Jeff Buckley and a Flat Tire

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It was Feb. 9, 1994, a snowy Wednesday night in Chicago. I was with a friend at Schuba’s Tavern, one of our favorite music haunts. We met there to see Jeff Buckley, but it was a sold-out show and we didn’t have tickets. A drink at the bar before we trudged home through the snow: Why not?

When the guy with snow-covered hair nudged his way up to the bar next to me, I noticed his cheekbones, his motorcycle jacket, his playful smile. As he waited for his beer, he built a house out of matchbooks. He was trying to get our attention, so we indulged him.

I asked him if he was there to see Jeff Buckley. He wasn’t. His friend had a flat tire outside the bar and called him for backup. Apparently, he called several other friends too, so Cheekbone Guy decided to go inside to warm up and have a beer.

I teased him for not helping his friend and laughed when he admitted he’d rather be in the warm bar having a drink. We talked about the NPR “Car Talk” guys, and he told us Janis Joplin was one of his favorite female singers. The conversation was easy, so we shared a few more drinks.

When he asked for my number, I gave it to him. I assumed he wanted to hang out with my friend and me. (I’ve always been a little naïve about picking up on guys’ signals — even the blatantly obvious ones.) My friend laughed at me. “He is going to ask you out,” she said. But I didn’t take her seriously. He was a few years younger than us; I really didn’t see it happening. Plus, I was 26 and had just moved to Chicago four months ago. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend.

Cheekbone Guy called a few days later and asked if I wanted to go see a movie. I asked him if he meant “go see a movie” as in “go on a date.” Yep, he said, that was exactly what he meant.

We saw “Reality Bites” at the Biograph Theater on our first date, which lasted 24 hours. Six weeks later we moved in together. Today we are celebrating our 16th wedding anniversary.

Thank you to Jeff Buckley and a flat tire for making it all possible.

Week 2, Day 1: I’m Still Here

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I’m pretty lucky if I manage to blog once a week. Twice? That’s cause for celebration. Seven times? Well, that’s downright insane, unimaginable.

Until today. Somehow I made it to Day 8 of BlogHer’s NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), a challenge to bloggers to post daily throughout the month of November. I’m one of 1,833 bloggers who signed up for November’s NaBloPoMo, and I can’t help but wonder how the others are holding up. Are they out of ideas yet? I sure feel as if I am. I mean, the election was great fodder for a few days, but what’s next?

Daily life around here really isn’t all that exciting. Not that I’m complaining; I like my routine. It’s just not always easy to find something interesting to write about during a busy week, when one day runs into the next and the last thing you want to do at the end of the evening is sit down in front of the computer and try to be clever.

So I’m giving up just a little today. There will be no cleverness. No wit. No humor. I don’t even have a photo or a quote to post. It’s Thursday, and I’m spent, so I’m writing about blogging (lame).

But I’m still here, NaBloPoMo. I may not be saying much of anything today, but I’m writing anyway. And for a 20-year veteran copy editor who has trouble posting without multiple edits and rewrites, hitting the “publish” button on the first go-around is quite a feat. It’s downright terrifying.

It’s OK, though, right? I’ve got 22 more days to be interesting, succinct and grammatically correct. I’m sure I’ll think of something.

So how are all my fellow NaBloPoMoers doing? Are you used to blogging daily, or is this as crazy for you as it is for me? I would love to hear your thoughts.

Keep Your Politics Off Facebook, Please

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This post is not about the election. It’s about the social media aftermath.

I went to bed last night at my usual 10 p.m., having reached my daily peak of exhaustion. It takes a lot to keep me up any later on a weeknight. A sick child, a gripping movie, a foot-stomping concert? Yes, maybe and perhaps. The presidential election results? Not so much. It’s not that I didn’t care. It’s that I was pretty convinced the guy I didn’t vote for would win and figured the next morning, after a solid eight hours of restful sleep, was soon enough to learn the news.

So what happens? I wake up to find the guy I did vote for won. Say what? I’ll admit I was excited for and proud of our president, and I wanted to share my enthusiasm. But I have a lot of Republicans and/or Romney supporters in my life (including my husband) and didn’t want to rub salt in anyone’s wounds. This is what was in my head when I logged on to my computer to post about Obama’s victory.

What did I find on Facebook? A whole lot of openly hostile as well as passive-aggressive posts from adults, a picture of the Statue of Liberty with her head in her hands, and a post from a teenager saying something to the effect of “at least I know my parents didn’t vote for him.”

What the f*ck, Facebook?

So I, the perpetual Pollyanna, post this: “I’m ALWAYS proud to be an American, to have freedoms and choices, and I love ALL my friends and family, regardless of their politics. I’m for keeping Facebook politics free. Anyone with me?” Not a single comment or “like” (at least not yet). I also posted this image of and quote from Thomas Jefferson.

You'd think they would at least listen to Thomas Jefferson (source: JeffersonQuotes.com)

Wow. Four-hundred and fifty-nine Facebook friends and not a single one believes we should stand together as Americans and respect the collective voice of our nation? Now that’s something for the Statue of Liberty to be ashamed of.

And so I ask you, Facebook friends, what do you get out of attacking our president online? I understand that you’re angry, disappointed, frustrated. But is Facebook really the right forum to express those feelings? Will your electronic-courage-fueled posts effect the positive change you claim he is incapable of producing? If you are that angry about the current state of affairs, why don’t you get out there and volunteer, run for office, do something to be the change you want to see in our country?

Whatever you do or don’t do, I would really appreciate it if you stopped clogging my Facebook news feed with your vitriol. I go there for the cute baby pictures.

My Bipartisan Marriage: Agreeing to Disagree

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Source: City & State (2012)

“And as we have for the past 18 years since we met, my husband and I just canceled out each other’s votes.” That’s what I posted on Facebook and Twitter this morning, after my husband and I left our polling place in Chicago’s South Suburbs, and I was surprised to find that lots of female friends and followers are in the same boat.

I’m not sure how things work in their bipartisan households, but in ours it’s a matter of agreeing to disagree.

Politically, my husband and I couldn’t be further apart. He is a self-professed libertarian with what I would describe as strong Republican leanings. His vote is determined by the state of the economy: tax and deficit levels, unemployment and inflation rates, and other key business and financial indicators. I, meanwhile, am a liberal Democrat. I vote on social issues like protecting same-sex marriage and a woman’s right to choose. I vote based on the man or woman running and his or her view and treatment of people; I vote with my heart.

In terms of our morals and values, though, we are on the same page. We both come from blue-collar backgrounds and value education, hard work and, above all, family. We want to instill strong work ethics in our children and teach them to be proud of what they achieve rather than what they are given. We believe in championing their victories and letting them learn from their mistakes.

In our early years together, before marriage and kids, the presidential election was a source of extreme contention. Every four years, we’d bicker and argue, each trying to sway and convince the other. But as we’ve grown and matured together over the past almost two decades, we’ve come to realize we can’t change each other’s opinions. We can let go of our political differences because on a personal level we know we’ve worked out a pretty effective system of checks and balances. His practical business mind keeps my (often) overly emotional one in check, and vice versa.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. No matter who is in the oval office come January.

What about your household? Are you and your partner on the same page, or do you agree to disagree too?

I Don’t Care Who You Vote For Tomorrow

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I don’t mean that as rudely as it sounds. I respect your right to vote for whomever you choose, and I hope you exercise it. I am just ready to be done with all the election-related ranting, both online and offline. This eCard pretty much sums up how I feel.

Source: someecards

So get out there and vote tomorrow and stop talking about it on Facebook. If you don’t my zombie friends and I will find you.

My husband and I heading out to his band's annual Halloween bash. You know it's a good party when you have to throw your dress away the next day.

 

Shame on You, Mayor Bloomberg

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I saw an ABC-TV news report the day after Hurricane Sandy swept across the East Coast indicating that two massive generators were on reserve for the New York City Marathon while millions of New Yorkers remained without power. I stood in my kitchen, stunned, thinking, how in the world does the mayor of New York City think $340 million in revenues is more important than his citizens’ welfare?

According to an editorial in the New York Post: “Those generators could power 400 homes on Staten Island or the Rockaways or any storm-racked neighborhood in the city certain to be suffering the after-affects [sic] of Hurricane Sandy on Sunday morning. Shouldn’t they come first? Shouldn’t the race just be canceled? Damned straight.”

Damned straight, is right.

Queens, New York, after Sandy (photo: Reuters)

Finally, and most certainly under extreme pressure, Mayor Bloomberg gave in and canceled the event, but why did it take him so long to do so?

I’m a runner; I know New York’s is the biggest marathon in the world. I understand what it’s like to train for months and dedicate your life to running on marathon day. But to put holding a race above helping people who have lost their loved ones, their homes, their businesses? That’s just downright ludicrous.

The runners get it. They put together a charity called Race2Recover NYC and are donating their hotel rooms to New Yorkers in need. They’re also volunteering their time to recovery efforts.

So why was Mayor Bloomberg so clueless? Maybe someone should have shown him this Facebook post:

“It would be greatly appreciated if everyone would remember that people have to jog this weekend so please don’t block any marathon routes while you wait for hours on a line for gas. Please be considerate and remove any debris that may have washed onto the road from your house. This includes wood with nails, boats or entire houses. There is no reason that joggers should have to navigate through your children’s toys and other personal belongings strewn along the streets. In regards to all the evacuated medical facilities because of power outages. Your hard work was not in vain because the huge generators set up for the marathon were all made possible by your sacrifices. No need to worry about our NYPD, EMS, FDNY, DOT and DOS. They were clearly not overworked at all this week and should be removed from other trivial tasks (ie: saving citizens, keeping order) so that the world can see people jog in New York. These services clearly are not needed anywhere else in the city. And lastly, please take time from your schedule to stand along the marathon route and hand out water, oranges and other nourishment to the joggers. Lord knows they need your support during their harrowing ordeal.”

More information about Race2Recover NYC is available here.

Why Moms Shouldn’t Start Mosh Pits

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A few weeks ago, I went to my first all-ages show in probably 20 years. My husband’s band, The Bishop, was playing in a battle of the bands at Reggie’s Music Joint in Chicago, and I, being his ever-faithful groupie, went along for the ride.

His band had played at Reggie’s before, and I fell in love with the place immediately. The bar and its patrons brought back fond memories of all the punk clubs I frequented in Detroit during my teen years (I mean, after I was 21, if my kids are reading this). Dyed black hair, tattoos, black leather, ripped denim, clove cigarettes. I felt right at home, although I’m sure I looked completely out of place. It’s not that I’m altogether uncool. I have my moments. But I’m a mom. And I’m 45. Enough said.

The good thing about being in your forties is you finally stop worrying about what other people think and let yourself go. The bad thing is when you let yourself go too far. And that is exactly what happened during our next visit to Reggie’s.

I was excited to go back to the bar and revel in nostalgia once again. What I didn’t know until a few days before the gig, however, was that it was an all-ages show. This rattled my nerves — and more than just a bit. It’s one thing to hang out in a dive rock joint with young adults, but teenagers? I have one of my own at home, and I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t want to be seen with his mother, or anyone her age, at such an establishment (thankfully he is only 13 and this is not yet an issue).

Do you know what it’s like to be a mom in a roomful of kids with blue hair, tattoos, mohawks and ear expanders? Unless your name is Courtney Love or Sharon Osborne, I’m guessing the answer is no. I immediately assumed the role of lunchroom monitor and found myself worrying about whether these kids would be up past their bedtimes. It was a Sunday after all, a school night.

Courtney Love, I am not. (Source: PacificCoastNews.com)

The good thing about being nervous in a bar: alcohol. The bad thing about being nervous in a bar: alcohol. Several craft beers and death metal bands into the show, I made what seemed like a perfectly reasonable decision: I started a mosh pit.

What, you may ask, was a suburban mom doing participating in a mosh pit, let alone starting one? I’m not exactly sure, honestly. My best answer is that my inner teenager took over. My worst answer is that I was experiencing a temporary midlife crisis. Either way, I ended up on my ass in the middle of the dance floor in a bar full of death metal kids.

I learned two things about myself that night. First, I’m far too old, and clumsy, to mosh. Second, I’m just old enough to be able to laugh at myself when I do something stupid. Believe me, I laughed my (very sore) ass off over this one for days.

I Got a Rock

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I’ve always been a Halloween girl. My birthday is Oct. 28, so I guess that’s not a surprise. I couldn’t wait to dress up and trick or treat as a kid. I never missed “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” and could even recite more than a few of the lines. Now, as a 45-year-old mom, I love to experience all the ghoulish glories of my favorite holiday vicariously through my children.

Or at least I used to.

I made their costumes by hand (well, I did one year anyway). I covered my shrubs in cobwebs and planted tombstones and skulls in my flowerbeds. Mummies, skeletons and giant spiders welcomed visitors on our porch. The living room looked as if Frankenstein had vomited pumpkins, ghosts and witches all over it. Not a spot in the house went undecorated. Halloween was everywhere.

My little Indian chief, age 3, in his handmade (by Mom) costume

My little princess, age 2 (did I mention I made her costume?)

But this year was different.

I only dug out one bin of decorations from the basement (I have at least five). The porch featured three Pottery Barn-esque clay jack-o’-lanterns and a tasteful copper skeleton. I left the cobwebs to nature, and Frankenstein never even made it out of the crawlspace.

It’s hard to feel, well, Halloween-y when your kids reach the tween and teen years. They want to trick or treat alone or at least at a distance. First you are relegated to the end of the block; eventually you aren’t even asked to tag along.

This year my 13-year-old wandered the neighborhood with his horde of fellow hoodlums, I mean, teenagers. My 11-year-old trick-or-treated and partied with her best friend’s family. And my husband and I stayed at home to hand out candy.

I have to admit that I was more than a little bummed to be left out of the holiday revelry. I wore my hot pink skull T-shirt. I stocked my cauldron with fun-size chocolate bars. But I just wasn’t feeling it.

Until 15 teenage girls and boys descended upon our house.

Don’t worry. They were invited. My husband and I skipped the Halloween fun this year so our son could host an after-party. Chaperoning is far less exciting than partying, but it was a great group of kids and we didn’t have any problems. The kids exchanged candy and ate pizza. I think there may even have been a game of Truth or Dare in the basement. But of course I can’t be certain because I never, ever spied on them.

Who am I kidding? Of course I did a little spying. I was thrilled to overhear more than one of the kids say they had a great time, and someone actually told my son his parents were cool.

It was a very different Halloween this year. It wasn’t all about me. In fact, it wasn’t at all about me. But my teenager and his friends had an awesome night.

You know what, Charlie Brown? I’ll take that rock.

Meet You at the Finish Line

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I wasn’t one of the 37,455 runners who crossed the finish line of the Chicago Marathon this year. I registered for it. I even started training. But I couldn’t do it. Not this time around.

The year since my husband and I ran the 2011 marathon has been challenging for our family. We lost my aunt, the woman who raised me and was a grandmother to my children, and then I wound up out of a job. After two pivotal life changes within seven months, running another marathon moved to the bottom of my priority list.

My husband, meanwhile, stuck with it and ran the Chicago Marathon a second time. Even if I didn’t have the desire or motivation to run myself, I wouldn’t have missed being there to support him. I even dragged both our puffy-eyed, half-conscious children out of bed at 5:30 a.m. so the four of us could make the 45-minute journey from the South Suburbs to the city together.

I was excited for him as we piled into the car and he did his final gear check. But once we hit I-80, a lump of regret swelled in my throat. Why hadn’t I kept up with the training? Why had I given up so soon? Why had I let myself fail without even trying?

I had lots of excuses for dropping out of the race, some more valid than others. Before I lost my job, we planned two summer vacations, which meant I would miss a total of three weeks’ training and some of the longer, and most crucial, runs. But lots of marathon runners skimp a bit on training and still finish. A bigger problem was my foot, which started nagging me as the training schedule ramped up. After rupturing my plantar fascia 11 weeks into training the previous year, I worried the same or worse would happen again. What if I hurt my foot so badly that I couldn’t run anymore?

If I had truly wanted to run a second marathon, I would have ignored my aching foot with the help of a cortisone shot as I had done the previous year. My primary reason for quitting this time was that I no longer had the energy or the passion. When I lost my job six weeks into training, I knew it was over for me.

The morning of the race, dropping off my husband and watching him and thousands of other runners head toward the start line, was bittersweet. I wanted to be there to see him finish, set a new PR and feel the rush of personal victory. But I also itched to be out there with him, to experience the singular pride and joy of crossing that finish line one more time.

Before the 2011 race, my husband and I signed up for text alerts so we could track each other’s progress. I run much slower than he does normally, but because of my injury we weren’t sure if I would even finish. My longest training run had been the 16-miler when I hurt my foot.

We parted ways shortly after the race started, and I took it slowly and mile by mile. I didn’t have a time goal; I just wanted to finish. Right before mile 20, when I was exhausted and beyond doubting myself, I got a text that my husband had crossed the finish line. It was one of the best moments of the race for me; knowing he had made it carried me through my last six miles. When I crossed the finish line an hour after him, he was right there waiting for me.

This year I was determined to do the same for him.

I signed up for his text alerts so my kids and I could follow his path — or at least trace part of it. We met him with shouts of encouragement and a homemade sign near mile three and again just before the halfway mark. I wanted him to feel our support, but I also enjoyed reliving the thrills of the race.

About 20 minutes before his estimated finish time, we pushed our way through the crowd to the bleachers near the finish line. We needed just the right vantage point, and this was it: The kids could see over the adults in front of them, and my husband would be able to find us in the crowd.

When we spotted him after that final curve, my heart raced as we screamed his name. The look on his face when he saw us was pure joy, and it was as if I were experiencing those last 400 meters — the best part of the race, if you ask me — right by his side.

I wasn’t one of the 37,455 finishers at the Chicago Marathon this year. In fact, I don’t know if I’ll ever cross that or any other finish line again. Sometimes watching the person you love win and sharing in his happiness is enough. This year it was a victory for us both.

That guy in the blue shirt with his arms in the air is my marathon man husband, just before he crossed the finish line and set a new PR of 4:24:32.