Always such a fun, delicious romp at the Crescent Ballroom, from the beginning Have Menorah, Will Travel opening prayer to gluey cookies, burned down Baskin Robbins and getting the dad gift on the street following the country country no greens salad pot luck. OMG.
$300? Really? I just couldn't push the button, even if it was for my favorite band. I love their new album, going back to the beginning, sort of, but $300? $600 for two? At one time, I would of done it. Actually, one time I did do it, buying three tickets from a broker, bringing Shana along, thinking it was time for her to start worshiping at the U2 throne. But most of that concert I kept thinking I just dropped almost a grand on this night? Another time the boys were in town, driving home from work, I heard on the radio that they just released a couple hundred tickets at Sun Devil Stadium for $50, get on down to ASU right now! Shawn was working overnight at County Hospital and every one of my friends turned me down flat. I had no choice but to go alone, me, myself and I, plus all of my real friends, the thousands of peeps standing with me under the beautiful Tempe night sky, swaying as they sung One. I still remember it as one of my favorite U2 concerts. But I'm over it all now, thinking these days that lying around in bed like above on a weekend night isn't the worst thing anymore. But what if this is the last time they're here? Coming all this way to see me. I've always had a dream of popping into a Dublin bar one night and seeing them play, but that's not going to happen so, just in case, I pushed the button for one, just me up high at a reasonable price and was happy.
The next morning I texted Shana my funny story. Her reply:
Well I bought you two for Christmas so there's that
A spot of tea, scones, cream, ladies in hats, fancy, fancy at The English Rose Tea Room in Carefree, just a stroll down Easy Street, then ladies lurching in fishnets and heels off to down 'n dirty Harold's for a white elephant troll, unicorn neck roll, wine bottle undies and so much more, then halo-less Little Baby Jesus made the rounds, only took two Catholic girls to return halo - thanks to everyone.
Book Club info: Still Life With Breadcrumbs, Not That Kind Of Girl, Brain on Fire
Family gathering to give thanks at the reincarnated old Beef Eaters, flashy light rail trains whizzing by every few minutes. The last time I was at Beef Eaters with Old Wildcat I'm sure neither one of us could have imagined this, this setting, this family, this night. The first Thanksgiving without him, without one of his jokes, as the trains kept rolling by, "just snuff it out."
What's the chin hair notification responsibility etiquette?
After noticing a rather lengthy chin hair on a friend during a Monday night get-together, I should have said something. Right? We were a foursome and I was the new kid on the block, the least of the BFFs. By the least, I mean I've only been around maybe fifteen years to their twenty-five or so. I could have said it, but I didn't. I figured I didn't want to embarrass her. I thought, surely, someone else will point it out. Maybe, I considered, if we ever have a moment alone, I'll lean over and say whatever polite thing that came to me, or maybe a simple gesture would do it. But when that opportunity arose, I froze. Not my responsibility, I rationalized. Two nights later we found ourselves back together, this time a fivesome with three different gals, all either equal to or below me in the "I've known you the longest" hierarchy. The chinny chin chin hair was still there. That's two days of work, mirrors, a husband and lots of others who must be more adept at the notification rule than me, but still it was there. On my drive home with one of the other three, the topic came up. She saw it, too, but didn't say anything. I confessed to my Monday night observation. Later in the week, at a swanky, candle lit Old Town restaurant, the etiquette rule came up again. Two new ladies. Should you or shouldn't you? Ugg, we're getting so old.
Shana called to get directions to The Pointe, the one at Squaw Peak (are we allowed to say that anymore?), to join Scott and his co-workers for his company's end-of-summer staycation and all I could think about was 16-year-old Shawn, dressed in brown pants, a beige shirt, nametag pinned on, hauling big conference tables around, setting up meetings, dinners, moving chairs, workin' for The Man, scoring us a free room sometimes (before staycation was a word), saving his money. He worked hard up there. I just finished Garrison Keillor's latest book. I kept hearing my dad's voice throughout, the voice of reason, the hard-working quiet so full of wit voice. He described one of his jobs, getting up at 4:00am for the 5 - 9 morning shift before school at a parking lot in snowy Minnesota, working his way through college, no free ride, no student loan debt. No whining, just an utter gratefulness and amazement to be at a university, surrounded by books and intelligence and caring teachers, a poor kid from the sticks. You can't do that anymore, no matter how many cars you park. Garrison had a ponytail back then. At The Pointe, Shawn had a big blonde streak dyed on the back of his head, oh, the 80s coolness. His manager shook his head and said, "No way," so before each shift, Shawn would squirt on some temporary hair dye. One time he pierced his ear and his dad wouldn't let him in the house until he took the earring out. Boundaries. Years ago I told my front office receptionist she couldn't wear her nose piercing at work (am I allowed to say that?), so as not to scare the older patients. There's nothing I can do about the tattoo with her son's name on her wrist. I heard the other day the best order, easiest way to do things in life is: college, job, marriage, baby. Agreed, but may be easier said than done. Heard on the same station yesterday a single mom in LA with three sons under ten, crying because the police killed yet another young man. What's the point? What if you're born to the wrong parents in the wrong neighborhood, or the right parents in the right neighborhood, can you still decide to get up at 4:00 in the morning to park cars so someday, maybe, way down the road, you may get to sleep in, make your own hours, take a Friday afternoon off every now and then and sit by the pool at a beautiful resort in a red one piece. And be grateful for that. Is that even possible?
Over, under, over, under, around, around, around. Over, under, over, under, around, around, around. That's what they said by the campfire with the soot, way back when, turning two sticks and long colorful strands of yarn into a God's Eye. But I never saw it - the eye of God - in my mismashed attempt at being crafty. Never got the kumbaya camp revelation, the let's-come-back-next-year-as-a-counselor urge, the need to ever again make another craft. Maybe if I could see. Over, under, over, under, around, around, around. See? You'll see it. The God's Eye.
But all I ever saw was soot.
There wasn't a speck of soot at Camp Dreamtree tonight - just lots of fun, creative people telling old camp stories around the fire.