6 Years???

So…..

It’s been six years since my last post, eh?  Six.  Years.  That seems excessive.

What has happened in six years?  Um, a lot of concerts.  Lost two beloved cats, but gained a new one.  (Delilah is still around at the age of 15.5, though.)  Missed another class reunion, because I found out the date literally three days after placing a deposit for a cabin on the exact same weekend.  Celebrated a 10 year anniversary of my first date with Indie Boy (it will be 11 in September!).  Curled into a ball and watched the world burn around me after the travesty of the 2016 election.  I’m sure lots more stuff that I could bring up, but whatever.

Maybe I’ll start blogging again.  Or maybe a giant meteor will hit wipe out the planet.  You decide which is more likely!

In the meantime, enjoy newly minted RuPaul’s Drag Race winner Sasha Velour performing the most demented lip sync to Olivia Newton-John’s “Hopelessly Devoted to You”.  It is amaze-balls.

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It was 20 years ago today…

Okay, maybe not today, but certainly 20 years ago.  What happened two decades prior?  Well, Operation Desert Storm, the morphing of The Comedy Channel into what is now Comedy Central, the discovery of Jeffrey Dahmer and his crimes, a bunch of Soviet republics declaring independence, and a little governor from Arkansas declaring his bid for presidency.  But most importantly, I graduated from high school.

God, aren't senior photos awesome.

I hadn’t really thought much on my high school days recently, at least until the talk of a reunion came around.  Granted, I had not attended any of the previous reunions (including the 5 year, when I was quite literally living three blocks away from the park where it was held, and still opted to stay home), but 20 years, that seems like something you should show up for.

I swear I no longer think that a necktie, oversized jacket, and hat are appropriate formal wear for a lady. Or me.

The reunion was this weekend, but I still did not attend, although I considered it.  If it had been a different weekend, I may have tried to swing it, but I knew that I would be too knackered to give it a go.  Because:

a.  I now live 4 1/2 hours from the school, not right down the street.

b.  At the time I found out the date, I already had a mid-morning doctor’s appointment scheduled in Omaha, which tacks another 50 minutes or so to drive-time, and meant that there would be no way for me to get there in time for the initial activities.

c.  I have had the most stressful and busy work month of my entire career, which consisted of me organizing three different engagements, each two weeks apart.  Which is bad enough, but on the weeks in between?  One entailed a week-long conference in D.C., the other a week-long training in Dallas.  I actually scheduled “nervous breakdown” on my calendar starting on September 22.  As such, I just wanted to stay home.

d.  Although I didn’t know this when I made my decision, the stress helped me catch a cold, and I have spent the past several days hacking, coughing, and blowing my nose, so I would have been no fun for anyone.

Which is a shame, because I could have really shown off how my dress sense has evolved.

What are you most jealous of: The Lost Boys t-shirt, the stylish oversized sweater, or the Def Leppard poster? It's hard to decide, I know.*

I am friends with many of my classmates on Facebook**; granted there were only 30 of us, so nobody was too hard to track down.  Several of them posted about the goings on at the reunion, making me a little wistful, which is certainly not what I was expecting.  I’ll definitely make the 25th.  Or 30th.  Maybe.  We’ll see.

*What I am most jealous of?  My size.  I cannot believe that I thought I was overweight then.  Sigh.

**When I let one of my classmates know that I wouldn’t be there, she tried to lure me down with promises of “play[ing] a lot of Duran Duran.”  In perusing my memory book this afternoon, I was a little shocked at the sheer number of references to Duran Duran and Depeche Mode***.  It’s almost as though I was a music geek who let everyone know who my favorite bands were. 

***My favorite high school related Depeche Mode story:  I was wearing the t-shirt I bought for their summer 1990 show at Red Rocks (which was flipping awesome and is what made me a convert to begin with), and was asked if DM meant Dungeon Master.  I may be a nerd, but I’m not a D&D nerd.

When doing a image search for this shirt, I ran across an Etsy site that sells Depeche Mode baby clothes. That alone kicked my biological clock into overdrive.

EDITED TO ADD:  I just realized that, although it has been more than 6 months since my last post, both this and the last one contain mentions of Depeche Mode.  Perhaps I am still an obsessed music geek…

Texting with Indie Boy: Gaga vs. The Clapper

(I had recently purchased several CDs, and was listening to them while at work.  An unexpected vocal track prompted me to text Indie Boy at home.)

Me:  Um, one of the songs on Mogwai’s new album uses auto-tune.  Scary.

Indie Boy:  Damn auto tune!

Me:  On another note, Lady Gaga* totally ripped a synth line from Depeche Mode’s Strangelove for one of her album tracks.

IB:  Did she give them any writing credit?

Me:  Nope.  I wonder if they’ve heard it?

IB:  I can’t imagine them being ok with someone ripping them off.  Especially someone as shitty as her who happens to be selling a lot of records.  Imagine the royalties they’re not getting!

Me:  Fletch is the business guy in the bunch.  He should go clap** at her!  In your face, Gaga!  *clap*  That would be awesome!

IB:  She wouldn’t understand.  She’d probably just clap along with him

Me:  Man, you can’t beat Andy Fletcher at the clapping game.  He’s The Clapper!  He can turn you off [and] on by the sheer force of mashing his hands together.

IB:  So he’s the “master clapper”?  The clapper who all other clappers are judged by?

Me:  I mean Gaga may emerge from an egg on the Grammies, but he will eat a banana on stage.  While “playing”.  And then, the clapping.

IB:  That is the very definition of “talent.”

Me:  He’s got a PhD in clapping, bitch!  (Side note, my autocorrect turned “bitch” into “birch”.  That makes me laugh.)

IB:  But does he have a black belt in clapping?

IB:  Or a gold medal?

Me:  Hmmm.  He does wear black a lot, so I would presume so.  He could totally clap Jet Li under a table.

Me:  Well, he’s a professional, so he wouldn’t be eligible for the Clapping Olympics.

IB:  Lady gaga should watch her back then.

Me:  Agreed.

IB:  You should send him an email so the “clapdown” can begin.

Me:  I’ll post it on their Facebook page.  That’ll get it going.

Me:  But no Tweeting.  I refuse to Tweet.

IB:  Watch out gaga!

Me:  This is why I’m glad there was no such thing as texting while I was in high school/college.  All my time would have been spent like this…

IB:  Didn’t you ever pass notes in class?

Me:  Oh, yeah.  We had notebooks full of notes back and forth.  But with texting, we wouldn’t need to be in the same class.

IB:  So true.

Me:  You do realize that this entire ridiculous conversation is going on my blog, right?

Me:  For posterity.

IB:  I wouldn’t expect anything else.

*Yes, god help me, I bought a Lady Gaga CD.  Used, though!  That’s important!  All money went to the record store only and not her.  Plus it was only six bucks.  I blame Glee for doing such a fun rendition of “Telephone” that I decided that I liked it.  Plus “ra-ra-ooh-la-la” finally worked itself into my brain.  Strangely, my favorite track on the album was “Teeth,” which is pretty much nothing like her singles.  More songs like that, and Indie Boy might not chastise me so much for owning it.

**If you don’t know what I’m talking about, just Google “Andy Fletcher” + clapping.  He’s kind of known for spending more time on stage clapping than actually playing the synth in front of him.  For  good reason.

Sadly, his Wikipedia page makes no mention of the clapping, which is just shoddy work on behalf of the contributor, in my opinion.


Bend ‘Em Like Beckham

Last night, I had a dream.  And in this dream, I was playing a weird amalgamation of mini-golf and a video game with two guys, one of whom was Mr. David Beckham.  While anonymous guy was struggling with shooting his ball, David Beckham starts hitting on me. 

Now, I am not down with adultery, even in my dreams.  That just doesn’t fly with me.  So, naturally, I’m all like, “Hey, David.  What about Victoria?  Wouldn’t she be a little miffed at this?”  To which he goes off on a spiel which basically boils down to “When I’m around Victoria, she’s the only woman in the world.  But if she’s not around, well…”  I still didn’t take him up on his offer, because that’s how I roll.

However, the weird thing, the thing that really stuck with me after I woke up, was that my dream self just kept thinking “Why would David Beckham even be interested in someone like me?”  In other words, why would one of the beautiful people want to sully himself with an unattractive hag? 

And this pisses me off.  I mean, damn, aren’t I even allowed to have high self esteem in dreamland?  Why would I be preoccupied with my perceived faults rather than going with the dream and being awesome?  What does my subconscious have against me?

The really irritating thing is, I’m not even attracted to him.  I mean, I realize that he’s an ideal for some women, but he’s just not really my type.

Meh.  Too pretty boy for my tastes.

So why was my dream self denigrating my own attributes, and not just dismissing him because he’s not my thing (and, in dream form anyway, a Cheaty McCheater Pants)?  What the hell!

My inner feminist is just a little miffed at my subconscious, especially since, in real life, I’ve actually been improving my self-esteem.  I’ve been hitting the gym five times a week, seeing a personal trainer, and really improving my health.  While there has been weight loss associated with this, I’m far more interested in the improvement of my strength than the numbers on the scale. 

For instance, the first session with my current personal trainer involved doing sit-ups.  Like actual sit-ups; not crunches, not the ab machine, just plain ole’ lay down and sit all the way up kind of sit-ups.  And I won’t lie, they were tough.  I struggled.  I did them, but I struggled. 

A month later, she threw sit-ups at me again.  (Obviously, there had been other exercises in between.)  And, while I would hesitate to say they were easy, they certainly weren’t a struggle.  My trainer even commented, “Are these easier than last time?”  And, by jove, they were.  I was on air after that.  There have been other improvements:  my body doesn’t ache like it used to, my mood has improved, I just feel better all around.  But the sit-ups were a giant turning point for me.

So why can’t my subconscious get the message? 

I want to be strong.  I want to be confident.  I want to be self-assured.  And I want to be this way both in waking and in sleep.  And I will be successful in this, yes I will.

So, Mr. Beckham, you can stay out of my dreams.  I’ll be doing fine on my own.

More (text message) conversations with Indie Boy

Me:  BTW, I went ahead and made dinner reservations for 5:00 on Saturday.  Apparently, since it’s my birthday, I’ll get “a small gift.”  Interesting.

Indie Boy:  I’ve got a small gift for ya…in my pants!  Hahaha!

Me:  You know, most guys wouldn’t appreciate the use of the adjective “small”  in this instance.  😉

IB:  I got to make a penis joke, so it’s ok.

                   *      *       *

On a side note, the program in my Droid that tries to anticipate the word you’re typing apparently didn’t come preprogrammed with the word “penis” because even when I had it fully spelled out, it was recommending other words.  Tee hee.

                     *        *        *

Also, I’ve been meaning to do a real post sometime soon.  Really I will.   Would I lie?  Well, WOULD I???  Yeah, that’s right.  I totally would wouldn’t.

Fuck you, Amtrak

Right now, I am supposed to be dressed up.

Right now, I am supposed to be seated, martini in hand.

Right now, the lights should have dimmed, and the show started.

Right now, I should be watching Amanda Fucking Palmer as the emcee in Cabaret at the Oberon Theatre in Cambridge.

Instead, I am still on the train, somewhere between Providence, Rhode Island and Boston, not a victim of Hurricane Earl, but of a tree on the tracks that delayed the trip by hours.  If I’m lucky, I’ll catch the second act.  But I will have no chance to walk around Cambridge, no chance to enjoy Boston, no chance to really see Cabaret, as I have to hop back on the train tomorrow morning and pray for no delays, so I can catch my plane home. 

In other words, this side trip was a waste.

In other words, fuck you Amtrak. 

More puzzling recommendations

So I get my weekly newsletter from Facets, and it mentioned an upcoming Criterion release of a Japanese movie by the name of House.  I had not previously heard of the movie, but was intrigued.  I mean, with this cover, how could I not be.

Naturally, I leapt to the internet and looked up some information about it.  And it sounds awesome!  Goofy and surreal Japanese horror?  Yes, please.  And into the Netflix queue it went.  Netflix, being the ever helpful program that it is, pops up a list of allegedly similar movies to check into.  Some made sense based on what I had read – Evil Dead II, Watcher in the Woods, etc. – but then there was one movie.  One that made me shudder and ponder what the hell Netflix is thinking.  The movie?  The 1978 Bee-Gees starring Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.  I mean, sure, it’s probably surreal and horrific to the average Beatles fan, and it is the same time frame.  But I’m not really sure that they’re connected otherwise.  Who knows?  Maybe Peter Frampton was in Japan and made a guest appearance in House.  I’ll have to wait until I get the DVD to find out for sure.  All I know is, no matter what Netflix says, Sgt. Pepper is never going into my queue.  Ever. I’m pretty sure even Christian would nix that idea for bad movie night (although he would highly approve of one of the other recommendations, Desperate Living).