hhr

I have a new car – a Chevrolet HHR. It might be the least sexy vehicle on the market, but I’m in love. As I was showing off my key fob with the electric lock and unlock-y buttons a co-worker welcomed me to the 1990s.

As much as I loved driving the truck, I was ready for a vehicle that I could take passengers and could stow things under cover. And not worrying if the tailgate was going to fall off was a big bonus.

I had a meltdown in May. I don’t know whether it was celebrating my birthday or the twelve days in a row of rain, but I decided to start thinking about a new car.

I remember the exact minute that I emotionally broke-up with the truck. It was the Monday after my birthday. I was lugging my thrift-store bowling ball its thrift-store bowling bag through the bowling alley parking lot. As I was heaving the ball into the back of the truck, I realized it had rained and there was a puddle in the bed of the truck but it was too late, momentum and stupid gravity had their way and I splashed MYSELF when the ball dropped on to the bed of the truck.

I burst into tears.

And wondered how in the Hell I’d gotten to be 49 years-old and driving a crappy truck and crying in a bowling alley parking lot across town with my fellow bowling league-rs giving me a wide berth. I’m the one that always bowls in a dress, not to mention rental shoes and thrift-store accessories. I don’t blame them for avoiding me. Heck, I was wishing I didn’t have to be around me.

I started thinking about a new vehicle. Thinking was the key word – I had to wrap my head around the idea of a new ride. As quick as I move in day-to-day life, I’m pretty pokey in making bigger decisions. I tend to keep jobs, boyfriends, winter coats and vehicles years past the expiration date.

I’m not so good at change.

I’ve had my eye on the HHR ever since it came out. I'd sat in one the last three years at the big Chevrolet display at the State Fair.  It looks like squished SUV or a station wagon on steroids. A cross between a gangster car and a milk truck - ironically it has storage for a machine gun and six quarts of milk. Which, incidentally is more storage than I have in my house.

On Tuesday I looked online and “my dealership” – I buy all of my cars there – one a decade! I’m surprised my name isn’t on a plaque in the lobby.

Anyway, they an HHR listed online, the right color, standard transmission and the sticker price was just under $20,000.

I submitted a loan application online. I’d rather be rejected via e-mail than in person. Of course they called to see if I had anything in mind. I tipped my hand by sending the link to the car I was looking at. The nice woman on the phone asked me if I wanted to come in that night. No way! I needed to process the idea.

I floated it past Dad and the other ‘union break’ guys on Wednesday. They didn’t believe that there was a vehicle available for under $20,000. And then they went back to eating doughnuts.

The dealership called again. Apparently they like to move faster than I do. I told them that I’d come in Thursday after work. Maybe.

I asked Dad to meet me there. I was freaked-out and sweaty and cranky, but calmed down once I walked in the door. I wonder what they pipe through the air in the dealership? I found Dad sitting next to a red convertible. He looked at right at home.

We were paired with a woman salesman (I know, you can’t be a woman and a salesman, but I’m one of those equal rights chicks that doesn’t get wigged-out by terms like that. I do want to poke eyes out when I see stuff like saleswomyn or whatever crap people do to avoid using the word ‘man’ Anyway, I’ve digressed – probably more than I ever have). Dad asked in a not-so-subtle whisper how much I thought she knew about cars. Dad thought, and I’ll admit, I did too, that they assigned a woman to me since I was one too.

As it turned out, she knew a lot and had been there for almost a dozen years. I like that she didn’t try to upgrade me or talk me into a fancier car. She grabbed the keys and off we went.

I drove while she and Dad discussed XM radio and she found the Broadway Tunes and the Catholic channels, the only two stations Dad listens too. I'd hazard a guess that he's the only person in that demographic. I had to interrupt them a couple of times to ask questions.

The HHR has about a million more features than the S-10. Power locks and windows and you can adjust the mirrors remotely. Back window wipers – intermittent, even! Airbags, cup holders and a display that shows miles per hour, average speed, miles per gallon and air pressure in each of the tires.

It has XM radio and a jack to plug in my iPod. If I had an iPod. It also has OnStar and hands free calling.

I was also pleased that it was a FlexFuel vehicle - meaning that it can run on E85. Political arguments aside, this farm girl still can't believe that anything can be powered by corn! I giggle when I fill the car with fuel!

And a backseat and four doors.

I was smitten.

But not ready to buy. Or so I thought. Next thing I knew I was discussing down payments, interest rates and the trade-in value of the truck. Akkk!

When we heard what they’d offer me for the truck I offered it to a friend via text. Unbeknownst to me, Dad was selling the truck via cell phone. Yep we both sold Old Blue.

Of course they wanted me to leave with the HHR and had an answer to all of my concerns: I needed to transfer money from savings to checking for the down payment. No worries, I could use a computer there to do it electronically. I don’t have my checkbook. Don’t you have an extra check tucked in your wallet? I needed to get the code number for Dad’s GM discount. Here’s the phone number and paper and pencil. I’m not sure I’m ready. Here, have a diet Pepsi and some popcorn and take a deep breath.
Boy, did they have my number!

And it really is a good deal between Dad’s discount and the GM points I’d built up on my GM card it was just over $13,000.

As I was signing the loan paperwork the loan dude asked if I needed help getting a vehicle home. He offered to follow me home and bring me back to the dealership to pick up the HHR. I thought he was just being nice and customer service-y.

Then he asked if I wanted to go for a drink when I came back to get the new car. I joked that I probably shouldn’t drive the first miles with a beer under my belt. Then it occurred to me that he might be asking me out.

Of course, I got all blushy and weird.

He knew my age and financial situation. Heck, that’s half the battle. As we chatted I figured out that he was age appropriate and single and social. Woo hoo. He started telling me more about himself. Two kids, one grandchild (yes, that’s what age-appropriate looks like now). Ten years in the military after high school. So far so good.

He was living with his Mom. Temporarily, of course. Teeny red flag, but I ignored it.

Then he bragged about how he liked everything neat and orderly. Didn’t even like foil on things in the fridge, he liked to be able to see everything when he opened the door.

Sigh.

If you’ve ever met me, you know that I build a nest wherever I go. I like to think of it as charming, but I’m not the neat and orderly type. Everything might have its place; I just don’t always feel the need to get it there.

I might not have met Prince Charming, but I do love my new carriage.


[Loan guy did come to the Red Key to visit that next Saturday, but the initial spark had faded. Or he took one look at my waitressing station]

hanging on my ear

I feel guilty about all of the unwritten blog posts that are floating around in my head. As I was cooking burgers at the Red Key last night, I realized that they were "hanging on my ear." Chances are they won't get written. 

I have been writing my ever-shrinking ass off (26 pounds lost - 4 to go). You can read all about the music and stuff here: QueenBeeMusic. 

I've also been working on the house. I'm trying to keep things clean and tidy. My old ways of writing in a nest of books, papers and Twizzler wrappers are gone. It is hard work to keep up! I've also sorted though all of my clothes - some to a resale shop, some to Dress for Success, some for a yard sale and some had to be pitched. I had a pretty impressive concert tee shirt collection, but years of waiteressing in them have taken its toll. I can't believe how emotional I got about tossing some of them. 

I've also vowed not to walk out of the house looking like crap. I'm obsessive about brushing my teeth, but not so much my hair. I'm working on applying makeup somewhere besides the rear view mirror.  In the last month I've worn a scarf as an accessory (not just to keep my neck warm or cover up a coffee stain), worn something besides big silver hoops in my ears and necklaces other than my beloved John Travolta (Sweathog years, not Scientology). And in the biggest fashion news: I WENT SHOE SHOPPING! 

Thanks to Kristi's Christmas generosity, I made my first trip to DSW. It was totally overwhelming. I'm glad she went with me or I'm sure I would have run screaming from the store. 

Here are the shoes that I got with the gift certificate, they are darker than they appear in this photo - a lovely brownish-ivory color. And yes, that is a leg lamp in the background. I said I was keeping the house clean, nothing about classy!

In my new found quest of self-improvement I fell for some fancy skincare creams. "Look younger! Smooth lines!" Ha! I broke out so badly that my face puffed up (yeah, that smoothed those lines right out) and I my face was covered in tiny blisters (looked like teenage acne, so yeah, younger) and had to get a prescription for magic make-things-better cream. 

I've also been making myself separate myself from work a little bit. I realized that I was at the dangerous point of wrapping my identity up with my job. I've been making myself stop on the way home from work and do something - be it a bowl of soup at the News Cafe, dinner at Yat's or a trip to the grocery store. Something to create a division between work and home. It seems to be working. 

All of this self improvement has brought some excitement too. The boys seem to be noticing. Nothing close to a date, but fun stuff. For the first time since Joey Ramone gave me a nod in 1983, a musician openly flirted with me on-stage. Lose weight, wear a mini-skirt and cowboy boots, throw a camera over your shoulder and next thing you know you're on a tour bus. 

I need to work on my technique from there. Chattering nervously about how we listened to the band while touring Ireland and that we drove through their hometown singing their songs at the top of their lungs was probably not the most impressive thing I could have done. Here is the review and photos from the show.

See you soon!

*blush*

[I can't figure out the sizing thing. Click on the comix to see the whole thing, including the groovy flower background]

Thanks to Wayne and Kim!

commute

On the way to work this morning there were cars on the ramp above, by the time I came home the whole road was gone.

I don't have a horrible drive to work. It generally takes me about twenty minutes, unless I leave twenty minutes before I'm supposed to be there (8:00)- then it takes twenty-five.

In my working career I've had commutes ranging from an hour and a half to three blocks. I have a love/hate relationship with my vehicle. I'd be happy never to drive again, yet I'd hate not to have a car available. I've never cared about having a new fancy car, just that it ran well. One look at my current ride- 2002 Chevy S-10 truck would convince you of that.

They were working on the closest intersection to Second Helpings and the street in front of the building was closed for two months. It really wasn't that bad, the detour was only around the block, occasionally you'd get stopped by a train on the way to work, but nothing to fuss about really.

But fuss, some of our neighbors did.

I loved the whole road construction project. The moved an intersection --in only two months! That is amazing to me. I was happy to share our driveway for access and to let them park machines in our parking lot at night. In turn they fixed holes in our parking lot and patched a place in the sidewalk...oh, and we got a brand new street! A good deal, I think.

I had people telling me that I "shouldn't be so nice," that it was not our problem.

The point of this whole messy rambling post is: we need to be partners in the improvements we want in our city, or any where. Not that my contribution to the project was big, but by being a good neighbor the business next to us had access, the whole street could be repaired at once and they didn't have to drive the equiptment too far (wasting time and gas) to store it.

Phew, and I call myself a bleeding heart liberal.

*********
Side story (and I always have a side story) - I called our HVAC folks to schedule our quarterly maintenance last month. When they went up there to change fliters, check belts and grease what ever needs greased they discovered that some one had been on the roof messing around. Most of the screws holding the covers on the units had been loosened (we have eight heating units and almost as many A/C units up there, plus motors for the hoods over the ovens). It looked like someone had done prep work for stealing the units, or at least the valuable copper. I was sure it was because the street was closed and they could work all night with no one driving by.

I had the HVAC guys tighten everything back up - with as much power as their electric tools had. I stayed late several nights the next couple of weeks. I was determined to catch the person on the roof. I even had a plan. I'd knock their ladder down and then call the police.

One night I felt the whole building shake and lots of noise. The time had come! I ran outside with my phone - 9 and 1 already punched in, waiting to push the other 1, a flashlight and my keys. I decided that I should probably drive down the block after I knocked the ladder over. I shakily walked around the whole building, no ladder. I walked to the front of the building only to discover they were steamrolling the fresh asphalt, causing the building to shake.

I felt like a big asphalt. I was just glad I had no witnesses.

khaki pants and no shirt - all for wilco

I'm a big Wilco fan. And Uncle Tupelo before that. I've seen Wilco at least six other times.

I'm also a big fan of Emergent Leadership Institute. I've been donating my NUVO writing earnings to them. ELI matches high school and college students with volunteer opportunities and they do an excellent job.

One of the projects they've been doing this summer is gathering the recycling after big concerts. I decided the Wilco show was a great time for me to volunteer with them.

The added bonus is that you're in the venue early enough for sound check and sometimes the bands come out and meet the volunteers.

The dress code for the volunteers is khaki pants or shorts and a yellow ELI shirt.

I only have three fashion rules:

No khaki

No yellow

No accessories bigger than my breasts (that cuts out a lot more than you'd think).

I mentioned that I didn't have khaki pants and was told that you could buy them at Wal-Mart. Ummm, not helping the cause any. I was not going to potentially meet Jeff Tweedy while wearing khaki pants - I just couldn't!

I realized the goofiness of the situation. I didn't mind the band and a ton of my friends seeing me pick cans out the trash, but I wouldn't be caught dead in khaki pants.

I remembered that I had a pair of light brown Capri pants and decided they were close enough.

I still had to wear the yellow shirt. I listened to sound check with my Tonic Ball tee shirt on. Before the gates opened there were only a few people milling around. I walked down a little hill and ducked behind a tree and pulled the Tonic shirt over my head. I turned as I was putting the yellow shirt on and realized that I was standing right in front of the little building where the band was eating dinner.

I panicked and scrambled back up the hill. Had I stopped and thought for a few seconds I think I would have had enough nerve to poke my head in the building and say hello. I had a copy of the review I'd written about their last show in my non-khaki pants pocket that I would have loved to get signed.

And, in retrospect if I'd ever thought about what I might do if I stumbled in to Wilco's green room taking my top off might have been on the list.

The Lawn is a great venue and it was a beautiful night. The show was great. Read the Indianapolis Star's David Lindquist's review here.

I actually enjoyed the volunteer job. Most of the work was after the show, so I was able to walk around - dozens of my friends were there and watch the show.

Our task was to grab the cans and bottles from the trash - there were recycling bins right next to the trash cans, but apparently it is hard for folks to figure out.

It took me a while to get the technique. I kept using the grabber thingie to lean on when I reached in to the trash to grab the recycling out. I finally got the hang of the grabber. Stick your fingers in enough goo and you figure it out pretty quickly.

Our real task was after the show. We attacked the lawn with bags and grabbers. It went surprisingly fast. In a hour the place was picked up and dozens of bags of recycling were carted off.

Who knew that I would have so much fun picking through trash?

election day accessories

In case anyone missed it, there was a presidential primary election in Indiana today. It was very exciting for me, I've been an election junkie for years. I voted in my first presidential election in 1980 in the basement of my dorm at Purdue. I was one of the few people in the country that voted for incumbent Jimmy Carter.

I'm pretty sure that I've voted in every primary and general election since then. In the last dozen years or so, I've focused much of my political attention on the local and state elections. I study the candidates, and unlike most of my friends I can tell you what the part of our world they control.

Lots of groups have their hand in our property tax pie. It was easy to blame the high property taxes on our mayor, but he did not have as much control as say, the school board or the library board. Not surprisingly after our new mayor was inaugurated, he announced that he could not lower property taxes like he promised. Well, duh - I could have told him that!

Anyway, even before I was interested in politics, I was interested in accessories.

I bought this plastic belt in 1976 at the Danner's Store in Lebanon. I know that I wore it in my punk rock days. It was retired for decades and I've worn on election day for the last ten years. I laugh that I've managed to lose any piece of valuable jewelry, but the Vote belt has survived time, travel and accidents....

Until today.

I attended a Guild luncheon today. As I've mentioned before, I feel very self conscience around the women in the Guild. Everyone is super nice to me, but I always feel like a bull in a pen full of hens. A little awkward and afraid I'll step on something. Everyone else is so dainty and well put together.

You know where this story is going, don't you?

I got up to give my report, and someone mentioned that I'd written about the Book and Author event in my Gazette column. I was blushing as I remembered that I'd also written that before I joined the Guild, I thought you had to be blond and live in the suburbs. At that moment a plastic ring on the belt broke and the whole thing went flying across the floor. Any idea how loud plastic and metal sounds on a hardwood floor when the blood is rushing to your ears?

Next time I'll wear a pastel linen pants suit like everyone else.



After the luncheon I stopped at my polling place. The public school that I vote in has three precincts voting in one room. I was greeted with a chorus of "Hi Nora, How's Second Helpings?, When is the new grocery store opening? How is (Red Key) Russel? Hey, where's your belt?"
I signed the book, checked the box for what ballot I wanted and was asked for my ID. No problem.

Indiana has a voter ID law, that was upheld by the Supreme Court last week. You need to show a valid, state or Federal issued ID to vote.

Except it was a problem. I'd tucked my driver's licence in my shorts when I walked the Mini Marathon. I'm sure it was still in the pocket, lodged in the tiny laundry chute, halfway to the basement.

I had to got back home. Thought about retrieving the should-have-been-washed three days ago shorts, grabbed my passport instead, and went back to vote.

I did get exit polled for the first time ever.

Okay, I'm off to watch the returns.

keys

We had a Board Retreat yesterday. If you've ever been part of a Board Retreat, you know it is a damn good idea to serve food and booze when it is over.

I offered to supply the drink part of the equation - I had lots of leftover beer and wine from the party.

I left the Chardonnay and beer in my truck (nature's cooler). I clanked three bottles of Cabernet in to the meeting with me. When the flip chart taped to the wall portion of the meeting started, I decided it was a good chance to run down (five flights of stairs) to get the other libations. I took my keys, hauled the goodies back upstairs and slipped back to the meeting. I just set my keys on the table I was sitting at.

Several of the board members and my CEO already think I'm a little quirky. Between bites of cheese and sips of wine I got lots of questions about the Red Key and my columns. I was assuring them that I had time to do it all. No problem, really.

When it was time to pack up (just once I want to go somewhere with out hauling something) my keys were no where to be found.

Great, just want I needed - to look flighty and irresponsible. I was really ticked off, but trying to stay calm and nonchalant. Which is hard, in the face of such brillent questions like: "What do they look like?" "Where did you leave them?" "Are you sure you had them today?"

I caught a ride home to grab my spare set. Luckily, I had someone looking at my bathroom that day, so I'd left keys hidden for him.

I really started freaking out the next morning realizing what was on the ring- keys to Second Helpings and the lock box, keys to Marigold, keys to the truck, keys to my house and keys to my tenant's house. Not that I was worried about anyone breaking in, but what a pain that would be to replace them.

I walked through the parking lot of the venue the next morning and ran in to see if they'd been found. No luck.

I got a call that afternoon. Someone had turned them in- apparently someone had picked them up and stuck them in their pocket. I'll be looking for guilty faces at the next board meeting.

birdy's christmas party (holiday party #15)

Birdy's hosts live original music seven days a week, so I spend a good chunk of time there. I was having so much fun at Marty-Gras that I arrived at the club just a litte too late. I got to hold the door open for one of my favorite musicians as he carried his amp out.

I did get there in time to sit on Santa's lap. My friend Otis had played the role of Santa for years, but he's in Europe wrapping up a tour. Here I am convincing punk-rock Santa that I've been a good girl this year.

I did get to hear the last band, it was made up of musicians from several different groups. Here is Tom E. We grew up in the same church and my mom taught him religious education classes.

I was disappointed not to hear more music but I got to catch up with a friend that was in town visiting. He and his girlfriend are newly engaged and it was fun to ohh and ahh over the ring.

I stayed there way too late for being scheduled to deliver a 7:00 am talk the next morning...technically it was already the next morning. I didn't drive to the club and had more drinks than I typically do. I'm hyper-conscience about my drinking. I realize that I'm in charge of myself -- I am the one responsible for getting myself home safely. I also don't want the reputation of being the drunkard music journalist - or the drunken 40-something single woman prowling the bars. But having a designated driver, being a little nervous and giddy I had that one whiskey too many.

I got an early Christmas gift when the phone rang early in the morning and my talk was cancelled. I also got to experience what a friend of mine calls a "paranoid hangover." The oh-my-goodness-what-did-I-say/do-last night feeling of dread. Not that I cannot remember the whole evening, but I was still worried about it. A friend pointed out, that even at my most obnoxious I'm still nicer and more polite that 98% percent of the people that she knows. I guess those White Gloves and Party Manners classes 40 years ago are paying off.

but your boobs look really good

...was the nicest thing that was said about my bowling game.



The scores for my threes games: 85, 86, 86.
The score for my top: 2 thumbs up.
I can joke about that, since no one ever says things like that to me. When I tried the top on at Marigold, the woman I was working with said "not good, you look like you're all boobs."
Which made me run to get my check book.

Today was the annual Red Key vs. Just Judy's bowling tournament. Judy's is a bar down the street from the Red Key.
This is the first year that I've played, and it just might be the last time they invite me.
think the last time I bowled I lived in New Jersey, so that was at least a dozen years ago.

I did have fun. The teams were made randomly by the bowling alley. My team consisted of the Posh Petals girls and my accountant. For the record, it was the Posh girls that made the boobs comment, not my accountant.



From there I went to a house concert. Tim Grimm and his wife Jan Lucas-Grimm were playing. I really like Tim's music. He's a actor, hay farmer, singer. He and his wife moved back to Indiana to live on his near his grandparent's farm. He sings of the land, neighbors and family. Cliff and Jerry, I think that you would really enjoy him. Speaking of that I talked to Jerry while he was driving the tractor today.

Ding! The timer just went off -- I set it for fourteen minutes.

Good night!

one, two buckle my shoe

(new Chuck Taylor's Melody Inn

Clash Tribute show)

I've been told that I "think well on my feet," that I can "stand on my own two feet."

I've always relied pretty heavily on my feet -- maybe a little more than my brain.

(pink Converse, Lockerbie Pub
Amy Lashley's going away show)

Walking to kindergarten when we lived "in town", skipping up the steps to the public library, running to the school bus on the farm, walking down rows and rows of soybeans with gloves and a hoe, working as a nurse's aid through high-school and college, standing in the corner of dark clubs listening to music, rollerblading through Philadelphia, wandering the streets of New York City, standing in front of an espresso machine, waitressing, making countless trips from my desk to the production kitchen and dock, running to meetings and chasing my niece and nephew these feet have done me well.

(Born sandals, Upper Room
Middletown show)

They aren't particularly pretty, but not bad either. Average size, right number of toes and one big scar. I'm not especially nice to them -- some days I'll spend 12 hours on my feet. I have not soaked them since the time AVS made me a foot bath from a pickle bucket and Epsom salts and I've never had a pedicure.

I am the queen of sensible shoes --dansko, Born, Seibel, Frye boots and Converse tennis shoes. I'm thrilled to see the rounded toe coming back in to style. Not that I have any pointy toe shoes anyway.

I also seem to take an extraordinary number of photographs of my feet. Most of them are born from clumsiness. I'll be talking with my hands and accidentally snap a photo. Lately I've been taking pictures of my feet to test the light and make sure I have every thing right with the camera before I stick it in a musicians face.

(dansko Mary Jane's, Melody Inn
D**g St**nh*pe show)

I took the one above on purpose. I was reviewing a Showtime comedian that was performing in a music club last week. I was tucked in to a little entry way that is just a few feet from the stage. The show was hosted by an old boyfriend. We dated when I was 21 and were a cute little punk-rock couple. He was my first real boyfriend. He played guitar in a popular punk band and drove an old motorcycle. Boy did he make my parents nervous, as they should have been.

Anyway, fast forward 25 years and I'm standing next to him in a tiny space between the door and the stage. The comedian was R-17 rated (at least in my prudish mind) and the crowd consisted of 75 guys and a handful of women. It is uncomfortable hearing raunchy jokes standing next to someone that you had, um, yeah, um, lets say "taken a nap" with.

The comedian launched in to a bit about the first person he'd ever tried to take a nap with -- her name was Nora. This caused about a dozen guys to whoop and point to me (and, no I had not taken a nap with any of them). The comedian took this as encouragement to go on with this Nora diatribe. The pointing continued. The comedian looked at me and started on a rant about preteen boys and middle aged women, while pointing at me. I was horrified and started to feel woozy. I looked down at my feet and snapped the photograph. That caused the audience to laugh and I fled.

Here is a much happier foot photograph:

(pink Converse, my backyard)

[I don't know why the spacing got all strange, but trying to fix it is causing me to stamp my feet.]

baby, baby or i think he loves me part 2

Any punk rocker worth their Doc Martens is a fan of the Vibrators.

The band formed in 1976 -- which was lifetime ago.
I think that band years are like dog years.
One actual year equals seven in the music world.



I finally got to see the band -- or what is left of it.
Knox is the only origional member.



I loved every second of it. I got to chat with Knox before the show started --meeting a punk rock idol with a charming British accent, of course I was all blushy and weird. I did not help that when I tried to buy a button from their merch table, he gave me the button and tried to convince me to purchase a pair of thong panties with the Vibrator logo instead.



The crowd consisted of aging punk rockers and young skateboarders.

I will say that I've aged better than a lot of my peers. I think being such a nerd has finally paid off.I was always too chicken to try drugs and too shy for getting in to too much trouble with boys.
There is a certain local musician that I've liked for 25 years at the show. I stood next to him while the band was playing. I can write great reviews of his music, but become tongue tied when it comes to an actual conversation.



The exchange:
DL: Hello Nora. Good to see you. I like your hair.
NS:[looking at her 20 year old biker boots] Umm, thank you.
DL: Do you have a favorite Vibrators song?
NS: Umm, Troops of Tomorrow and Baby,Baby is fun too.
DL: Good choices
NS: Umm, okay, see ya later.

I'm glad to see that something things have not changed in 25 years. I'm still the queen of awkward conversations.
Yep, I need flirting lessons.

hello

I've started and not quite finished a few posts, I will get to them soon.
I've also been busy, even by my liberal standards.
An evening meeting was cancelled and I didn't get the message.
The missed communication landed me in a coffeehouse with wireless access.
Perfect. I'm giving myself permission to catch up on reading blogs.

Today was my typical chock-full of activities day.
I was at work at 8:00 this morning, after leaving at 10:30 last night.
I spent a restless night wondering if I was being slowly poisoned by a gas leak -- the gas main in front of my house was cut yesterday and I told the gas guy I could light my own pilot lights.
Famous last words.




I had the great pleasure of speaking to a group of visiting Kyrgyzstani students this morning. They are all interested in economic development and are in the States for a month and are studying at IUPUI.

Second Helpings is hard to explain on a good day.
Throw in the language barrier (I spoke through an interpreter) and the cultural differences and it gets even dicier. In Kyrgyzstan most business is government owned and non-for-profit agencies don't exist.
The idea of volunteering is unheard of, as is the idea of funding a project through individual donations (less than 1% of our budget is from public funds or government grants).
There were lots of questions about fundraising and having a voice in our government. I was trying to explain networking and the role of lobbyists.

The Kyrgyzstani's also take care of their own people, the sick and elderly are taken care of by their families. The students could not believe there were people living on the street. "Where is their family?" They cannot believe that American's throw out 25% of the usable food supply. It is a hard statistic to tell and swallow.

The students all treated me like a rock star. Each one had their photograph taken with me and several video-recorded the talk.
I joined them for lunch afterward. They are all very cosmopolitan and much more fashionable than me. We talked about music. It was fun to grab a NUVO from the university lunchroom and show them my byline.

The next speaker was my friend from the Department of Agriculture. I told the students I was off to 'network' and whispered the story of the spilled drink and my subsequent skirt mopping to the interpreter. As I re-introduced myself to Mr. Ag there was a big burst of laughter from the students. I just shrugged my shoulders -- crazy college kids.

I'm glad to know that I can blush in any language.

applesauce

These are strange things to admit to -- I like to help people move and I kind of enjoy giving people first aid.
Of course, I'd be happy to never do either thing again.
Last week the two things converged in to one goofy evening.

I have three things going for me in the moving category.

#1. I am freakishly strong.
#2. I'm good natured.
#3. I have a truck.

I also have three things in my favor in the first aid category.

#1. I was a certified EMT back in the day.
#2. I'm not squeamish.
#3. I'm unflappable.

I will go months at a time without helping people move or applying a band aid.
As with all things when it rains, it pours. My friend Matt (of the nice suit) moved this week and needed my help moving a sign. A sign that we may or may not have rescued (under the cover of night) from the side of a building that was recently torn down. I told Matt I could help him any evening.

So instead, I helped Mom move stuff twice last week. She is doing a remodeling project that involves the water being turned off and everything out of the garage. She's also moving out of her work office. I called Tammy to help the second day. Mom purchased a giant butcher block table at a store-that-shall-not-be-named. That store and their employees were most unhelpful. We wound up borrowing a cart from the lovely folks at Pottery Barn. They were very generous to loan it to us fifteen minutes before they closed to haul something that we did not purchase there. When we got back to snotty-attitude-store the guy looked at us and asked "Who's going to help you?"
He did not like my answer. He was complaining that the cart was too small, the table was too heavy, blah blah.
I can not convey in words how little patience I have for that crap. I gave him a look that must have stirred something in him. He helped lift the table on to the cart. And I restrained my urge to "accidentally" knock stuff over as I was dragging the table through the store.
A nice guy in the parking lot helped us lift it in to my truck. I was able to back the truck close to mom's front door (we had to move a heavy iron gate to do it). I measured the table, the doors and the hallway and determined that we could get it in to the kitchen.
Tammy and I somehow got the table off of the truck.
She mentioned that she was wearing the wrong shoes for the job.
That, of course was all fate needed.
The table slid over the top of her foot, slicing a nice gash on the top of her foot. She had the good sense to stagger to the tile floor and not bleed on the hard woods. I used bottled water to clean off the wound and applied pressure. I got Tammy's foot elevated and the bleeding slowed down.
That is when Mom kicked in to action, reached in the fridge and offered Tammy a cup of applesauce. That is Mom's comfort food. If the going gets rough offer applesauce --I declared applesauce the official snack food of the Spitznogle/Cothron nuptials, because anytime things got stressful Mom would bust out the applesauce.

In between trying to clean the blood off of Tammy's foot with cotton balls and bottled water and applying pressure I remembered that a cute single guy lives behind mom. I made Mom call Mike (he is a nice man, we're the same age, both Catholic. I'm surprised that my parents have not arranged a marriage), he arrived to find a table wedged in the front door, two blood streaked women laughing hysterically and Mom holding a six pack of applesauce.
I think that scene effectively insured that Mike will never ask me out.

We got the table in moved in to the kitchen and Mike fled in to the night.

busy busy

Thursday night brought more music, Friday was the MKNA Twilight party followed by a trip to a club to hear even more music.
I have lots of writing to do...and its all due tomorrow!

I worked at the Red Key tonight and donated all of my tips to a customer/friend that is battling cancer.
As with too many people, he has no health insurance. The Red Key declared it "Don Weaks Day" and raised a significant amount of money.

For this week's edition of the "person that I felt weird waiting" on...the director of the department of agriculture of our state was in with some folks after the governor's ball.
Six good looking people in black tie attire plus one tired stained tee shirt and skirt wearing damp and frizzy haired from taking trash out in the glorious rain waitress equals hi-jinx and hilarity.

Mr. Ag is a big fan of Second Helpings.

Does one --
A: Re-introduce herself?
B: Bring the drinks and say nothing?
C: Trip and spill a drink on their table. Introduce herself while mopping it up with the hem of her skirt, so nothing gets on their fancy clothes?

Ding ding ding.
If you guessed "C" you're right.
It was a good way to break the ice.

I'm off to take a shower, gotta wash this night right out of my hair...and the gin right out of my skirt.

balance

Since my last post can be filed under the "ewwewh" column, I thought I tell you about the person that I was honored to talk to yesterday.

Rosevelt Colvin played football (and basketball) for Broad Ripple High School and graduated with honors in 1995. He played football and got a degree from Purdue. I got to see him play for Purdue several times, including the 1998 Alamo Bowl. He was drafted by the Bears and now plays for the Patriots.
He does lots of charity work for the NFL but wanted to do something for the Indianapolis public schools.

His first annual "5 on 5 Hoops Tournament" is June 23 and 24. The proceeds will benefit Broad Ripple High School's athletic program and provide scholarships for two 2008 graduates. His mom just retired after 40 years in the school system.

I was trying to think of interesting, atypical questions. Mostly I just stammered and blushed. I asked him about his high school basketball career, what position did he play? "Power foreward --I was the tallest, thickest guy on the team." That made me laugh.

Mr. Colvin is proud of his mama and was a pleasure to talk to.

i like boys

I’ve never been a goal setter, which might explain why I’m single, 46 and just now buying my first house.
One thing that I’ve always had in the back of my mind was to be a “writer” -- whatever that is. The fact that I now get to write for two publications just blows my mind.

I write a regular column, “Buzzing Around Town” for the Broad Ripple Gazette about music. I have been doing this for about a year and a half and I love every second of it. The column is more observational than critical, so I get to be my usual goofy self. Some of my blog posts have make it in to the column. The BRG is a community, family newspaper. BRG often “scoops” the bigger papers on community issues.

I’ve been writing music previews for NUVO for six months. NUVO a weekly arts, entertainment and social justice paper. They are more provocative. The pieces I write for them are third person profiles of upcoming music. My niche for NUVO is singer/songwriters, folk musicians and under-the-radar sorts of stuff. I’ve always been a fan of NUVO and am honored to write for them – and not just ‘cause they pay me. Leslie Benson is the new music editor and she has done a tremendous job of expanding the music coverage. She will send me an e-mail asking if I want to write something and include the deadline and any information that she has. If the musician has mailed a promo pack to the NUVO office she’ll forward it to me.

I’ve been super busy at work. Leslie e-mailed me last week to see if I wanted to write about Fr*dr*ck *ord (I don’t want to make his name Google-able). Without reading the bio she sent me, I told her I’ve love to. I clicked on the name of the musician’s publicist to set up a phone interview. I told the publicist my phone number and a good time to reach me. I didn’t think about it again until about 10 minutes before I expected the call.
I clicked on FF’s Website and just about fainted.
His first love is music (electronica /dance), but his career is made on g*y p*rn. Holy Crap!
I ran and put on another layer of clothes.
I had my legs crossed, eyes closed and I blushed throughout the whole conversation.

I often think that people must wonder about my sexual orientation. After all, I’ve never been married and am fairly capable. A good number of the women musicians I write about are l**b**ns. I was joking with my friends that the FF piece would really make people wonder.

I went to the Indianapolis Indians day game yesterday. My brother and some of his friends joined me at the Red Key. I grabbed a NUVO to see how the piece turned out. Beer came out of my nose when I saw it. It has a rainbow banner over it.

No wonder I never get asked out.

tuesday night all stars

Back in the day, I worked three nights a week at the Red Key, every Monday, Tuesday and Saturday.

Tuesdays were my favorite for several reasons, the biggest being the Tuesday Night All Stars.
The TNAS are a group of guys who play basketball September-May.
They were always fun to wait on and very generous to me.
They are genuinely nice men.
More often than not their conversation centers around their wives, children and work.
They talk about weddings and impending births.
Of course, they'd be mad if they knew that I was spilling their manly secrets.

This year they made me a "woman's auxiliary member" and invited me to the year end banquet (FOUR kinds of pizza, paper plates and napkins!).
I brought a cake that looked like a basketball and had the TNAS logo.
They gave me an official tee shirt.
I admit to having a crush on them as a group, a very appropriate-I-know-most-of-them-are-married-and-I-don't-want-to-date-them-but-like-hanging-out-with-them-kind-of-way.
Maybe that is why I was blushing so furously when I ran in to two of them and their wives at church on Sunday.

tan lines

I did something last night I thought I'd never do, let alone admit to.

I got a spray tan.

I know the owner of the spray tan joint socially.
I ran in to her at an event last week, where my blindingly pale legs and arms announced my arrival.
My heritage is German and Irish, neither one known for dark coloring.
I have the classic "black Irish" look -- dark hair, blue eyes and light skin.

I am also conscience of skin care and cancer prevention.
My mom had a precancerous place removed from her skin.

Have you even taken one of those skin cancer screening quizzes?
One of the red-flag questions is: Have you ever had a bad sunburn?
Answer: Yep, at least three times a summer between 1967 and 1989.
Pulling weeds in the soy bean fields caused the most memorable ones.
My siblings and I would compare burns, they became a badge of honor.
I did the typical sitting in the sun during my high school and college years.

Now I'm the queen of sunscreen.
I automatically put on 30 SPF lotion as part of my morning routine.

All of this led to me getting "sprayed" last night.

The process reminds me of the airbrush tee-shirt booth at the State Fair.
Except you are mostly naked.

You are put in a little room that has a big shower stall looking room in it.
You are given a hair net, paper sandals and paper panties.
I chose to keep on my own underwear.
You then put on a robe and flip a switch to let the the woman know that you are ready.
The spray tan artist (I'm not sure what she was called, I was too busy being mortified to pay attention to titles) takes you in to the tile room, you take off your robe and she starts spraying.

You think this is all bizarre enough?
In order to give you an even tan, you have to do things like stick your arms out in different poses, turn sideways and, um...bend over.
Did I mention that I know her?
And she's 22 and I'll be 46 tomorrow.
And I'm mostly naked?
Except for my Target undies, hair net and paper sandals?
She's lovely and is an Americorp/VISTA volunteer and this is her part-time job.
I'll never cringe about my waiting on someone that I know professionally at the Red Key again.
(I just realized that I take working in the non-profit field and having a part-time job for granted)

I don't follow instructions very well, like the "don't touch anything when you're getting dressed."
I have a hand print on my belly.
My almost 46 year old belly.
That was sprayed by a youngster with no belly.

At least I have a glowing tan to hide my red cheeks.