOT her fault that she has a drug addiction.  She is in pain and she needs relief and sadly, the body develops an intolerance, therefore the need for an bigger dosage.  I think pain pill addiction is the saddest because it comes out of a place where you are in physical pain and you need help managing it.  He children probably do not understand this.  They just see that their mother has gone away and probably have stopped wondering if she is ever going to come back.

In some of her more severe withdrawal moments, I could see her sitting up and rocking, hugging herself and screaming, throwing Kleenex boxes and lotion bottles and she would cry that she hates this stupid fucking hospital because gets more meds at home.  She should be home…she should be home…she should be home…she locks her pills in her bedroom so her kids can’t get them.

One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room verified that she was born in 1959 and I had to pump up my oxygen when I overheard that.

Surely Vexx was in her late 60’s.  I pegged her for almost 70.  I thought it strange that she rambled about her 14 year old daughter and that she should be at home helping her with her homework.  I knew that something was off: I thought national Enquirer, old ladies having babies, images of elderly women breastfeeding infants swirled in my mind.  She is NOT ONLY 10 years older than I am.  But alas, Vexx very much the definition of rode hard and hung up wet.

He kids did not want to visit her.  In a rant, she told me that they miss their old mom…they don’t like to see her like this…do ya think?

On my medication, my heart rate stays at a constant 108 to 135.  But when she would pass out after a dose, she would drift off and I would see my monitor bump down every once in awhile to 103,102,101…ahhh…sweet relief.

I didn’t have any visitors until I broke down on the second day and called Mike crying to pop in and see me.   I was losing my edge with her, unable to endure much more of her unsolicited conversations through the curtain.  The nurses gave me headphones so I could plug into my remote control and watch 12 uninterrupted sleepless hours of a House marathon on USA network.  I am sure the headset cost me about $100 but worth every penny.  They are still in my purse in case I have to go back.

But let’s discuss the visitors of Vex…

The first night I was there, her husband came in, an Ethan Frome, a sad insurance salesman who is apparently about to get downsized, as I hear from one of Vexx’s many erratic cell phone calls.  He is a little man, beaten down and there isn’t enough Wild Turkey in the world to help him forget that that this woman is going to eventually come back home.  She cried and she whined and said to him, “Why didn’t you call me back, I have been calling and calling you (and believe me, she did) and he said to her, “There is something wrong with my phone, it keeps on going dead” and Ethan Frome and I both knew that it’s dead because he can’t bare to turn the god damn thing back on.

Vexx tries to throw the curtain open for the tenth time to show me the mickey mouse boxers that he brought her from his underwear drawer.  And she has been showing them to me all day.  She repeats herself a lot.  I start to clutch my keegel when I hear her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain.  She would pull it back and then I have to look at her sagging tits hanging out the sides of her hospital gown, shaking sad Ethan Frome’s ridiculous Disney boxers that you know he got for Christmas 5 years ago.  She yells at him for bringing her some of his old t shirts for her to wear: he “fucked up” because they have “baloney pits.”

*Sigh*

all I could do at that point is sit back and wait for the nurse to come in and check my vitals so I can signal her to pull the curtain shut again. I could fffffeeeelllll him trying to leave.  I can hear him saying, “Ok, well..” half a dozen times, he cannot take one more minute with her.  I think about what it was like when they met and fell in love?  She was the outgoing one.  Did he court her?  Were they affectionate?  How long did it take in their marriage before he became shrunken by her constant badgering, nagging, complaining, whining, crying, never ending beat down.  Or did she become that way because he never paid any attention to her?  Wasn’t interested in hearing the sound of her voice?  If I have to hear the sound of her voice one more time, I think that I might stab her with a fork and then we will see how much medication she will need.

Frome leaves and Vexx howls.  I buzz my nurse for an Ambian.  It’s going to be a long night.

But now here I am back home.  I am tired now, really feckin weak and still trying to recover.  I get really short of breath and need to lie down after every little mundane task.  It’s all very Camille.  But I am not cleansed of this experience quite yet.  I still have yet to talk about the mother of Vexx and the gas bill visit.

The world seems to me a lot darker after the time change.

I Once was lost, but now I’m found. June 18, 2008

Why?

Glen and Mar with The Swell Season at the Chicago Theatre June 15th, 2008

*Note: there is virtually nothing funny here. This is a seriously serious account of one of the most fabulous nights of my life.*

So, if you know me and regularly read this blog, you know two things:

(1) I have a slightly unnatural obsession and mad crush on Marketa and Glen. The concert the other night put Mike and I over the edge. We would star in the new TV show, “Swingtown” with them. Of course, we wouldn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. That, and, they would look at us and go “ew”.

(2) The last concert I went to, I was abused by a drunk young feck and cried in the bathroom because I am old and fat. (Please visit the Aunt Barbara thread.) I have since realized that I could be older and I could be fatter. All better.

(3) I have been in a little funk and have not really been inspired to blog as of late.

I am now re-inspired.

The show was the most incredible and emotional concert I have ever seen. I have seen a lot. Sorry, Stones, my #1 all-favorite band. You have just had your Start Me Up asses kicked by The Swell Season.

We brought my mom as a thank you for turning us onto the movie. After Once opened in theaters here, she begrudging gave up her copy to me, shoving it my hand and said you will fall in love with this BUT GIVE IT BACK. She almost broke her foot last week while sitting for my middle kid “Bambi”. She jumped into the pool to save her from drowning. She insisted on going to the concert ON CRUTCHES. She yelped when I suggested that she stay home. “WHAT? Are you KIDDING me?” If she were dead, she would demand that we drag her body to the seat and duct tape a glass of wine in her hand. Nice visual.

And let’s face it: we all were a little bit of a mess, me and my mental state was of course, the sloppiest. I was hit with a neurotic stick repeatedly for a couple of hours. From the very first song I was clutching Mike’s knee and smacking my Mother’s arm: “Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song! Oh my God, I LOVE this song!” Glen is hilarious. I would be laughing once minute and blubbering like a baby dropped on her head. I am a true idiot. Could it have been the Margaritas that the cocktail waitress kept bringing us? Perhaps. But I was Spongebob Drunk Ass absorbing the love in the room. Chicago Theatre is one of the most beautiful theatres on the planet. I have seen some pretty big names perform there for the last 25 years and they officially own that space.

And let’s talk about

Definition of Chemistry: ” Miraculous power of transmuting something common into something precious.”

They are both insanely charming in their own right.

They are both gifted and blessed with the upmost talent and that special something that makes people stop everything, shut their mouth and listen with all the power one can muster. And they are a couple. When Mike and I saw the movie at my cousin “Apricot” and …I don’t have a name for him yet..how about “Celinelover”? No, he would be pissed. Let’s call him “Coconut”. I digress. While watching the movie, I was shocked at how I reacted. I burst into tears watching the “Falling slowly” scene and was like “what the fuck?” I looked at Mike to laugh at myself, rolled my eyes to laugh at how stupid it was that I was blubbering like a baboon (Do baboons blubber? Or is it whales?) Then I realized that Mike was SO man-crying. I guess I was moved at the sheer beauty of the scene but maybe because, being a musician, it was so honest and in the moment and beautiful. These are the moments that I cherish when I perform, whether it’s in front of hundreds of people or when I am simply singing a lullaby to my kids.

The point I guess I am trying to make is that I don’t know if they are really a couple. That is the magic of the movie. [SPOILER ALERT – JUMP THE THE NEXT PARAGRAPH OR YOU MAY WANT TO SLAP ME IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE MOVIE} It’s doesn’t have the neat, tie-it-up-in-a-bow Hollywood ending that we are used to…but you leave wanting them to be together. And, holy shit, they are really in love in non-movie life. You can’t make that shit up. You see it in every look they give each other. Every time they approach each other between songs and whisper something (like we can hear anyway, haha). It’s a beautiful dance and if they are indeed, not a couple, they have figured out that, shit, it sells CDs and sold out concerts because whether it’s real or a ruse, it’s romantic as hell. If it’s not true, please don’t ever tell me. It’s the ultimate documentary of love with a hell of a soundtrack.

Let me just wrap this nonsense up with two more things

(1). I loved their other tunes, not just the ones from the movie. The band featured some of the Frames members, including a guitarist from Chicago and Liam, the violinist was breathtaking. The gorgeous song Moon was insane, Marketa was mesmerizing and the acoustic closing of the show was knock-your-socks off brilliant. It’s true, I couldn’t find my socks after the concert.

Here is a really bad cell phone pic of the last number.

I didn’t even mind that we got home at 1:30am (I am sure that the band was still partying at their room at the “W”) and I woke up with a HELLA hangover with the baby at 6am.

(2) Marketa and Glen, if you ever read this, which you never will, don’t be scared. My fascination is harmless. Ever heard of John Hinkley? No. Nothing like that.

It feels good to be back.

Who’s The Old Wheezing Bag with the Mic? March 10, 2008

I am getting too old and no one will hire me.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, I am still working, of course. And I get to perform in cool places like the Plush Room in San Fran and Chicago’s Drury Lane Water Tower. But let’s not sugar coat, this, Blanche: I am a lounge singer. Nothing glamorous. A girl’s gotta work cause baby needs a new pair of shoes. Quite literally.

We move out to Bumblefeck and there is NO WHERE to play. I sit in every once in awhile as the house vocalist at Pirro’s in Woodstock and I have the random job here and there, but other than that, there is not a whole lot going on. I am used to working at least once a week, if not more.

And this is not me trying to book Carnegie Hall people. We are talking about me trying to get a booking singing in a measly corner of a 3 star restaurant singing Besame Mucho will you gnaw on your calamari. But lately, I can’t get arrested. I know for certain that it’s not my voice because vocally, I am sharp as a tack. Process of elimination points out that it must be the way I look.

Perhaps it’s just something small like restaurant managers being worried that servers may trip over my sagging breasts, or that my gnarled, rugged and scraggy skin with turn people off from ordering the Veal Piccata. Perhaps it’s my distended and paunchy middle-aged housewife form, that is, time and time again, shoved in a black cocktail dress like haggis.

Not that I am NOT working on that. I wash my face, brush my teeth with whitening toothpaste, bathe and exfoliate every day. I shave my legs every once in while too. But I live in a land where finding time to pee without a toddler on your lap is a challenge, so taking care of myself is pretty much on the bottom of the list.

Example of daily to do list:

• laundry
• Clean bathrooms
• dust shutters
• Make dentist appts.
• birty party invites
• wipe asses
• remove crusty snot off cheeks
• do 5,000 things, then, if there is a few minutes before bed
• make time to poop

I have been dieting and have lost 15 pounds already, thanks to a great support group of my online mommy friends. I am not exercising yet because frankly, I am too busy blogging.

At this point, I am virtually a solid so I need to get moving and shaking a little bit. Instead of being one of those dieters that hangs a fridge picture of Pauline Porizkova (See how feckin old I am?), I mean Kate Moss (gawd, she’s practically geriatric now, too) Mary-Kate Olsen, I can hang up a picture of Bette Midler in Vegas.

She’s still working. Big time. If I hang her up on the fridge, surely I will thing twice before going in there and making my typical lunch: a cheese sandwich, with cheese soup, mac and cheese with a side of cheesecake.

I am going into the studio Tuesday with this new guitarist (who I will from now on refer to as Dracula to protect the innocent) that I have been working with, some 24 year old guy from Transylvania, who RIPS it up, seriously, he is so good. I am optimistic that we can get some work together as a mother-son duo.

Dracula and I need to think of a name. Here are some ideas:

Liza and Gest

Old Vampira and the Young Transylvanian

Depends

Senile Sally and the Caregiver

What do you think? Well, listen, you let me know if you have any ideas. D and I are open to suggestions.

Yesterday, when I dressed to go on a family Costco run, I noticed that I have a corrugating, puckered, wrinkled mess on my neck. This is a serious situation we have here. I actually and I shit you not, put on a silk scarf around my neck that would have made Diane Keaton weep with pride.

After our studio session, Dracula and I are going to have a promo pic photo shoot soon. If that doesn’t work out, I should actually send this picture and see how many gigs we get

I gotta wrap this up here so I can go kill a duck and rub the lard on my new neck wrinkles.

Feck. March 7, 2008

FeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeck

I love the word, fuck. Love it. But since it’s St’ Patty’s time, I like to say FECK. Feck Feck feck.

I am going to write a book.

I have decided this. My life is and always was, excessively goofy. It is pretty much a daily occurrence for something ridiculous to happen to me. And I think I owe it to my children to write this shit down. I am working on the outline now and I have already run unto a problem. I am getting to the high school years and now I don’t know what to do. I need to make a call here because there is some FECKED up shit and do they really have to know everything about their mother? I mean, I don’t know half of what my parents did and frankly, I. Don’t. Wanna.

Do they need to know about how I lost my maidenhood or how I scaled my wall drunk at their grandfather’s 40th birthday party? Do they want to read about how I chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels and peed on Sean Gorley’s living room carpet, only to wake up in his soccer uniform (shin guards included)? Must they hear about me trying to make out with a hot BBQ and do they really need to know about my crazy Boulder band daze?

I think not. So I will have to be really selective. But that crazy stuff. That’s the shit that I want to remember, too. It’s good for me. It puts hair on the chest. Reminds me that my kids are never going to be allowed to leave the fecking house. If I had my druthers, they would all be put in a convent until college. But then they might come out weird.

And so what do I call this blockbuster? Oprah’s next book club selection and the reason for my future Pulitzer?

Mama was a Slut but now she makes a mean PB and J? Mommy is bad with money and let me tell you why? How to fuck up a perfectly privileged childhood and education by Mommy? Hmm…Not so much.

I think I will focus on the fun stuff and remember that my children, even if full grown will be reading this and while I want to give them a true account of the many faces and places of Mommy, I want them to respect me. And so I guess I have to respect myself and leave out the scary crap. Maybe I should do and unabridged adult version. Entitled Mom does Porn.

Oh, this will be fun. One more thing for me to fit in my already insanely busy day.

Feck.

The Pogues Made Me Blog, Love Aunt Barbara. March 6, 2008

There. I am officially doing it.

Last night, I had a moment of clarity when I realized that here I was, almost 40 years old and moshing with smelly men, and that I needed to start a blog.

Why not, everyone else is doing it. And who the hell is going to read it anyway?

So, about my night…

I went to the Pixies WHOOPS I mean Pogues show last night (I bought last nights tickets as a Christmas present for my husband, I thought I was buying him Pixies tickets…when he opened them, he wasn’t going crazy. I said WTF, honey, Merry Christmas, he said, cool, you love these guys. I was so excited that I guess I subconsciously bought the wrong ones.)

 

WOW. What an interesting night. Now, I love the Pogues and I saw them at a summer music festival in the late 90’s, Shane McGowan was not in the band anymore. He is a massive drunk who is an amazing artist but man, google his image. He drank so much he…just…forgot to deal..wit his teeth. Whoops. Eventually he was kicked out of the band in the 1990’s. That festival that I saw was pretty tame for some reason, anyway I don’t remember it being to out of control but you should have seen the oldest member of this boardblog site in the irish MOSH PIT last night.
Shane was so drunk that they made the audience wait an hour and a half before they came out. That sucked. (I heard the next day that he was late because they couldn’t find him. They couldn’t FIND HIM. God, I love that about him.)

I realize that I am an old fart, but I thought I looked kinda cute and I certainly thought I was fooling everyone with my cute little mini skirt, boots and peekaboo top. Until some guy bumped into me and said, “Oh Hey Aunt Barbara. When did you get here? At least you boobs still look good.”

THUMP.
OMG.

I literally was crying in the bathroom. Then I was crying because I was crying in the bathroom. Then I realized how gross the bathrooms are and I cried because everything is so different now, I mean, I NEVER cared about how gross the bathrooms were. Now, all I wanted were some baby wipes and antibacterial lotion.
When, seriously, when did I get old?
I am going to be 40 next year and I literally feel like I am still in my 20’s. I have such a warped sense of self.

Also, I miss smoking. The ban has created a whole other problem.

People stank.

Even before the concert started, as we all piled in like cows to the slaughter, I am smelling the nasty of all these people around me and I realize, I miss the smoke smell. I can’t handle the guy in front of me who clearly has not showered for days after, let’s see (I analyzed his stank for the better part of an hour) curry, beer burps, a random beer fart here and there, uh, and the worst smell, that make me throw up in my mouth a little bit, did someone get a little somethin somethin lately, DUDE. BATHE. O. M . GAWWWDDD.

Then the band started and Shane was spitting and practically puking on everyone through the nubs of his 4 remaining teeth and then people started to sweat. (By the way, the band was amazing. Shane is fucking insane, but he is stilll awesome. Love Spider. And Phil Chevron was back in action after battling throat cancer and it was the highlight of the evening to see him singing “thousands are sailing” – quite amazing. And so ends my mini-review)

I am a little damaged still from the whole scent experience. Lift the ban so I can fill my lungs with smoke instead of stinky drunk Irish college boy.

Speaking of drunk Irish college boy, 15 years ago, this kind of a scene was like a candy store for me. I LOVE drunk Irish college boys. Well, I did but man, it’s hard to look back at what I used to find hot. I was a total tard.

The funniest thing all night was Mike and this other older guy blocking me. They were my bodyguards, shoving and punching people away from me. Mike has his leather coat on and never took it off. We had to leave a little early because we thought he was going to have a coronary.
Feck, we are old.

But the date ended perfectly when we went to our most favorite city hang out, The Green Mill, and drank a dirty martini and listened to Gypsy Jazz…. A great, if not incredibly stinky night. Merry Christmas to me.