Huey Lewis and 50 Shades of Grey

Last night we attended a “Huey Lewis and the News” concert.  Let’s just get this out there—if Huey Lewis were interested in fat women with transient chin hairs and hooves, my husband, Fred, might have to release me from my marital vows for one night.  Huey’s still got it: the fantastic voice, the hair, the muscles and the jeans-friendly body.

At the entrance to the event was, in contrast to paragraph 1, my first real glimpse of myself as an old woman.  This occurred when we comingled with our fellow concert-goers-- the cast of “Cocoon”—in line at the door.

“Do we look as old as they do?”  I whispered to Fred.  He smiled and straightened his shoulders.

We stood for a short time to have our tickets scanned, not by a tough bouncer-type man searching for pot or explosive devices, but by an elderly woman they lured from her regular job of rewriting voter names in “old-lady” cursive at the voting poles.

“Things sure have changed a lot since my last pop concert,” I reported to Fred.  My last rock concert was in 1983, in Detroit, MI, and the ticket collector searched my purse and padded me down.

In my seat, I lost myself again, youth recaptured, as Huey entered the stage to the heartbeat at the beginning of “Heart of Rock ‘n Roll.”  With the lights out in the darkened theatre, it was a magical night.  We sang, we hooted, we enjoyed ourselves at the expense of our mortified 12 year-old daughter who glared at me like I’d grown a 3^rd eye every time I turned to her with my arms waving.

Then they played “I Want a New Drug” and flashed the spotlights on the audience.  WHOA!!  50 shades of grey!!  I felt like I was standing in a cotton field.  We looked like the matinee audience of the very last “Peter, Paul and Mary” PBS-televised concert...or a retirement planning seminar.  The hairs on our heads shone like 500 silvery christmas bulbs.

And so it went.  Dark theatre-young again; Lights shining on the grey-fluffy dandelions …DOH!—old again.

Young.  Old. 

Young.  Old. 

It was maddening.

At some point half the audience rushed the stage and I was wondering what Huey was thinking.  There was something strange about a bunch of 50-80 year olds standing at your feet.  Was he cringing?  Was he glad he had all his hair?  Their gnarled hands stretched up to him like they were in a Charlton Heston blockbuster and Huey was God.

Maybe it was their time to go and they WERE reaching for God.

Ahh, but what a way to go.

Seven Facts to Blow Your Mind

A blogger friend of mine sent me a Kreative Blogger award.  The rules of acceptance say I must pay-it-forward and nominate 7 others and also write 7 facts about myself.

Opening the door into Heidi’s “Fact safe”…creeeeeaaakkkkk:

1.        I spent a night with Elvis Prestley.

O.k, O.k, I was with a stadium full of people in 1973 (I was 8) at one of his last white-jumpsuit shows.  I was not impressed and spent the entire concert with a scarf over my face (the flashbulbs were blinding) and my fingers in my ears. 

Thank you.  Thank you very much.

2.        A Hamster helped me get through my divorce in 1991.

On one, lonely, miserable night just before my divorce to my then husband was final, I felt especially lonely and uncertain about my decision.   At 4:30 in the morning, I made a list of the Ex’s good and bad points.  Concurrently, our 7-year old, half-dead hamster, Elmer, squeaked his wheel, so I decided to make a pro-con list about HIM and compare it that of the Ex (hey, it was late).  The chart proved that even a smelly rodent who did nothing but sleep and poop had more pros than my ex-husband.

I still have the chart.

3.       I am a morning person, but a night witch

I genuinely get up energetic and happy.  But something happens to me over the day, and by evening time I’ve become a bitter, hungry goblin.  Important self-preservation tip:  Don’t mess with me when I’m tired, or I'll turn in to the "Incredible Hulk."

4.        I would sing the National Anthem naked for a Hershey’s bar with peanut butter.

No. Really.  I hope to be able to aquire them without doing so, but if need be..."Ooooh, say can you see?"

5.        I buy water chestnuts whenever I see them, because I mentally block out the fact that I already bought them the previous week.

I’m certain this has a diagnosis.  I also admit to doing this during the Christmas season with evaporated milk.

6.        I’ve always wondered what it would be like to play the organ

This might have started when I was a child, during my “Fascination with The Addams Family” period. 

7.        I have a harmless, mole (read: beauty mark) on my chin that has been removed thrice-- but it keeps growing back.

Now THAT’s talent.

And the nominees are!  Cut and paste your award below and place in your blog, get it tattooed (I don't need to know):

1.  Sheri Saretsky of “My Life in a Fat Suit”—my soul-sister, who has a gift for relatable humor.

2.  Dawn Weber of “Lighten Up”- a sassy broad with a amazingly funny blog

3.  Mark Cowell of “Bagman and Butler Chronicles” -a heck of a photographer/writer with a couple of alter-egos to tend with.

4.  Jerry Zezima- King of the Puns—writes very clever, funny stuff.

5.  Don Mills is “The Crabby Old Fart”, as a crabby old fart in training--I am a huge fan.

6.  Joanne Lee “Nuts and Bolts of Life” writes humor, sentimental, even gardening tips.
7.  Stacey Hatton is “Nurse Mommy Laughs” clever Nurse-Mommy humor.

Equine Therapy: Heidi Gets a Pedicure

Approximately 3 times a year, I treat myself to a pedicure at a nail salon.  Approximately 3 times a year, the nail technicians at the nail salon run to the back room and to do “Rock, Paper, Scissors” to see who gets saddled with my hooves.

“I’m here for my “shoeing”,” I joked today to the Vietnamese girl who runs the place.  She doesn’t understand what I’ve said, but she knows my feet.  She announces something to the other employees in her native tongue-- something that sounds like:

“Who hasn’t done a horse footed woman, yet?”

I see their faces get longer and their eyes open wider and a younger girl is ushered to the front like a virgin about to be tossed in a volcano.

She says, “Go pick a color,” trembling.

It’s not my fault my feet are nasty…not entirely.  Heredity plays a factor--I got the thick heel skin compliments of my mother, and the petrified toenails from Dad.  I’m also a long way from my feet because I’m tall.  I also have a hard time seeing my feet without my glasses on.  I try to moisturize, but nothing penetrates a thousand layers of dead skin.

Today, the day before Mother’s Day, was the busiest I’ve ever seen place.  I thought about going home, but my feet are so bad, they’re starting to pick up carpet fibers.

As soon as my feet had soaked and were up on the bench to be worked on, I hear my pedicurist say two addition things in English:

Channel Lock Pliers and Goggles

This was not the soothing, spa experience I was going for.  The neophyte was not going to be cowed by my animal heels and was fiercely determined to be the “alpha.”  She clipped and sawed and planed like Norm Abrams on the New Yankee Workshop.  I sat there, smoke rising, toenails flying like B-Bs, like a 2x4 in shop class.

God.

The next step is optional, but I gave her a “thumbs up” and she took out her razor blade and wicked off my dead skin, forming the mini-blizzard of a snow globe turned upside-down and right-side up again.   All the other girls having pedicures turned to watch, and I’m pretty sure the lights went dim and a single, red light shone above me.  There was nowhere to look except down…in fascination. 

“You should leave a little of that on,” I said, trying to relieve anxiety, “for traction.”

All that embarrassment was worth it--my feet look human again, and my husband, Fred, won’t get all scratched up in bed anymore…

…at least by my feet.