Heidi in Real Life

Last night we attended a “Huey Lewis and the News” concert.   Huey’s still got it: the fantastic voice, the hair, the muscles and the jeans-friendly body.   OK, I'm back. 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. My daughter and I stood for a short time to have our tickets scanned, not by a tough bouncer searching for pot or explosive devices, but by an elderly woman who wouldn't hurt a fly. 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.    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

A blogger friend of mine sent challenged me to 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

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 witho