Is this being recorded?

I caught a break over the weekend and made it out of the bat cave to see the Dillinger gangstah flick Public Enemies.  Oh, don’t worry.  I won’t spend the next dozen posts talking about my lil trip to the movies.  (although, i could…i waited in line, i filled out a questionnaire at the door, i watched the movie, some not-well gentleman repeatedly cleared his phlegm-filled lungs just behind my right ear, i attempted balancing the restroom door shut with my forehead as i hovered 2 inches above the pee-splashed public toilet seat…lots of room there for mindless blog posts, so don’t tempt me)

I, also, won’t review the movie for you here.  I stink at summarizing movies and books.  I tend to take a left turn somewhere along the way, jabbering on about details not related to anything in particular (i love muenster cheese).  I will say that while the movie wasn’t terrible, I doubt I’ll ever want to watch it again.  That’s my test for a great movie…will I want to see it again later?  Public Enemies was slower moving than I thought it would be.  And, the forced love story thrown in there seemed, well, thrown in there.  Looking in the eyes of the real John Dillinger, I doubt he would ever put himself in harm’s way for a gal.

I found myself, as I always do when watching a historical movie, wishing I had taken the time to review my social studies notes from 9th grade beforehand.  I was leery on Dillenger details, the who’s who of gangsters, early days of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover (how did i never know hoover was presumably homosexual?) (umm, no, that wasn’t included in the movie…a little post-movie wikipedia perusing on my part).  I don’t want to ruin the film for others, but you might want to brush up on your Dillinger so you’ll know when to yell Bullocks! at the screen.  (or perhaps you’ll choose to hack phlegm-balls, whichever)  (is that what the man behind me was doing, “that’s bullshit!  never happened!  HHHHAAAAAACCCCCCKKKKKK!“  ::phlegm-ball::)

It wasn’t until the end of the movie when we got the Where Are They Now (dead) scrolling text that I realized I actually was familiar with FBI shenanigans.  Mister Gav did his first ever Powerpoint presentation on the FBI…when he was in the SECOND GRADE.  While all the other kids had spent all year preparing their presentation on panda bears, frogs, baseball, or bunny rabbits, Gav was true to his old man spirit – he schooled the group on the FBI.

The children had spent the bulk of the school year working on their Powerpoint project, researching their subject matter, gathering data from the internet, preparing Powerpoint slides, rehearsing their talk in front of classmates, cramming or dragging out their talk for a specified number of minutes…  It was a big deal.  And, for second-graders, come on.  I’ve been through both undergrad and graduate school and still SUCK MIGHTY PHLEGM-BALLS when it comes to any sort of oral presentation.

I wish I had been blogging back in those days.  Gav was a constant fountain of blog fodder.  I remember at his 4-year-old check-up the doctor asking him questions…the usual “interview” with your child to see, I suppose, if they can carry on a conversation and interact with other people.  (i still find it virtually impossible not to interject and answer the questions for him, ‘yes, he has friends.  yes, he has chores.  yes, he has a bedtime.  umm, i don’t know about pubic hairs.’)  So, there’s the doctor asking him things like, “Do you brush your teeth?  Do you take a vitamin everyday?” with Gav perched there beside him on the exam table.  Gav’s watching the doctor scribble in his charts as he answers the first question or so and gets this appalled look on his face,

Are you writing down what I’m saying???

Umm, yes, Gav, I am.

That makes me uncomfortable.  I have nothing else to say.

And, that was that.  The doctor thought he was joking and continued asking Gav questions only to be faced with 4-year-old silence.  Nothing else to say.  His doctor still laughs about that all these years later.

So, back to the second-grader and his FBI talk.  I don’t recall if I knew ahead of time what subject matter he had chosen.  I would think I would have persuaded him to try something a bit lighter.  But, who knows.  Those were my foggy grad school years.  The teacher had sent invitations home to the parents, alerting us to the date, time, room number, be there or be square.

And, never guilty of being four equal sides, I was there along with 20+ other proud powerpoint-hungry parents.  Barely making it on time, I grabbed a seat behind most of the other parents (i’m neither timely nor social).  And, so began the series of cute, adorable, precious Powerpoint presentations given by nervous yet very prepared and sometimes whispering second-graders.

I sat through the aforementioned talks on panda bears, frogs, baseball, and bunny rabbits.  Not just rabbits, but bunny rabbits.  If I recall correctly, Gav followed the bunny rabbit presentation.  Very serious and totally not effing around.

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.  Today I will be talking to you about…the FBI.

Panda bears, frogs, baseball, bunny rabbits…FBI.

I braced myself for what potential FBI treasures Gav’s little 8-year-old self was about to share with the adults and bunny rabbit lovin’ children in the room.  He gave a very well organized talk covering the origins of the FBI, keyplayers, its purpose, training, all accompanied by beautiful image slides of the FBI seal, J. Edgar Hoover building, text slides with bulleted key points,…  He spoke clearly and confidently.

The clear spoken, confident line from Gav’s speech that suddenly rushed to my mind this past Friday at the close of Public Enemies regarded Melvin Purvis, the lead agent on the Dillinger case.

Mr. Purvis later took his own life, shooting himself dead with a single bullet to his head.

Ohhh, yeeeaaaahhhh.  I do remember this story.  I learned it from my kid’s first Powerpoint presentation in the SECOND GRADE.

I remember seeing a few Moms in the second-grade crowd flinch at the delivery of that line.  I remember sinking a little lower in my chair.  I remember wondering if the FBI might have some involvement in fluffy bunny rabbits.  Yeh, let’s see bunny rabbit slides!  But, no, twas not the case.  I remember Gav confidently displaying images of a Tommy Gun (a favorite among chicago gangsters), the latest FBI’s Most Wanted list, and wrapping with a photo of the Twin Towers as he somberly summarized the events of 9-11.  Heavy.  ::ka-thud::

The Powerpoint presentations continued on with polar bears and kittens.  One kid got edgy with a piece on the Boy Scouts of America.  Woooo.  How many knots are possible?  Frightening.

One of the moms knew me from soccer and approached me afterward, “You know, I have to say your Gav gave the best talk for the adults in the room.  Very informative.”  A few dads jumped in, “Yeh, yeh.  I loved it!”  The other prissy moms worked their way past without making eye contact.  Pfft, bunny rabbit moms.

Gav says he wants to be a lawyer.  I could see him going the FBI route.  He has that seriousness about him.  Let’s just hope he never has to interrogate some tight-lipped 4-year-old.  Those kids never budge.  Especially if you’re writing what they’re saying.

Exceeding my bandwidth on the word ‘vagina’

At the risk of causing massive worldwide labial growth, I’ll post my vagina music playlist.  But, seriously, don’t hold me responsible when you indeed grow a vagina from merely reading the song titles.  Or, ladies, you sprout an extra.  I’ve given you fair warning.  Proceed at your own risk.

Make your own signs free of vagina here

What do I consider vagina music?  Well, first and foremost, you don’t have to sport a vagina to create vagina music.  No, no.  My playlist is a fairly equal mix of sausages and clams.  And, if you’re expecting a list stocked with Enya, forget it…she’s beyond vagina.  She’s…I don’t know…clitoris music.  I don’t do Enya.

While I certainly don’t speak for all the vaginas in the world, my vagina music is comprised mostly of forlorn tunes.  Sad, yearning for love vagina…music.  The set is great for driving as it’s mellow enough to put the kids to sleep yet soul-stirring enough to keep me lost in thought and awake behind the wheel.  Score.

Let me add that I’m not stereotyping vaginas by any means.  I would love to hear how your vagina music is all Rick James…Give It to Me, Baby and Super Freak.  (ya nasty freaks)

I’ll stop beating around the bush and get down to business.  I now give to you my vagina music.

1. Nothing Breaks Like a Heart – The Pretenders
2. Love – Paul Simon
3. Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell – The Flaming Lips
4. Hounds of Love – Kate Bush
5. I See Monsters – Ryan Adams
6. Glory Box – Portishead
7. Hide & Seek 2- Imogen Heap
8. Do You Feel Me? – Anthony Hamilton
9. Wild World – Cat Stevens
10. Like a Star – Corinne Bailey Rae
11. Walk Away – Ben Harper
12. Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams
13. Thank You, Louise – Ryan Adams
14. Beautiful – Me’Shell Ndegéocello
15. Hungry Heart – Minnie Driver
16. To Make You Feel My Love – Billy Joel
17. Let It Die – Feist
18. Comin’ Back to Me – Jefferson Airplane
19. The Heart of the Matter – India.Arie

First line of Nothing Breaks Like a Heart, “You don’t love me anymore, I can feel it”….vagina music.

Paul Simon’s Love…I love the lyrics to this one.  “Makes you want to get down and crawl like a beggar for its touch” and “Makes you want to laugh out loud when you receive it and gobble it like candy”…I do love me some candy.  I always had an opened bag of Skittles in my majorette jacket pocket all through high school.  Gobble, gobble.  I want candy.

Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell…by The Flaming Lips.  I guess with a band name like that, you could classify all of their music as vagina music.  (i couldn’t help it!  that was a gimme)  The lyrics “I was waiting on a moment, but the moment never came”…ahhhhh, vagina music.

Hounds of Love…by Kate Bush.  (okay, i won’t go there)  This has always been a favorite to belt out alone in the car, flying along the interstate.  (which, i know, negates the whole aforementioned mellow vibe…i don’t crank it with the wee ones in tow)  “I’ve always been a coward, and I don’t know what’s good for me”…vaaaagina music.

Ryan Adams’ I See Monsters…  Ryan Adams pops up three times on my vagina playlist.  I bet he never thought himself a vagina musician.  Hey, buddy, sorry about that.  But, a lot of your music does appeal to the forlorn vagina crowd.  I See Monsters…one of my head-trippy songs.

Ummm, Glory Box.  Do I need to say anything beyond the title?  “For I’ve been a temptress too long.”  “I just wanna be a woman.”  This was around the time on our return trip home from Nashville that I advised Gav to crank his own tunes.

Imogen Heap’s Hide & Seek 2.  I just love her voice and the continuous hum of whatever’s in the background.

Do You Feel Me? Often asked of my va….  I like this groovy Anthony Hamilton tune even though it sometimes kinda sounds like he’s singing through a mouth full of mashed potatoes.  I still dig his soulfulness.

Wild World by Cat Stevens…any song that starts with a series of la-la-la’s?  Vagina music.

Like a Star…me and all the 13-year-old girls of the world sway to this one.

Ben Harper’s Walk Away…FORLORN.  Really, take your pick of any line in the lyrics, any.  “It’s time that has taken my tomorrows and turned them into yesterdays.”  Punch me in the gut there, Ben.

Come Pick Me Up…I admit this is probably my favorite Ryan Adams’ tune.  I noticed Gav singing along to this one on the Nashville drive knowing every.single.word.

“How do you know this song?  Please don’t say Family Guy.“

“Well, duh.  You used to play it ALL THE TIME back at the old apartment.“

Oh.  Woops.  I do that with songs I really like…play them on repeat while I lose myself in whatever fantasy I’ve got going on.  And, now my 13-year-old son knows all the lyrics to Come Pick Me Up.  (i kinda find that awesome, actually)

What better way to follow a Ryan Adams song than with a Ryan Adams song.  Thank You Louise is just a pretty song with pretty guitar playing.  Pretty pretty.  (and that wraps up our ryan adams vagina music for today)

Beautiful by Me’Shell Ndegéocello who I understand enjoys va…  This is just a beautiful song, not so much forlorn.  Just one of those Ahhhhhhh tunes.

Yes, I have a Minnie Driver song on my vagina playlist.  I like her cover of Springsteen’s Hungry Heart.  I wouldn’t include his version as part of my vagina music.  But, Minnie slows it down and makes it more…vagina, I suppose.

To Make You Feel My Love by Billy Joel.  I’m actually fond of all versions of this Bob Dylan tune.  Go to the ends of the Earth for me?  Hold me for a million years?  Vagina music.

Feist’s Let It Die…Major vagina tune.  Heck, Colonel vagina tune.  Lieutenant General vagina tune.  General of the vagina tune army.  “The tragedy starts from the very first spark, Losing your mind for the sake of your heart.”  Say it with me…vagina music.

Oh, Jefferson Airplane’s Comin’ Back to Me…I admit that I have bawled my eyes out on occasion to this number.  Heaving, writhing, I’m gonna dehydrate through my eyeballs kind of bawling.  This is one of those songs, much like all of Nick Drake’s music, that’s good for crying.  And, crying music can’t be penis music.  No, it’s vagina music.  “One begins to read between the pages of a look”…ohh man.  “Scatter my love like leaves on the wind”…man oh man.  “A transparent dream beneath an occasional sigh”…sheesh.

Lastly, India.Arie’s remix of a Don Henley tune The Heart of the Matter.  Forlorn with a positive spin, I suppose.  Geez no, I did not pull this from the Sex and the City movie soundtrack.  I have a couple of India.Arie cds around.

ωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωωω

There you have it, folks.  You didn’t realize you were getting yourselves roped into my own therapy session here, did you?  I seriously would like to hear your vagina playlists.  I show you mine, you show me yours.  Or your penis playlists if you prefer.  I realize many of you write blogs that your parents read.  Aaaand, your parents would not approve of you airing your musical genitals out in public like that.  (my brother J is still my only family reader…he’s accidentally seen video footage of me and my breastfeeding jugs…he can handle the vagina music)  So, call it your Gardening Music.  Or, your Snatch List.  Whatever.  And, don’t be shy if Le Freak tops your vagina playlist.

My eyes are open

Continuing on with observations from the Coldplay excursion.  You know, because observing is my thing.  Pro Bono Publico Observer at your service.

The Butt Shaker.  I have very few actual complaints about the show.  Sure, our ears were numb (i can’t feel my ears!!!) and my 80-year old granny back was breaking and the Earth came to an abrupt halt as the multithousands of us tried to exit two doors at the same time.  All to be expected.  What Gav and I could not handle was The Butt Shaker.  Ohhh, The Butt Shaker.  Gav and I wanted to headbutt The Butt Shaker.

Directly in front of me was this blonde chick wearing a black tank top that showed off her pealing back and a short white skirt that showed off her sunburned yet surprisingly not pealing legs.  The very white skirt was easily visible at all times in the darkened venue.  And, that very white skirt shook left to right to left to right to left to right and so on and so forth throughout the entire show.  Fast song, slow song, mid-tempo song…left to right to left to right at the same accelerated frequency.  God yes, the butt shaking wasn’t even matching the rhythm of any song being played.  It was maddening.  I would look over at Gav’s clenched jaw as he roared, “Mom!  Please make It STOP!!!“  I could only clench my jaw in solidarity and mutter, “I know.“

I imagine some dude at some point in The Butt Shaker’s life complimented her wiggle, “It is so cute/sexy/adorable/hawt/a turn on/mesmerizing/hypnotizing the way you shake your butt side to side like a rhythmless two-year old just discovering she has hips.” Dude, you are such a liar.  I hope It was worth it.

The other annoyance that got our cranky goat was all the flippin’ Public Displays of Affection.  PDA out the MFA.  Go ahead, give me the tsk tsk for criticizing the hand-holders/back-rubbers/face-lickers of the world.  I’m sorry but it grosses me out.  I might be persuaded to hand-hold if I were in a hubba-hubba relationship (which i never am), but I seriously doubt I could ever be cajoled into public tonguing.  Ugh, and all the fleshy massaging.  ::shudder::  The horrors.  The creepy crawling hands across mounds of flesh horrors.  (no, i don’t have issues; why do u ask?)

Now that I’ve shook that out of my system…

The three-hour drive home after the show was the only thing I kinda sorta worried about.  I kinda sorta worried about it to the extent of dreaming that Gav and I were sleeping side-by-side on the side of the road the night before.  And, I kinda sorta like an idiot told Gav about the dream but kept emphasizing, “We were SLEEPING, not DEAD! We could wake up anytime we wanted.” Seriously, we were just sleeping.  The two of us. On the side of an interstate somewhere.

So, despite having an arsenal of Family Guy dvds to watch or big comfy seat to snooze away the drive, Gav insisted on seeing my open eyes all 200 miles.  His eyes were very wide open the duration of the trip.  I was the drowsy one fiddling with a digital camera while doing 70 mph along the interstate.  Sleeeeeeeep, come to me on the side of the road.

The better to see you with, my dear.

Gav had a few Keep Mom Awake tactics up his sleeve.  There was the constantly looking at me for one.  I know that was simply paranoia on his part, so let’s watch her and make sure we don’t end up asleep on the side of the road.  I could feel him staring at me.

What?  What are you looking at?

Just making sure you’re not falling asleep.  You’re not asleep, are you?

Well, I’m talking to you, aren’t I?

Yeh, but are your eyes open?

An actual planned tactic of his – see that iTouch there in his hand?  Being the King of iTouch applications, he has any and every free app you can imagine.  Yo Mama, Bikini Clock (gav constantly checked the time), Dog Whistler (a lot of unhappy dogs along I-65), Urinal Test (i never got the chance to see what stance i would assume at the urinal, me and my imaginary johnson),That’s What She Said (which is just that, some dude saying, “that’s what she said”…gav was constantly weaving the conversation so i’d say something like “i only got my hands on one ball” re: the bouncing balls during “yellow” at which point i’d hear his iTouch quip, “that’s what she said”).   There was the matchmaker app that predicted a high success rate of Prince and myself working out as a couple.  (hella yes!)  And, Gav’s prized Keep Mom Awake app?  Shotgun.  You simulate cocking and firing a shotgun.  He would quietly prepare the “shotgun” while I was caught up in some song and than CRACK!  Off goes the shotgun in my right ear.

Gav!  We’re going to “sleep” on the side of the road NOT because I fell asleep at the wheel but because you startled the SHIT out of me with your shotgun app!

Are your eyes open?

My tactic to stay awake?  Singing along to my vagina music.  (whoa! was that a typo?) (no)  I have a mix CD of songs I refer to as my vagina music.  It’s all girly, you know. Girly like a vagina.  I warned Gav that he might want to crank his iTouch and listen to his own music for a while,

You know, Gav, you’ll grow a vagina by the time we reach Birmingham if you continue listening to my music.

Because I’m fairly certain he’s satisfied with the random male gender he was assigned in utero, he would periodically sing OVER my vagina music with his own I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by The Proclaimers.

Gav knows every single word.  Even words he didn’t understand.  Haver – Scottish speak for babbling on.  I do quite a bit of havering around here, eh?

I was having another Conway Twitty moment.  How the heck does he know these lyrics from 1988?  When was he introduced to The Proclaimers?

Oh, The Proclaimers were on Family Guy singing with Peter Griffin.

Oh.

Enough of my havering for one day.  Know I’ll enjoy my vagina music later as I sleep not on the side of the road but in my own bed free of Butt Shakers and shotguns.  (that’s what she said)

Nashville, it’s been a while. Did you miss me?

Back about 2000 and 9, I left Tennessee very much alive.  And, hard of hearing.  And, with an achy breaky back.  And, very, very sweaty.  And, flustered with stagnant midnight traffic.  Okay, remove the very much and let’s just say I left Tennessee alive.

Mister Gav was my red-hot date for the Coldplay show in Nashville last Saturday night.  Gav’s first concert.  ::sniff sniff::  (or as he clarified, the first concert of someone he actually likes…i took him to see the holiday/winter touring trans-siberian orchestra back in december for all the high hair and guitar shenanigans and PYRO out the wazoo…you have not truly experienced o holy night until you’ve had your eyebrows singed off your face)  Coldplay!  Snow Patrol!  Howling Bells!  (or as my 13-year old gleefully called them, Howling Balls!)  (we have moved past the age of fart and poo jokes to all balls, all the time)  (howling balls…that is some funny imagery, though, you gotta admit)  (i’m so tempted to doodle a quick set of werewolf balls for your illustrative enjoyment)

Nashville will always hold a special place in my cold, cold heart as I met my friend, Mr. President, and his posse there ten years ago.  The New Year of butt wine, kitchen table talk, and stubble (i love stubble).  Strolling the streets with Gav, awaiting the Coldplay show, and reminiscing on friendly ghosts…not a bad day at all.

I left Middle Alabama early enough in the day to give us a couple of hours before showtime to grab a bite to eat (and because i wanted to give my internal pessimist room for flat tires, alien abductions, traffic jams, spontaneous human combustion…all which can be resolved in two hours or less).  I’ll only mention once here that I was none too happy to leave Gab and the twins for the day (someone likes to cut their hair against my better wishes, but refuses to admit they are cutting their hair…it does not take years of scientific study to know that hair does not naturally grow in the shape of a mullet)  (there, i’m done).  I’ll only mention once or twenty times that my tits were none too happy to leave the twins for the day.  Life is full of sacrifices, eh?  Mullets be damned.

Thankfully, Gav and I were not abducted by aliens and arrived safe and sound in Nashville right on schedule.  We headed down Broadway Avenue in search of food and general perusing.  With wrecka stows on my mind, we slipped into a dusty, creaky floored Lawrence Record Shop.  I figured Gav could use some schooling on those vinyl dinosaurs we called records.

All the Conway Twitty you can shake a stick at.

Flickr photo deliciously uploaded by Umpqua

Gav flipped through a few stacks, initially not recognizing any of the artists.  Until…until he noticed a photo of Conway Twitty.  “Ha!  Look, Mom.  Conway Twitty!”  Umm, yes, that’s Conway Twitty.  And, slightly odd that he had no clue who the Isley Brothers or Chaka Khan were but Conway Twitty! he knew.  Ummkay, moving right along.  We worked our way through the store as Gav noticed more photos and albums by Conway Twitty!.  I exited the store not questioning Gav’s Conway Twitty! knowledge and chalked it up as one of those unexplained mysteries of the universe I’m better off not knowing.

Nearing the end of Broadway we came to a Hard Rock Cafe.  I figured Gav would enjoy the rock band memorabilia scattered about and some blaring music as we ate.  Get his ears ready for the impending auditory blitz.  As we waited for an open table, I pointed out to Gav that all the encased clothes and instruments were worn/used by the actual artists noted on the glass.  “Oh, I didn’t know that,” as he half-interestedly meandered over to a polyster/rhinestone/pointy lapelled get-up by the hostess stand.

“Ohmygod, Mom!  Conway Twitty!  THE CONWAY TWITTY!  I can’t believe Conway Twitty! actually wore this!  Ohmygod!  Conway Twitty!“

Hold up, wait a minute, let me put some wtf in it.

The gig was up.  I know Gav is no fan of country music.  He even complained about the twins’ walking video set to banjo-picking, “What was up with that lame music?  Super country, don’t you think?”  And, here we have Welcome to the Twilight Zone with your host, Conway Twitty!  I had to know.

Oh, he’s been on Family Guy several times.

Oh.

Conway Twitty mystery solved, we were seated in the best seats in the hizzouse, center stage on a raised area overlooking the bulk of the restaurant.  Let me interject here that I rarely leave the house anymore.  Only brief excursions to Costco and the park.  I have become a mega-hermit.  And, I’ll be honest…I’m not quite comfortable out in public.  Fatty boombalatty body and/or lack of adult interaction, I would have preferred a more subtle dark corner nook in the restaurant.  Yet, I figure Gav will enjoy the people-watching from our center perch.

If anyone ever offers you the seats about which I speak, pull a Nancy Reagan and Just Say No! my friend.  Our food had just arrived and I was in the process of snapping that taut string of spit you sometimes create when taking your first bite of a burger when suddenly a man is standing to my left shouting over my head,

“CAN I HAVE EVERYONE’S ATTENTION?  WILL EVERYONE PLEASE DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS WOMAN AND HER STRING OF SPIT?“

Oh, okay.  He was corraling everyone’s attention for a birthday.  Some dude in a silly birthday hat stood beside him as the restaurant followed orders and shouted Happy Birthday! at the side of my face.  I slumped as best I could, in hopes of not showing up in Youtube videos and MySpace pix.  “Who’s the fat chick in the way?  And, is that a Spidey web stretching from her mouth to her food?”

I endured the birthday shouting a grand total of three (3) separate times during my 45-minute meal.  Needless to say, I did not finish my food.  It’s a bit difficult to eat while slumped under your table.

We got the hell out of Hard Rock Birthday Dodge and marched our way back up Broadway to the venue.  We took our seats just as the pre-pre-act Howling Balls Bells out of Australia took the stage.  I’ll give my review with the comments Gav shouted at me:

• I can’t feel my ears!!!
• What???
• I can’t feel my ears!!!  I don’t think that’s normal!!!
• I can’t decide if she’s young or old!!!
• I can’t feel my ears!!!
  

And, after the lead singer, Juanita Stein (i totally just looked that up btw), beat the ever-loving shit out of a snare drum with their closing number,

• You need one of those at home.  You could really take out some aggression.

So, there you have it.  Very loud, aggressive at times, and I’m pretty sure Gav had the hots for Miss Juanita Bonita.

Coldplay’s pre-act, Snow Patrol…I’m glad I missed the Birmingham show as they weren’t on the roster then.  Gav kept asking if he knew any of their songs , and I repeatedly assured him that he’d recognize at least one.  While their entire set was impressive, once they eased their way into Chasing Cars, Gav finally stopped asking the same question and commenced to swaying.

The piece de resistance, Coldplay.  Totally worth the pricey covertible those tickets will become while waiting to be paid off on my credit card.  Minor snag – I bought floor seats without considering Gav’s less than giant stature.  We spent the first five or so songs swapping places back and forth trying to find a pigeon hole view through all the lofty dudes.  Once Coldplay moved their act to a side stage for a few songs, Gav finally agreed to stand on his chair.  With the added chair height, he was just level with the tall guy beside him.  So, no harm, no foul, better view.

The highlight of the show was getting the opportunity to touch Coldplay’s smooth balls.  Very smooth.  But, jaundice, I fear, as they were all yellow.  Ahem.  (balls)  They tossed out giant yellow balls filled with confetti for the crowd to toss about as they played their way through Yellow.

Another crowd favorite was the “Mexican cellphone wave” as named by leadman, Chris Martin.  Umm yeh, that’s not a song.  The house lights were turned off, followed by round after round of lit cellphones making the Wave around the stadium.  I’m not quite sure what makes it Mexican, but the crowd ate it up.  (yes, i raised my cellphone)  (baa)

My personal favorite (and perhaps 16,999 others) was Fix You.  I’m guessing there were 17,000 of us there wanting someone to fix us. That’s a shitload of sad folks.

Towards the end of the show, countless confetti butterflies were dropped onto the crowd during Lovers in Japan.  And, for anyone with a toddler waiting at home, said toddler will be over the moon over a handful of paper butterflies.  Seriously, if you ever need to leave the house even for just half a day, cut some shit up in your car before returning, “Here, look what Mommy made for you!”  Gab blew a gasket over the rainbow of butterflies.  I’m storing scissors and colored construction paper in the glove compartment from now on.

So, that’s the Coldplay show in the bag.  I’ve droned on way longer that I had planned.  I still have our trip home to share with you sweet kittens.  I’ll save that for another day.  You should have known this one little excursion out of the house would elicit a multipage scroller of a post.  I never go anywhere.  Ah, and I’m already remembering tidbits I left out…the butt shaker and icky PDA surrounding us.  ::slowly inching towards the publish button::  ::saving the rest of my shit for another day::

Ruh-roh, Reorge! Someone’s still whiling away their days on Runescape.

This is one of those posts where a few most all of you may want to turn your head and cough or ponder the wasteful ‘b‘ in ‘doubt‘ or ‘k‘ in ‘knee‘ (unless you’re a wiener like me and say things like, ‘i can’t do yoga because it makes my kanees kahurt).  It’s about my gaming crack habit….yep, time to revisit Runescape.

I’ve been thinking about my original Runescape post when I first hopped on the Runescape bandwagon and how I was bragging about bronze swords and slaying goblins and giant rats.  Umm, total NOOB in the hizzouse, holla!  (i hear your mental wheels turning…the ‘p’ in ‘pneumonia’, seriously).  I’m surprised any true runescapers who happened across that post have not left a slew of Nerd! N00b! Die, Nub, Die! comments.  I saw this group of lads and lassies lining up for a quest of some sort the other day as headless me was woodcutting in the background.  Your public comments hover over your head in yellow lettering.  They did this for a solid 15 minutes, verbally lashing out at one another.  Sweethearts, they are.

I told you how I originally jumped on board to chat with Gav when I see him online.  I should have known from the all-nighters I pulled to conquer Zelda way back during archaic original Nintendo days that I’d easily get sucked into the Runescape vortex.  While I don’t play all the time (i can’t, obviously)  (but, boy if i could, i would no douBt be climbing the hiscores chart), I do play while breastfeeding.  Don’t think Ethan’s giant stature is coming from a cow just yet.  No, that boy’s dairy is all Titty Baby.  Sooo, I’m up to a combat level of 72 (the highest you can go is 138…surely i can work these skillz in a resume…attention to animated detail?  ability to focus on multiple ice warriors at once?  independently kicks much ass?).

Runescape dudes regularly run up to me to blurt out, “You’re hawt!” or “Be my gf! Please, please, please be my gf!” I joke with Gav about how emotionally damaging it would be if they knew what I was actually up to while training attack against hill giants in the Varrock sewers…breastfeeding twins (how unsanitary of me to feed my babies in a sewer, i know).  Of course, it would be b oo bee feeding because you can’t say breast on runescape.  Nor can you say hooker or pimp.  But, h00k r and p i/\/\p, yes.  Many of the girls and guys on Runescape dress like h00k rs and p i/\/\ps, respectively.

While Gav and I chat often on the Runescape site, we don’t “hang out” on the steps of Lumbridge Castle or anything.  We met up online for the first time in a while recently.  It’s odd seeing your child in 3D graphics.  And, like any sentimental mother would do, I took a bunch of photos.

My dashing young son. Yes, he's wearing pimp shoes. Very expensive pimp shoes.

Gav gets his woodcutting on.

Here we are side by side.  I don’t wear h00k r clothes while woodcutting.  Honestly, I don’t wear them at all because that would just be gross, 37-year old me running around kids and teenagers on Runescape with hootchie mama clothes on.  Yeh, I don’t think so.

Gav said it looks like he's about to attack me. Have mercy on your poor ole mama, son.

I thought it was funny, with all the skin color options available, we both independently chose a dark tan.  We are ghosts IRL, people.  So very white.  Gav probably has the genetic ability to get a nice tan.  Me?  Once upon a firm breasts and ass time, sure.  Now?  I oscillate between pink and translucent.  Melanin has left the building, folks.

So, there.  You’ve seen all variations of me thus far.  I shall leave you now with our latest beach vacation photo.  So relaxing.  Can’t you feel the breeze in your hair?  Hear the waves lapping the shore?  I can.

I'm disappointed that my ass is wide even on Runescape.

Did I say something about writing a book?  Shiiiiiit.

Twin Walkers, Texas Rangers

In my blog absence, the twins have been burning up the pavement walking.  While both Gav and Gab chose to take up the bipedal lifestyle on their first birthday, Ethan and Alani were in less of a rush.  Miss Al’s been full-time on two feet for a month or so now and has already progressed to running.  Ethan has just decided that staggering with his legs spread wide apart is a viable option over jungle cat crawling on all fours.  Hearing these two sets of fleshy feet plodding around the house is quite adorable.  (and, i’m not one to throw around the word adorable lightly)

Enjoy some walking set to banjo-pickin’.  And, y’all come back now, ya hear?

done

The G Street Band

So much for last week’s sense of accomplishment.

Shuffling my feet and moving along.

Those lips were designed for playing the trumpet.

Gav had his Spring band performance Thursday night which is always a treat.  (the band performances, not all thursday nights)  Having donned the heavy polyester jacket myself through school, I’m always filled with the typical pride and nostalgia (with the fresh onset of age-related mind numbing back pain from 2 hours seated on wooden bleachers…seriously, i wanted to cry, not from the moving phantom of the opera piece, but the knife searing its way into my lower spine…periodically, i fantasized about falling forward onto the wooden gym floor and losing consciousness…would gav identify me as his mother?  or blend with the crowd of pubescent gawkers, “duuuuuude. i can see her underwear.”?).

Parenthetical physical ailment rambling aside, I thoroughly enjoyed the music.  I am always amazed and floored by the talents and abilities of such young musicians.  When I was in 7th grade band, our parents’ backs ached to dubious renditions of “Jingle Bells” and “Auld Land Syne” in mid-May.  Gav and his fellow melodious 7th graders were pulling off pieces from Wicked and Phantom of the Opera.  And, it was goooood.  Good like I should have payed admission to be there.  (if i were to pay admission, i’d appreciate a complimentary back pill with my program)

Mind you, I’m not toting Gav’s band around in an elaborate litter on my shoulders because it’s my trumpeter kid sitting in first chair.  I’m notoriously reserved with my compliments.  (and, excitement for that matter…interpret as you see fit)  But, these band kids really are impressive.  I can’t wait to see what happens when they reach high school.  I fully expect to see sunshine and rainbows coming from their instruments by then.

I love band.  And, I’ll wear the bumper sticker across my rear to prove it.

My name is…Slim Shady

Before I take the book writing chatter over to the dark side, I have a special request to ask of you kind, intelligent, crafty folk.  A round or two of the Name Game.  You helped name my twins.  Now I want you to name…me.  (yep, it’s dotdotdot time again…oooh, the mystery within those three dots)   I don’t feel my given name of Dee Langhorne Clemens will reel in the masses.

Seriously, I’m in the market for a snazzy nom de plume.  While I’m fairly certain I want to stick with my actual first name (which most of you know by now…rhymes with creama but starts with ‘d’…umm, maybe i should go with creama and let my freak flag fly in the er0t!ca arena), I definitely want to 86 my last name (boring yet pure and reflects all colors of the visible light spectrum).  I’ve never liked my last name.  And, I’ve always gotten the same reaction when I tell someone my full name…they ooh! and ahh! over the first and then I mutter my last name to receive the same blunt response,

Oh.

So, here’s your chance to eternally marry me in a literary sense with your last name.  I’ve actually toyed with one of your names as it’s my maternal grandmother’s maiden name.  (more toying)  I’ve also given thought to my mother’s maiden name, but that one rhymes with Sluts.  Creama Sluts.  Get down and dirty on the curb.

Jokes aside, ponder on this one for a while and throw some names at me.

And, the first one to suggest Fluffibottoms gets a turkey leg to the forehead in Chapter 2.

Hear ye! Hear ye!

Peekaboo.  Here I am.  And, guess what?  Because I need to feel some sense of accomplishment, I’m aiming to post each day this week.  Maybe a little regular writing will chase the crazy away.  Or I could just get a cat.

In the delusional scheme of grandeur, my long-term aim is to reach a few notches higher and…write a book.  (yeh, the dotdotdot is supposed to add impact there…could you feel it?  did you hold your breath?  tingle in any special places?  yeh, i didn’t think so…i’ll make a note to stretch before i reach)

I think we all have the goal of writing a book.  Isn’t that on everyone’s bucket list along with planting a tree and swimming with the dolphins?  Well, I kill plants and am not at all keen on creatures rubbing up against me out in the water.  So, a collection of words it shall be.

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a book for a while.  However, it’s such a giant leap between toying and doing for me.  I toy with many ideas.  Trust me.  I am a master toyer/toyist/she who toys.  I am a novice follow-througher/follow-throughist/she who actually gets any shit done.

I thought of making it a New Year’s resolution.

This year I will write a book.  And, gain 20 pounds sitting on my hump in the process.

But, weight gain is so easy.  Who needs to make that a resolution?

No, I’m not much of a resolution maker.  Here, feast your eyes upon this antique I rescued from a recent closet excavation.  It’s a scan of what our ancestors used to read – a newspaper.  News on paper…how exhausting it must have been to hold all that news in your hands.  Sheesh.  This is a clipping of Gav and myself going public with our New Year’s resolution for 1998.

Smartass, party of one?  And, you know what?  I’m sure I did not plan the coming year’s pledge.  But, Mr. Gav, on the other hand…that bad boy did give up his pacifier and never looked back.  A two-year-old who gets the job done. (that’s not seborrhoeic eczema in my hair there, btw…it’s snow)  (and, oh how i miss cutie patooty toddler gav with that blonde hair)

So, this is the route I’m taking by announcing to you curb hotties that I am writing a book.  I’ll admit…I’ve attempted several false starts already.  Each time I quickly morphed into a gut-wrenching autobiography that would give Augusten Burroughs a run for who has the most f*cked up past (yes, i’ve returned to adding asterisks in my f*cks…i don’t follow-through and i’m indecisive as all get-out).  I like you too much to watch you reach for that long tall bottle of psychotropic mood enhancers after reading each chapter.

While I definitely will not be penning an autobiography, a curb will figure prominently into the subject matter.  That’s a no brainer, right?  Begin on the curb.  End on the curb.  Fictional me on the curb gets the fictional guy on the curb.  Or fictional me goes on a shooting rampage mowing down anything with testicles in her path along the curb.  (see what i mean about gut/testicle-wrenching autobiography? although that’s not on the curb…it’s along the curb…totally different blog)

Heh, I even have a tentative title.  The Curb Chronicles.  Oh yeah, baby.  How do you like that?  You thought I was kidding about the curb bit.  I’ll make it a series with the last book ending on a curb.  Does that ruin it for everyone by giving away the final ending?  I haven’t said if I die on the curb or simply enjoy a tasty bbq turkey leg on the curb.

I’ve even parked a webpage for Curb Chronicles.  (yes, i am off my rocker…completeley)  There’s nothing there yet but a blank page.  It’s my intention to “chronicle” the process of writing and preparing the Chronicles.  Or something like that.  (i’m just getting downright corny now, aren’t i?)  Or maybe I’ll post photos of myself staring at a blank screen everyday…everyday until I die.on.the.curb.  The End.

Waldo, honey. Where ya been all my life?

I am diggin’ on this new shirt design from mental_floss.  And, I’m totally adding it to my Mother’s Day Wish List.  Right below #1 – A Good Man.

(oh no she didn’t)

(oh yes she did)

(psst, i can hear you two)