The Odd Broad

Springtime flowers bloom, with an air of mystery...

Poor Corey Feldman.  If reports are true that he and Susie are indeed headed for splitsville, I'd like to offer my deepest condolences.  I was really hoping those two crazy kids were going to make it. 

One wondrous, rose scented thought does spring to mind: I smell a reality series!  Let's get those two Corey's back together!  What could be a more appropriate time for them to reunite than in this, Feldman's hour of need?

Please, God, I don't ask for much.  These two boys belong together!  For the sake of our nation.  America needs the Two Corey's.  The world needs them, for that matter!

I'm just saying.  It's a good idea and stuff.

Remember the episode when Feldman sang for Susie?  When he shouted/rasped into her face, "I REALLY LOVE YOU, BABY!" and made Susie cry?  (It would have made me cry, too, if Hubby screamed into my face while simultaneously projecting his voice into a microphone.)  Riveting television.  I had to cover my eyes and could only watch this musical monstrosity unfurl in bits and pieces.  But I want more.  Dear God, I want more.  Who the hell doesn't?

Mrs. Whimby's Daughter

I've been singing to Lukey the Wonder Nephew since before he was even born.  He's definitely the most receptive audience I've ever had. 

I sing him songs, mostly improvised, the most colorful of which is about a woman named Mrs. Whimby and her illegitimate daughter, who is just about to be married. 

This little ditty blossomed into existence right after I moved back to Boston.  We'd had a Brigham's ice cream party at work and the delivery man brought along a small yellow stuffed dolled.  That doll's name was Mrs. Whimby.  Anglophiles that we are, my sister and I decided almost immediately that Mrs. Whimby would have a cockney accent.  Lukey really took to Mrs. Whimby; indeed, the two became nearly inseparable.  (Luke loves her dearly in spite of the fact that she's kind of an old slut.)

When I first moved into my apartment I had virtually nothing to entertain a baby with.  Nothing, that is, except the little stuffed bear wearing a wedding veil that Sissy bought me when I got engaged.  It would have to do.  I began to sing, child star style.  The tempo was upbeat, maniacal, with a Polka/German drinking song feel:

I'm...Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

All I'm asking, Lukey, is would you give me away?

Walk me down the aisle, to my fiance...

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, won't you give me away?  HEY!

Mrs. Whimby's daughter didn't know who her biological father was, you see.  My sister was more than a little disturbed.  She told me to stop, if I remember correctly.  Luke looked at me as if he was having a bad acid trip.  And then he laughed.  More than laughed, he guffawed.  Naturally, this song became an instant staple in my repertoire, with several verses ensuing. 

My collectible Michael Jackson doll and Harry Potter action figure were both eventually incorporated into the song:

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he up and flew away...

He's summering in Maui now with Michael J...

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he's off with Michael J!  HEY!

On a side note, my Michael Jackson doll has been resting on a shelf in our hallway since his untimely passing; and we've since set my Harry Potter action figure next to him.  Hubby has placed Michael's hand on Harry's...wand.  It's not right.

And I digress.  It's remarkable how babies really listen to everything you say.  Lukey already knows his numbers, can sing his ABC's and a bevy of other songs.  Last weekend my mother was singing a song she'd sung since Lukey was born, and he was finishing each line for her, in tune even.  (Yes, this baby even understands the concept of pitch!  I know I'm his auntie and all, but musically he's extremely intuitive.)

"When did you work with him on that?" I asked my mother, impressed.

"Oh, never really, I've just been singing it to him forever..." she answered.

A light bulb went off in my head.  I turned to Luke.  And I began to prompt him, singing:

I'm......Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

And today's my wedding...

"Day"

What I'm asking...

"Nokey"

Is would you give me...

"Away!"

Walk me down the aisle to my fee-an...

"SAY!!"

I'm Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

Won't you give me...

"Away!  Yay!"

Christ almighty, Luke David had been listening.  And now he knows how to say the word fiance.  This boy is not even two.  God I love that child.

Back on the horse

My heart was pounding and I was petrified my hands were going to shake.  But I did it; I sang in public again for the first time in years.  It wasn't my worst performance, and it certainly wasn't my best, but I did it nonetheless. 

I love weddings.  Afterwards, as I sat next to Hubby and listened to his cousin recite her wedding vows, I gave his hand a sweaty little squeeze at the words, "In sickness, and in health..." 

I had certainly been testing the boundaries of the in sickness category as of late...mental sickness, to be exact. 

I experienced a brief but potent meltdown on Friday evening, you see, after I ran through the song with the church's ancient resident organ player.  She didn't know the song, she told me, but she would learn it before the wedding tomorrow.  I was also singing it at a much faster tempo than she seemed comfortable with, but she told me she would follow along.  I'd be singing from up on the alter, out in front, holding a wireless microphone.  (We'd forgotten to bring a microphone stand, hence my worry over shaky hands.)  It occurred to me that if I was fourteen years old I wouldn't have batted an eyelid at any of this information.  When had I turned into such a wimp?

Back in the car, I called my mother for comfort but found she had none available.  I had made my own bed and it was time for me to lie in it.  This is when I hung up the phone and cried heavy, sloppy tears, my chest heaving in rapid, panicky gasps.  I was going to make a fucking asshole out of myself!  Holding a microphone, up on the alter?  Like Ted Neely or Carl Anderson in Jesus Christ Superstar?  I couldn't do it!

Hubby continued driving, the very picture of calm.  He reached out his hand and patted my knee, gently telling me I was being ridiculous, but still allowing me the freedom to blubber away.  I was hot mess central: broken, pathetic, and very, very ugly.  Ten minutes and one phone call to Sissy later, I wiped the smudged mascara from my cheeks and entered the rehearsal dinner wearing a happy face.  What was the alternative?  I had to be an adult; Sissy said so.  She also told me to make like Mary Magdalene and just sing!

My husband is an exceedingly kind person.  All the same, ten years ago it would have killed me to put on such a shamelessly vulnerable display in front of him.  These days it's a different story.  He loves me even at my very worst, when I am at my most atrocious, and for that I am truly grateful.  I trust him, more than I trust anybody in the world, and there's something very freeing about that. 

"I was being really pathetic and horrible," I tell my husband tonight, back at home on our red couch with Kittie.  "I was acting ugly and childish and hysterical, all for no reason." 

"Yeah," Hubby agreed, squeezing my hand, a smile flickering across his eyes, "But it's okay."

God I love that man.

PS: I capped off my singing performance by getting very, very, very drunk.  (Fast dancing drunk.  Telling my brother in law to shave off his beard because I hate it drunk.  Peeing without putting a liner down on the public toilet seat drunk.)  I then commenced to tell all of my in-laws how much I loved them, again and again, and apologized profusely to Hubby's parents for not providing them with grandchildren.  I also promised to get on this right away, in a year and a half or so.  (Thanks, chardonnay!)  Hiccup. 

All in all, the evening was quite a success.

Being braver

When I was younger, I started to sing.  I was a painfully shy child, and fought against that every day, but somehow when I got up onstage it didn't seem to matter.  This was a godsend, seeing as I probably wouldn't have made it through Englesby Junior High School otherwise. 

I sang all the time.  I sang at nursing homes and dinner theatres, I sang on the local telethon.  I sang in community theatre and even nerded it up show choir, where I was forced to sing wearing...spandex. 

I sang because I couldn't not sing.  It was almost compulsive.  I would stand in my parents kitchen, all alone except for Trustie, our Golden Retriever, and sing until I was hoarse.  I sang with complete abandon, at the top of my lungs, and didn't give a damn who heard me.  In college that started to change, but I'd come home on weekends and sing every song I heard my classmates sing that week, until there was literally nothing left to sing.  Trustie would howl along when I'd hit a note above high C.  I never thought I'd be able to stop singing. 

But then one day that's exactly what I did.  I don't even sing in the shower anymore.  In my defense, I've been living in apartment buildings for the past decade and you can hear a pin drop through those walls.  But why do I even care?  Does the maniacal violinist from downstairs care that I happen to think he's just horrible?  It doesn't stop him from terrorizing us all with his bow.

If I were to be honest, the last time I sang in public was at an audition for Temps, the Musical! which definitely went awry.  I'd come straight from work and hadn't warmed up, and the accompanist kept screwing up the tempo and it became an all around nightmare on Elm Street (parts 1, 2, and 3...)  There were people I knew from the Conservatory standing outside in the hallway, and when I exited that room I felt...dejected.  I don't like to think of it, really, for fear my inner child may try to off herself.

I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a certain amount of guilt involved in giving up on a dream.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally wake up in the middle of the night feeling an odd sort of panic.  It's a biological clock of a different sort, but it's just as irksome.  Even more twisted is that I continue to define myself by something I haven't even done in years.  Why was I so much braver back then?  What changed?  And why can't I let it go, if I'm not willing to go out and actually do it?  In the sage words of my mother, should I not just shit or get off the pot?

That crappy audition was probably three years ago and was also the last time I sang alone in public.  Oh, I went on a few non-singing auditions after that, but after a while I even stopped going to those.  But when Hubby's sweet cousin Elizabeth asked if I would sing at her wedding this weekend, because she thinks I have a "beautiful voice," how could I say no? 

Hubby told me I could say no.  "It's okay," he assured me, probably more for his own sanity than mine.  (Somehow he sensed, after knowing me all these years, that this might be a source of self imposed stress, to put it mildly.)  But I thought back to this Spring, when my grandmother was sick, and the times when Elizabeth's mother would come and visit her. 

This was something I should probably do.

Which is why tomorrow, I'm getting back up on the horse.  It helps that my husband is a musician and was able to lower the song a minor third.  Even so, I really hope I don't make an asshole out of myself.  God wouldn't let that happen to me, would he?  In His own house, even?  Pray for me, Dear Reader!  I think I'm going to need it.  xoxo

Oh yeah! Alright! Are you gonna be in my dreams tonight?

Hubby, myself, Ma and Dad are all heading into Fenway Park for the McCartney concert.  Our seats aren't together, but we're all still very excited.  By the third song or so I pull out Blackberry and start to document this momentous occasion.  A sort of live blog, if you will, only it's not because I come home and fix all of the spelling errors...

Got to get you into my life! is pure magic.  Even though the boy sitting to the left of me smells like shoes from a bowling alley.

Let me roll it.  Let me roll it to you.  Paul makes the same face as my character in Rock Band.  All big eyes and crazy grin and lots of pointing and nodding.  I'm into it. 

Sir Paul tells us, "I'd like to play a song off of my new album," and I immediately take this opportunity to pee.  I did, after all, suck down two Rieslings at the Cask'n Flagon beforehand at dinner.  It occurs to me that tonight will be the closest I ever get to John Lennon, in a roundabout sort of way.

During The Long and Winding Road I stop worrying about the terrible nearby stench and give Hubby a cuddle.  We're having a nice time.  But there's trouble.  The cantankerous older man in front of us is starting a fight with the woman from security.  He refuses to stop stretching his legs out into the aisle.  (He has rheumatoid arthritis.)  Another security person comes over and tells him if he doesn't pull in his legs, there's going to be a problem.

Paul dedicates the next song to Linda.  And when the cupboard's bare, I'll still find something there, with my love.  It's understood.  My love does it good...

I wish the old man in front of us would stop causing such a ruckus, because Sir Paul just started singing Blackbird and I want to listen.  He wrote the next one, he tells us, after John died.  The crowd cheers, and I clap hard even though I know John is probably turning over in his grave.  But I kind of want to cry a little, too.  And if I say I really knew you well, what would your answer be?  If you were here today...

But then Sir plays some newer stuff again and I really do start to cry.  (Not really.)  But I did sort of want to: Everybody gonna dance around tonight...

Hubby needs a bathroom break and on his way out he trips over the old buck's outstretched legs and I nearly pee myself laughing.  Old dude looks PISSED.  Hubby gives him his best dirty Hubby look. 

A word about Sir Paul.  He looks good.  Damn good.  How old is he again?  I will hold you for as long as you like, I'll hold you for the rest of my life.  I wonder, does he ever miss Heather Mills?  Did Linda want to come down from Heaven and stab her?  I probably would have wanted to, if I were her.  But then again, I'm the jealous type, and prone to supernatural acts of violence.

Security is back, but all rifts appear to have been mended.  This time she's just warning the old folks about the impending fireworks to come.  Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in a church where a wedding has been, lives in a dream.  Reminds me of Mrs. Jarvis' 7th grade music class.

Paul would be such a nice grandpa.  

Stuck inside these four walls, sent inside forever, never seeing no one nice again, like you, Mama you, Mama you...

It happens so quickly but suddenly I want to have Sir Paul McCartney's babies.  A little.

I've got to stand up for Band on the Run.  I look around at all of us Massholes, and I'm the Massiest of them all.  But I don't even care.  I'm dancing.

The ballpark is abounding with lots of middle aged skanky types with bad Mass accents in tight Sir Paul baby tees.  Hubby has often remarked that this is one of the most foul accents a human could possibly possess.  Except for my Massachusetts accent, of course.  Because mine is nice.  Really.  He swears.

Back in the USSR!  Cue fog machine.  Go Sir!  After the song Paul remarks, in that impossibly impish way of his, "The USSR.  That doesn't even exist anymore."

How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?  His voice sounds great.  I bet my mother is going absolutely crazy.  Now a tough young broad is fighting with the old buck in front of us.  He tripped her (surprise, surprise), and she's getting right up in his grill.  Oh boy.  I hope this doesn't come to fisticuffs. 

Paul is playing a ucalayly he got from George.  Let's hear it for George!  I liked George, so I really woo woo!  He sings Something.  You're asking me will my love grow?  I don't know, I don't know...

Paul can really work a crowd.  As he bounces around I can still see traces of that moptop of yesteryear.  We can't see any of the photos they're flashing on screen, because our seats are kind of crap, but Paul tells us a lot of them were taken by Linda.

During I've got a Feeling, Hubby texts an old band mate and tells him Paul is rocking it.  Everybody in that band was so nice and groovy and thought Hubby and his horn were just the greatest things since sliced bread.  (They are, of course.)  I wish Hubby could find a band like that in Boston.  Sigh.

Sir pulls out his Les Paul.  He changes guitars a lot.  I drop my new ladies sunglasses just as Paperback Writer begins.  Crap!  It's too dark and I can't get at them.

I read the news today, oh boy...I sing along.  But I just had to look, having read the book...

All we are saying...is give peace a chance.  I heard him do this last night, so I already knew he was going to perform it.  Again, I wonder if Lennon is rolling over in his grave.  For a moment it sort of feels like we're disrespecting him so I don't sing along.

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me.  Shine until tomorrow, Let it be.  I have chills running up and down my spine during this number.  Paul plays the piano and I sing along.  It's effing awesome, Reader, and somehow I know everything that has been stressing me out as of late will be okay.  I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me...Speaking words of wisdom, let it be...

Live and Let Die.  Holy pyrotechnics!  Paul puts Axl's remake to shame.  Used to say live and let live...(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did...)

Hey Jude, don't make it bad, take a sad song, and make it better.  It feels as if Paul is singing directly to me.  And don't you know that there's just you, hey Jude, you'll do, the movement you need is on your shoulder...

I remember watching the Concert for New York on TV after September 11th, and Paul just went on and on with this one.  It's kind of turned into a running joke in our house.  But tonight I eat it up like so many Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzels.  Because it's pure genius.  I sing with abandon, at the very top of my lungs, and Hubby sings along using his rock star voice.  (Have I told you he has one of those sometimes?)  We sing the Na Na's forever but we keep doing it because Sir Paul is asking us to, for fuck's sake!

Paul is threatening to leave us.  But Hubby and I already know he'll do two encores because we heard him do so last night.  I still scream bloody murder.  She was a day tripper.  A one way ticket, yeah.  It took me sooooo long to find out, and I found out.  By this point I am unabashedly dancing and gyrating.  I cannot help myself.  The guitar player effs up slightly and McCartney glares at him.  I actually don't notice this but Hubby does, and points it out to me.

Lady Madonna, children at your feet.  Wonder how you manage to make ends meet?  Paul's back on piano.  He's so youthful!  I don't know how he does it.  "I believe you want more?" he asks us. 

"Well my heart went boom, when I crossed that room, and I held her hand, in my-eeeeeeeeen-eeeen!  I imagine my mother going hog wild, somewhere out there in the sea of faces.  I wish we were sitting together.

Is he really gone?  Last night he played until 10:30 and it's only 10:00!  Nah, he's back.  Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.  Now it looks as though they're here, to stay.  Oh, I believe, in yesterday.  Haven't we all felt like this at one time or another?  I sing along in my full child star voice.  Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be.  There's a shadow hanging over me.  Oh, yesterday came suddenly...

There's a dude sitting next to us and Hubby calls him The Craig's List Killer.  But he seems harmless enough to me.  "The next song is going to be crazy," he tells us.  I bet it will be, Craig's List!

Helter Skelter!  This song always kind of scared me.  But Paul rocks it.  Makes me think of college, when I should have been cast as Squeaky Fromme but never was.  When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide, where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride...

I'm really shaking my moneymaker now.  Full on jamming.  I am a sight to behold.  Get back, JoJo!  Go home! 

I love Sir Paul even though I read he didn't want Heather raising their child in the US because he didn't want her picking up a terrible accent.  I don't blame you, Sir Paul.  We yanks talk filthy.

NO WAY.  Sergeant Pepper's one and only Lonely Heart's Club Band!  We're getting very near the end.  I remember being little and asking my dad who the heck was Billy Shears?  He didn't know, but he told me he asked his mother the very same question when he was younger and Grandma didn't know, either. We didn't have Wikipedia back in those days.

Oh yeah!  Alright!  Are you gonna be in my dreams, tonight?  Wait for it...I know it's coming, because it's The End...

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make...

It's time for Paul to say goodbye.  It's nearly 10:30 and this 67 year old man has played two and a half solid hours of music.  Utterly amazing.  Hubby turns to me and yells, "That was fucking awesome!!  The man's a musical genius!!  Where are your sunglasses at?"

Beep beep, beep beep, yeah

At this very moment, from my living room, I can hear Sir Paul McCartney crooning "Baby you can drive my car."  (Okay, at first I thought he was singing "Back in the USSR," but then I stood in the bathtub and realized my error.)

I'm not sure Sir Paul would ever allow me to drive his car.  I'm not sure anyone would, for that matter; I'm a horrible driver.

In any case, come tomorrow night...I will be listening from inside the ball park!  Hubby scored tickets to tomorrow night's show at Fenway.  I can't wait.  xoxo

Just Beat It

In April 1984, the Easter Bunny hopped into our home and bestowed my sister and I with matching Thriller muscle tees.  It was the BEST EASTER EVER.

  

Over the course of his life, Michael Jackson touched a lot of people.  I couldn't believe the news when Sissy texted me today.  Wacko Jacko was...dead!  I decided to bring my MJ doll out for a special photo shoot to commemorate this sad occasion. 

 

 

 

Kittie, as you might imagine, is beyond devastated.  She was a regular at Neverland Ranch. 

  

Outside Fenway

On Saturday night, Hubby sat on the field at the Dave Matthews concert at Fenway Park.  I did not.  That doesn't mean I couldn't hear the music from my living room, however, and it also doesn't mean I wasn't highly entertained by the shenanigans taking place beneath my window. 

Fenway, Schmenway.  This is where the real show takes place!  I should charge admission.  We've got yer drunks, yer degenerates, hell, we've got it all!  If you're lucky, you'll even get a contact high.

The management company for my apartment building sometimes parks their van in the alleyway.  If I had a nickel for every boob that sparked up a joint behind this van, I'd be a very wealthy woman.  They think they're camouflaged, you see, but they are not.  The Odd Broad sees all.  (Actually, I'm pretty sure just about everyone can see them.)

Yesterday morning I woke up early and came into the living room to drink coffee and watch Paula Dean.  Instead, I was serenaded by two crackheads sharing a walkman.  This created a warm kind of ambiance.  Very relaxing.

Two nights ago there were dudes who looked old enough to be my father sparking up doobies.  It was a windy night, so they were having a little trouble.  I'm not going to lie, it was kind of sad.  (The van didn't hide them, either.)

Tonight is the Phish concert.  Need I say more?

If I thought Red Sox fans were irritating, I honestly had no idea.  Even now, as I type, a twenty something hipster kid is calling after a brunette wearing a purple dress and brown cowboy boots.  "Baby," he whines, "Baby, come here, wait, come back..."

I long to scream out, "Baby, just f***ing answer him, please!"  Sweet Baby Jesus, make it stop.

Now they're smoking behind the van.

It's all very amusing.  Until it's not.  And on that note, I shall retire to bed. 

Rental, Sweet Rental.  xoxo

PS: I wasn't kidding about the contact high.  Kittie just ordered a pizza.

A case of mistaken identity

Last night Hubby and I went to hear our friend Corey's band play at Church. 

I can be insecure.  I like to think it's part of my charm.  So when a husky, sturdy looking blond woman gave me a dirty look the minute we walked in, my initial thoughts were: Is my dress too short?  Why did I wear these leggings?  etc. and so on.  I had to be imagining it, right?  Because it did seem an awful lot like this woman wanted to...kill me.

Truth was, my outfit actually had very little to do with why she was giving me the evil eye.  She thought I was somebody else, you see.

"Oh, you know her, you know who SHE is," she slurred to the lead singer's girlfriend, who for her part looked absolutely mortified.  There was another woman standing next to them who looked a bit less hostile than blondie, but even more intoxicated.  She was celebrating her 43rd birthday and licked my hand when I put it out for her to shake.  What the?

It was pretty much the filthiest thing a stranger has ever done to me.  After I'd scrubbed up in the bathroom, more drama ensued.  The brawny blond was walking towards us again, saying something malevolent yet unintelligible.  This broad was two times my size and looked like she could do some real damage.   

When I went over to Hubby and informed him that two ginormous ladies wanted to beat me up, he looked at me like I'd lost my mind.  Surely I must be overreacting?  I felt like that old lady in Throw Momma from the train.  ("They're trying to kill me!")

I looked up at my husband with genuinely concerned eyes and reminded him that I don't really ask for much, (that made him chuckle), but at that moment I needed him to protect me from two strapping brutes who for some unknown reason wanted to hurt me. 

I'm not going to lie; I was outsized and a little terrified.  Hubby kept his arm around me for the rest of the evening, but at one point he had to hit up the men's room and warned me to watch my back. 

HA HA.  So funny I forgot to laugh.

Luckily for me, Blondie and her gentleman companion ended up getting into a brawl and were escorted out of the establishment.  I'm not really sure what happened to Licky McGee.  She was cutting a rug on the dance floor for a while and then all of a sudden she was gone. 

After the show, I found out from the lead singer that the women did indeed think I was somebody else, namely a girl, also brunette and dressed in black, who'd been putting her drinks on other people's tabs earlier that night.  He thought she may have been a hooker or something?

So apparently I looked like a prostitute.  (A prostitute wearing a dress from Ann Taylor Loft.  What the?)  But they really did want to clobber me!  It wasn't all a figment of my imagination!  What a relief.

The singer apologized and said his acquaintances (actually the wife of his boss and her friend) were ordinarily very nice people who'd simply had way too much to drink.  They'd attended the Yanks/Red Sox game at 4:00 and had spent the rest of the afternoon boozing it up while waiting for the show to begin.  I feel I should mention, the band didn't go on until midnight.  Hiccup.

It's quite possible that these folks are lovely, upstanding citizens, but let's face it, I'm just relieved they didn't bash my face in. 

I'm a writer, not a fighter!  xoxo

My plan was simple but inspired: two punk rock shows in five days.  And Reader, I have to admit, if I've been feeling oldish as of late, I certainly don't feel that way now. 

Tuesday night was Flogging Molly.  The tickets were a Christmas present from me to Hubby, though in the end his midterm projects nearly caused us to miss the show.  Indeed, it was 10:15 PM when he finally finished working and I came into the living room in my pajamas and suggested we walk over to The House of Blues.  It was all very punk rock.

We could still smell the fresh paint at The House of Blues.  I'm not going to lie, it had been the shittiest of days; I'd been trying to sell our concert tickets to no avail, at one point even going into McGreevy's where Flogging Molly was making a pre-show appearance!  No luck.  But I'm glad we went.  We stood next to a bunch of guys, one of them a clean cut middle aged man wearing a Pogue's shirt and a scally cap, with a couple of tattoos on his forearms.  His son looked about fourteen.  I noticed he was texting someone in the 603 area code so I figured they were from New Hampshire.  "Look!" I whispered into Hubby's ear, a little tipsy from my Pabst, "That'll be you someday!"

Hubby then remarked that taking your kids to punk shows was just one more thing that was wrong with New Englanders.  Oh dear.  It had been a really long week.  It wasn't long before both of us had relaxed a bit, though.  It ended up being the most fun I'd had in a long while.  And next up would be The Dropkick Murphy's.  My cousin Keely asked if I was planning to go onstage this time.  I'd been wondering that myself, actually.  I mean, seriously, wasn't I getting a bit too old for these shenanigans?  Had I crossed some imaginary numerical threshold, barring me from making a jackass out of myself?

"I'm not going onstage," I told Hubby.  "We've seen them three times already; I'll just relax and enjoy the music."  He didn't really believe me.

They were filming each of The Murphy's shows this past weekend for a special St. Patrick's Day dvd/cd.  There were cameras sweeping from the ceiling, it was all surprisingly high tech.  "They're gonna play our song" Hubby whispered.  "Maybe!" I enthused.  But I knew Ken Casey only sings it when his wife is in the audience. 

Initially we tried to stand in the same spot as last time.  And guess who we saw, leaning over the balcony?  The same crew from New Hampshire, with the dude and his son!  What were the odds?  It was way too crowded up there, though.  Later, when I remarked that maybe we should've stayed next to dad and junior, Hubby shook his head and said, "Nah, that guy kept farting last time!"

We ended up downstairs on the outskirts of the mosh pit, because after all, we're thirty.  Hubby does this endearing thing where he puts his arm around me and sticks out his elbows, jabbing anyone who comes too close to me.  It's all very "Edward Cullen".  (Yes, I'm totally reading Twilight.)  At one point I had to turn to him and shout, "Stop elbowing people in my honor!  I've been around a mosh pit or two before!"

Hubby was certain: "They're gonna play our song, babe."  By this time we were both pretty wasted.  I decided I might sneak in a trip to the ladies room before it got too late.  I was just making my way back through the crowd when I heard the bagpipes signaling the beginning to Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced.  And just like that, in the pit of my stomach, I knew what I had to do.  "I'm going onstage!"  I squealed up to Hubby. 

Time has turned me into a mother.  There I was, making my way through a sea of sweaty adolescents, yelling, "I'm trying to get onstage!"  That was all I needed to say, really, and they'd step aside and make room for me.  But this wasn't some crappy dive bar; by the time I reached the front a security guard who looked about eighteen shook his head and informed me and about five other girls that we couldn't get past.  What the?

It wasn't going to happen.  I made my way back through the stinky throng and found my husband.  "I can't get onstage!" I said, more than a little disheartened. 

"Ya, you can only get on if you go through the middle, I just noticed."

By this time the song was nearly over.  Reader, for five seconds I was honestly okay with it, watching the rest of the girls who'd made it onstage.  For those five seconds I even thought, there's a new generation up there, it's time for me to hang back, to enjoy from afar...

And then I came to my senses.  Who was I kidding, I wanted to be up there!  Thirty or not, I wanted to have fun just as much as the next idiot!  I'd tried.  There was something very comforting about the fact that at least I still had it in me.

"At least in Boston they know all the words," Hubby noted.  "Ya," I agreed, with just a hint of bitterness in my voice, "But this is the only song those girls know!"  The Odd Broad was back.  Perhaps she'd never even left.  I gave all those green-clad youngsters the finger, in time with the beat, just for good measure. 

They never played our song.  They did do a nice encore of Badlands, however, and another song with Dickie and the rest of The Mighty Mighty Bostones.  As we began our short walk home, we saw him outside the stage door smoking a cigarette. 

"Hey, Dickie!" Hubby called.

"Hey man, how ya doing?"

Hubby's rather fond of spontaneous celebrity shout outs.

I was feeling a little bummed out that I hadn't made it onstage.  Hubby was disappointed that they hadn't played Upstarts and Broken Hearts.  We'd never heard them play it live before, you see.  It wouldn't be until we were home that Hubby would tell me just why he'd been so certain that the Murphy's would play our special song. The one he'd played for me the day he left Boston for California, back in 1998.  The same one we'd played eight years later when we cut into our wedding cake.

He'd emailed the Dropkick Murphy's, he told me, two weeks beforehand, and asked them to play it. 

"You did that for me?" I asked, in disbelief.  Reader, he had.

"What did you say in the email?  Were you drunk at the time?"

"Maybe a little."

My blue eyed Scorpio then turned on his I-Tunes and played our song, and we listened, right there in our living room.  Sometimes I just love him so much that I can't even stand it.  Who needs a vampire boyfriend?  I've got my very own dreamboat. 

Below is the tune that makes me feel nineteen again: