Category: It’s all about me

Ten years on

September 11, 2011 · Leave a comment ·

September 11, 2011

Ten years.

It takes less than ten seconds for me to travel back to the fear, uncertainty and sadness that was September 11, 2001. Fish was 17 months old. A week after the attacks I sat down and began a journal entry for her. I wasn’t faithful to journalling at that time. Running a small web-design business and raising a toddler kept me away from my words, but I couldn’t NOT write. I emptied my head and my heart for about 8 pages, piecemeal, over the next month.

Ten years later, Fish is 11, smart and a sponge who loves to suck up knowledge. She craves details. She knows about the journal and I’m debating sharing it with her this year. It took me a while to locate the box with the canvas bound journal in the attic, but I knew I’d never have thrown it away.

The writings are addressed to her specifically. I talk about where I was when it happened. I walk her through the first few hours of the aftermath. Detailing with whom I spoke, and what I was seeing and hearing on the television.

I tell her about what happened as we knew it at that time. Some of my information is inaccurate, I quote a death toll of over 5,000. It would later be reduced to just over 3,000.

Some things I got right even then.

Reading my words, it all comes rushing back to me. The fear, the tears and the overwhelming sense of sadness. The feeling we as a country had been violated and had taken a turn for the worse. I’m not sure she’ll have the same reaction when she reads it. I suspect down the road after she has more life experience she’ll be able to better identify with my emotions.

We’ve discussed the events of 9/11/01 and even visited the Pentagon Memorial. Still, to Fish and Mim, it will always be history. Part of me would like to keep it that way. It was such a horrible experience, let it lie flat on the page of a history book. Making it real for them, to me means an end to their innocence. And yet, much of the state of our economy and foreign policy can be tied back to the events of that day. If they are to be educated citizens of the world, it is our job as parents to help them to understand what happened, why it happened and what the long term effects have been. My words do not equate to an academic analysis, but they are snapshot of the time.

I pray she and her brother NEVER have to experience anything close to 9/11, yet I know for that to happen, we as a country have to be educated and diligent.

September 11, 2011, we will never forget.

The First Day of School

September 9, 2011 · Leave a comment ·

Alternately Titled: How I Lost my Mother Of The Year Award

Fish is not a morning person. Actually, that’s not true, once awake, she can be bright and cheery, she just wakes VERY slowly. I joke that it is best to poke the beast and back away. Left to her own devices, she’d laze around in bed until 10am and stay up reading or educating her American Girl dolls until 10pm. Sadly for her, the “real world” intervenes.

This year Fish started middle school. Ours is a regional district (translation: looooooong bus ride to the middle and high school). A few days before school started, I checked the bus schedule and confirmed that the pick up would be at o’dark hundred.

Fish is very independent and probably could get out the door unassisted, but I remember HAVING to get out the door unassisted as a kid and it was stressful. I view my role at this age as supportive. If she needs something done, she asks me to do it, but she takes care of most aspects of the morning routine herself while I enjoy my tea and catch up on email.

The week preceding the beginning of school, I rousted her earlier and earlier each day. The day before school started, we had our annual Back-to-School Breakfast starting at 7am so we all had to be up and at ’em. That night, she packed her lunch and asked me for help picking out clothes. Excitement was in the air, but we all made it to bed and even to sleep, at a reasonable hour. We both set our alarms. The plan was that her alarm would be the initial poke and I would follow with a verbal reminder.

Good plan. Except her alarm didn’t go off and I some how snoozed mine twice. I came to at about 6:20, the bus was due at 6:40am. GAH!!! So much for the nice relaxing start to the first day of school. Amazingly, we pulled it together and got to the bus with about 30 seconds to spare.

Thankfully, Mim’s morning ran a little more smoothly. He awoke in a good mood, but as the time to depart for the bus grew near, he confessed to feeling nervous. We left in plenty of time and on the way down, to the stop, he asked to hold my hand. I love the feeling of a small smooth hand in mine. As he held on tight, he chattered about who he’d see and what he was going to do and say. At the first rumble of the bus, he let go. Once the red lights flashed, he gave me a “Bye Mama!” and took off without looking back.

I have four years of this split schedule ahead of me and I can already tell, that I’m going to enjoy the time alone with each child that it provides.

Girl Scout Camp

July 25, 2011 · 1 Comment ·

I was probably about 9 or 10 years old when I went to Girl Scout Camp for the first time. I went to Camp Tweedale for a program called All Sports of Things. We swam, we canoed, we learned to lash sticks together to build structures. We went on an overnight tent camping trip off site and then hiked to the Herr’s potato chip factory for a tour. Given my age, it can’t have been a long hike, but it was a gray overcast day with a light rain, and man it seemed like it took 4 EVAH!! That said, you’ve never had a potato chip until you’ve had one fresh from the frier. Oh my mouth still waters from the memory.

I remember being homesick only one night in my four year Girl Scout Camp career. My favorite counselor was Bear. It was her night off and I desperately didn’t want her to leave, a melt down ensued but by morning, I was over it.

As a suburban kid who’s mother hated bugs, camp was my first real exposure to the outdoors especially sleeping outside. We were in canvas tents with wood platform floors and the thunder that was usually muffled by insulation and wallboard was some loud let me tell you!

For 3 years, I went to Camp Tohikanee (Tohi for short) for their Summer Barn Theater program (we really performed in an awesome old barn). The first year I was sick and got there late, so I was part of the Lollypop Guild in the Wizzard of Oz. The second year, we performed the Sound of Music and I was Max, the Von Trapp family’s agent. My last year, I was cast as Fagan in Oliver. I got sick while at camp, but didn’t tell anyone until I couldn’t hide it anymore. I knew I had a fever that kept breaking and rising, but I was so excited to have a major part, I didn’t want to give it up. Eventually I was ordered to the infirmary and nursed back to health by Suki, our wonderful camp nurse. She made me well (enough) in time for the big performance.

To me Girl Scout Camp conjures memories of singing, laughter, friendships, bug bites, polar bear swims, campfires and incredible opportunities for personal development and growth. This trip down memory lane was inspired by my present. My daughter is attending Girl Scout Camp for the second year. This year, she’s attending for two weeks in a program called “Camp Swap”, the first week will be spent rock climbing and the second will be spent horseback riding. She is going with a friend and when I left her yesterday she was a bundle of excited and nervous energy. I know she’ll have a good time and I can’t wait to hear about all of her adventures and the memories she’ll cherish for years to come.

43

May 23, 2011 · 3 Comments ·

Today I am 43. Birthdays often cause me to take stock and I have to say all things considered, life is pretty damn good these days.

I have an awesome husband (but don’t mention it because he hates compliments), two beautiful children and scads of friends and family whom I rely on to stay sane.

My daughter wished me Happy thirty-second birthday this morning. I laughed but told her, I don’t mind aging. I’m happy with progress and I can honestly say while there are specific experiences I wouldn’t mind reliving, I have no desire to go back to any certain time in my life.

I read a blog post recently where the blogger said that people who say they have no regrets are full of sh*t. Well then I guess I’m full of it because I have no regrets. Regrets to me are big picture things that I truly had control over. I’m glad I went to college where I did, I’m glad I’ve chosen the careers I did. I’m glad I married the man I did and that we had two kids. I’m even glad we moved to New Hampshire. The big choices have all worked out well for me. Yes there have been (and continue to be struggles), and I do wish some things had turned out differently. But, to call those things regrets is making big stuff out of small stuff.

So, what’s next? Writing. I have a number of stories in various stages of draft. Consciously I know that the real work can’t begin until I get the story out of my head and into a setting (digital or analog) where I can refine it. If I could just get out of my own damn way, I would have something to edit in no time.

It is the getting out of my own way that I struggle with. I have a habit of planning ahead. I am always looking forward trying to do things as efficiently as possible so as to be prepared and to minimize effort. While there are situations where this is a handy skill set, often, it in my attempt to anticipate the future, I borrow trouble. I try to figure out what all the possible hurdles could be and I get overwhelmed. Once I am overwhelmed with all the ways I could fail, it becomes clear to me that I am wasting my time and I walk away. I have to keep reminding myself that with writing, it is the means that justify the end. Once I get the “sloppy copy” out, only then can I refine it and turn it into something viable. I have to turn off my planning instinct and just roll with it. In other words just write!

Also on the agenda is continuing my quest for weight loss and improved health. I’ve mad a good start and am thrilled with the results. There is nothing like the feeling you get when you put on a pair of pants that were too tight last summer only to find out they are just right or even a smidge loose this summer. Now I just need to keep it up. Thus far, I’m not finding it quite as hard as I expected and any challenges are tempered by the successes.

Those are my big challenges for the foreseeable future. If only it was that easy that I should focus only on those to things, I’d be svelte and published in no time! Back in the real world, I am married with aging parents and growing children. Relationships must be nurtured, bills must be paid, and schedules must be managed. I say that with no tone of martyrdom or malice. Like I said at the top, I’m happy with the choices I’ve made.

Onward towards 44!

Negi Hama Roll, Salmon and avocado roll, and philly roll — There are 3 birthdays in 4 days in our local extended family. Last night 17 of us went to a Japanese steak house to celebrate. I opted for sushi!

The beginning of a new era at Starbucks and the end of an artform

April 17, 2011 · Leave a comment ·

This cup, this, venti, black iced tea with 3 pumps of sugar*, is the beginning of a new era for Starbucks. The barrista who served me referred to it as a move towards “mass production”.

Out with the quaint hand scrawled “Bk 3p CS” and in with the block type,

Blah. The barrista said the new system isn’t as personal as the old one and I agree. Occasionally, I’ll take the kids for a treat. The staff knows us and they would frequently add a 🙂 to my daughter’s KHC (Kid’s hot chocolate, smaller, not as hot). It was easy to do because the sharpie was already in hand, but that little extra touch was always noted and appreciated.

I’m sorry to see the scribbles go. I suspect, it all has to do with efficiency but, given a choice, I’ll take the personal touch over efficiency any day.

*FWIW, 3 pumps is HALF the standard amount of sugar.

Weight Loss Update -2.5

April 15, 2011 · 6 Comments ·

elevator going down photo © 2006 Alessandra Cimatti | more info (via: Wylio)Well, things have been moving along. I am enjoying being more active and I find I miss the exercise on the days I can’t fit it in. I’m also starting to see some results. I stepped on the scale this morning to discover that I’m down two-and-a-half pounds. YEAH!! Clearly, I have a ways to go, but I’m headed in the correct direction.

I’ve been using the Lose-It app on my phone to track calories in and calories out. It has been very enlightening.

I knew that olive oil is the “better” fat, but I didn’t know that two tablespoons of EVOO is 252 calories! Yeowch! Especially since I really could have gotten away with much less on my tortellini and broccoli.

I knew that exercise is good for you, but I didn’t know that an hour of rollerskating will burn 533 calories! Whoo Hoo, Laconia Skate Escape, here I come!

I knew that I had a sweet tooth that wasn’t going to magically disappear, but I didn’t know that most of the time I can fulfill my need for chocolate with a tablespoon of chocolate chips to the tune of 50 calories.

Given my history of PCOS, and insulin resistance, I think it is time to see a nutritionist. I’m eating better than I have been, but I think with some tweaking, I could shed the pounds more efficiently. I have a call into a highly recommended nutritionist to set up an initial consultation. I’m looking forward to the next step.

Speaking of steps, I’ve been exercising relatively regularly, anywhere from three to five times per week. I was hindered slightly by a heel injury, but I transferred my workouts to a local pool and was able to burn without further aggravating things. I’ve also dusted off my bike now that spring has sprung, here in New England. I’ve been out for a few rides (the longest of which was eight-and-a-half miles in an hour). I’m also excited because a friend recently purchased a bike and we’re hoping to hit the trails with the kids.

Sailor crawls through the mud of Guantanamo Bay during 1st annual Seabee mud run. annual photo © 2010 Official Navy Page | more info (via: Wylio) I’ve kept up with Couch 2 5K at least once a week and I’ve learned the hard way that even if you are doing other forms of exercise, you regress if you aren’t running at least a couple of days a week. The first few runs in a C25K session are always tough, but even when I get warmed up and into a groove, I find that I really don’t like running. It is jostling and I get more of an endorphin rush from biking or water aerobics. I’m enjoying the camaraderie of training for The Renegade Playground Challenge, but I don’t see myself continuing to run much after that.

So that’s the update for now. Basically, I’m feeling good, and making progress.

“Where Were You?” – The Challenger Explosion 25 Years Later

January 28, 2011 · Leave a comment ·

I was in AP American History. I chose American History because I liked it better than European History, but more importantly, I liked the teacher, Dr. Paul Dickler, who also happened to be our Senior Class Advisor. I loved “Doc”. I would swear his Ed.D was in teen relations. He knew how to connect with students from all segments of the population of over 2,800 students.

I was in eigth grade when the first shuttle launched. Our whole school tuned in. I was mesmerized. I could only imagine what that ride away from the Earth’s gravitational pull felt like. Somehow or other, I managed to watch every subsequent shuttle launch. By then, shuttle launches had become “routine” to many people. I was still enthralled and I wasn’t going to let no stinkin’ college level history class break my streak. I watched the clock carefully and at two minutes to launch, I suddenly had a desperate need to use the bathroom. It was a small class, so I exited as subtly as I could. I think Doc may have asked if I could wait until a section break, but I was clear I needed to leave THEN.

Alas, my timing was off. As I strolled by the science class down the hall, I heard the announcer say there was still T-4 minutes to launch. No way that teacher would let me hover in his doorway for four minutes. Off to the bathroom I went. I passed the time, washed my hands and made a slow saunter back toward my classroom. I made it to the science class doorway by T-30. All I eyes were focused on the TV monitor threatening to topple the rolling cart in the corner. No one even noticed me.

“3-2-1 and lift off! Lift off of the 25th Space Shuttle Mission!”

photo © 2006 Eric Ward | more info (via: Wylio)God it was beautiful. My heart pounded as the rockets glowed and the shuttle soared. Then came the explosion of white and the trails of white clouds cutting across the screen at odd angles. It took me a second to realize those weren’t clouds, those smoke plumes.

Silence.

“Flight controllers here looking very carefully at the situation. Obviously a major malfunction.”

Like everyone else, I was transfixed. What just happened?

Silence.

The long silvery smoke trails ran down the screen like raindrops on a windshield. Then finally “The vehicle has exploded.” As if universally choreographed, we all raised our hands to cover our to mouths.

It was then that the teacher turned and spotted me. He gave me a nod as if to dismiss me. I quickly withdrew to the hallway and made my way back to my rightful room. I returned the hall pass and moved towards my seat. Doc looked at me as if to acknowledge my extended absence. “The Space Shuttle just exploded.” I said.

Doc’s reaction was immediate and fierce. “What? That’s sick! I can’t believe you would say that!”, as if I was playing a twisted prank. He glared at me and I took my seat. His words stung because I was so fond of him and I thought he liked and trusted me. I knew it was the truth, so I kept my mouth shut. My classmates all looked at me shocked at Doc’s outburst and clearly wanting more details. With an uncharacteristly scathing, silencing, sideways glance, Doc resumed the class. It was only a minute or two later, that Mr. Evans, our principal interrupted classes over the loudspeaker confirming my story.

Doc, turned sharply to look at me a stunned expression on his face. It was probably easier for him to believe a high school student would play sick prank then to think that the space shuttle had exploded. “I’m sorry.” he said quietly. I shrugged. What was there to say? He asked me to share what I knew and we discussed it briefly then tried to focus on American History for the last 15 minutes of class, It just wasn’t possible.

On the 25th anniversary of the explosion, I find myself living in New Hampshire. I have friends who had Ms. McAuliffe in high school. She is legend (rightfully so) in these parts. Her parents worked to continue her legacy, her husband withdrew from the spotlight to raise their children. New Hampshire mourned their heroine and then worked to honor her legacy while fiercely protecting Steven McAullife’s privacy.

I am married and have two children who are almost the same ages McAullife’s were at the time of her death. While I can’t imagine leaving them without a mother, I can completely understand Christa McAullife’s desire to travel into space and share what she learned. I applaud her drive and I thank her family for their sacrifice.

Generations before me talked about where they were when President John F. Kennedy was shot or when the lunar module landed. The Challenger Explosion stood as my “where were you when . . .” moment until September 11, 2001. I think two in a lifetime is more than enough, don’t you?

My Infertility Story Part II – Cliché

November 29, 2010 · Leave a comment ·

This post is part two of a follow up to an earlier post I wrote about at Self Magazine article on how isolating infertility can be. You may also want to read part one. I was blessed to have a circle of friends who had experienced similar situations. NO ONE should feel alone in the infertility process. Part Threes will be the story of another woman who didn’t have that support.

Cliche photo © 2010 Tom Newby | more info (via: Wylio)We survived round one, and were rewarded with a beautiful, happy healthy daughter. Fast forward two and a half years. I was ready for a second child. My husband was happy with one, but willing to discuss making a sibling. I am an only child. I always wanted a sibling. I wanted my daughter to have someone to gang up on me with. We decided we’d try for a second, but as with the last time, there were limits to how much medical intervention we’d tolerate. In other words, no IUI or IVF for us.

About the same time, my husband managed to convince me that it would be a good idea to pack up everything we own, put it in storage and move in with his mom and her husband. We bought land from them to build a house and make a new life an hour and a half North of my support system. Stress + new doctors + limited privacy does not a pregnancy make.

I was still making frequent trips South for business commitments and to be with friends. During that time, we were actively trying with no success. My cycles felt as though they were random. I opted to switch my care to a practice nearer to our new home. I thought it would be easier to manage the daily ultra sounds without the hour and a half commute. Ultimately, the new doctor did confirm a clinical diagnosis of PCOS. We had a cause, but still no baby.

During this time, the other two women I’d been pregnant with the first time both conceived again. I was happy for them and they were both very gracious about sharing my pain at their news, but inside, I was frustrated and horribly jealous.

I was on Clomid for a total of 9 months without success and I was at the end of my rope. We had just moved into our new house and I was ready for a new beginning. My husband supported my decision to stop infertility treatments. I stopped taking Clomid. I gave up the mini-van in favor of a smaller car and I accepted a several work commitments and a major volunteer commitment.

The doctor wanted to try and get my cycles on track again. I refused birth control pills so he prescribed progesterone. The prescription said take once a day for the first ten days of the month. Since I hadn’t had a period in a almost two months, I thought he meant calendar month (as a way to be able to keep my dates straight). Turns out he meant cycle month. DUH. I was told to take a pregnancy test and when it came back negative to start taking the medication.

My husband left for work early in the morning. So I dragged my butt out of bed and peed on the stick. I hadn’t even turned the light on, but after I washed my hands, I picked up the test and thought I saw two lines in the faint morning light. I turned the light on and looked again. Oh My God, this can’t be real. I ran downstairs and said “Don’t leave!” and then flew back up stairs grabbing my glasses and a magnifying glass (you can’t be too sure about these things you know).

Son of a gun, there WERE two lines. As he walked into the bathroom I said, “I’m pregnant, is that ok?” He hugged me, laughed at me and said “It’s a little late for that isn’t it.” I had become a cliché. I stopped trying and got pregnant. It was hard to let go, but once I really let go, my dysfunctional body, to over.

Later that day, I called the OB practice and asked for a blood test to confirm the results. I was told that blood tests weren’t standard procedure. I explained that I was an infertility patient and that I wanted an HCG count. I wanted to insure that there was just one. It took some persuasion, in the form of my going and sitting in the waiting room until someone talked with me, and offering to pay for the blood test out of pocket if my insurance didn’t cover it (it did), but I finally got confirmation that there was only one fetus. Nine months later, Mim was born and our lives are all the richer for his presence.

Even with the distance, my circle of friends was crucial to my survival during the move, the trying and the subsequent pregnancy. I am confident we wouldn’t have had Mim if they hadn’t been around to cheer me on and pick me up. No one should have to go through infertility alone. Online support groups have grown in popularity since then and even face-to-face groups are being offered by infertility practices. If you are pursuing infertility treatments, please seek out a support network. I could mean faster, results.

School Picture Day

September 16, 2010 · 2 Comments ·

Today is school picture day. When I was a kid my mother took great pains to insure I was well dressed. Even more so on school picture day.

Pictures of me pre school through first grade — Preschool through second grade

There are rare occasions when having a mother who saves EVERYTHING. This is not one of them. I distinctly remember the kindergarten picture (second from left). She was mad that I put my lips over my teeth, but years later she’d tell it as a funny story.

Pictures of me third through sixth grade — Third through sixth grade

Who let me leave my glasses on? Gotta love aviator frames! I remember being very proud of myself in fourth grade (second from the left). I brought lip gloss and right before the picture, I decided to feather my bangs to the left. I remember telling my mother of my success with a big grin. She was not happy, but when the pictures came back, she acknowledged, I had done well. Fifth grade (second from right) needed a do over because when we got the photos back, it looked like I was winking (damn light sensitivity). Gotta love the puca shells in sixth grade (far right).

Photos of me in grades seven eight and nine. — Grades seven, eight and nine.

I HATED middle school and these first two photos show why. I was a complete and total dork. I still am, the difference is that now, I flaunt my dorkiness, then I denied it. By the time high school rolled around, I was starting to gain some footing.

Next to fourth grade, this is probably my favorite school picture. By tenth grade, I had a circle of friends and felt like I belonged somewhere. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t able to find a photo from my junior year. I don’t even remember a photo being taken, yet, there must be one. That’s ok, the drama just sets the stage for *drum roll* SENIOR PORTRAITS.

Dun dun dun!

Cap and Gown, holding a Rose and black drape — Senior Portraits

It would be ten years before I found out that neutral brown tones did more to accent my eyes than blue tones.

Let me be clear that I am poking fun at myself more than the photographers. I don’t envy them their job. Also, people with albinism are hard to photograph between the nystagmus (wiggly eyes) and photophobia (sensitivity to bright light and glare).

Item Number One On My Murtaugh List

June 17, 2010 · Leave a comment ·

Or, How a Feminine Hygiene Product Saved My Hearing.

From l-r, Neil Patrick Harris, Cobie Smulders, Josh Radnor, Jason Segel and Alyson Hannigan of the CBS series HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER. Photo: Monty Brinton/CBS ©2008 CBS Broadcasting Inc. All Rights Reserved. — Photo: Monty Brinton/CBS ©2008 CBS Broadcasting Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used with Permission

Do you watch How I Met Your Mother? For those who do, I’m staring a Murtaugh list. For those who don’t, let’s just say, “I’m getting too old for this sh*t.”

I love music. The TV, keeps some people company as they move through their days, for me, it is all about music. The soundtrack to my life is provided by the radio, Pandora or iTunes. I especially love live music. I’ve seen lots of concerts in my life from the super shows like Live Aid or the Human Rights Now Tour, to a cappella groups performing in a college cafe. In recent years, my musical leanings have been more country (much to my husband’s chagrin) and while those types of shows can be loud, typically they lack the pounding base and screeching guitar of heavy metal or rock ‘n roll.

Daughtry is one of the few new rock bands to catch my ear in a long time. I mean REALLY catch my ear. I bought their first, self-titled album and enjoyed every track. I bought their second Leave This Town, on release day. Again, there isn’t bad track in the mix. My husband isn’t a big concert guy and a country concert is out of the question, but he agreed to see Daughtry with me.

Garth Brooks ruined me when it comes to concerts. I saw Brooks on the Fresh Horses tour for $19 per ticket for tenth row seats and later on the same tour, different venue for $23 per ticket for fourteeth row seats. Regardless of your feelings for Garth Brooks, you will be hard pressed to find a performer who gives as much to his audience during a performance. In my mind, it is hard to justify $80 plus per ticket for a band that won’t give me half of the energy that Brooks put out. Thus, we chose the cheaper nosebleed seats straight back from the stage as opposed to the more expensive seats on the side (still on the second level).

My vision isn’t the best, but my hearing is pretty good and I try to be careful about loud noise. About a mile from the house, I realized I’d forgotten my ear plugs. I was running a little late and figured we’d be high enough that I wouldn’t need them. Heh, yeah, not so much.

The show featured three bands, Cavo (which we missed in favor of a quick dinner), Lifehouse and Daughtry. As soon as Lifehouse came on stage, I knew I was in trouble as much from the pounding base and screaming guitars as the screeching teenagers too my right.

Ok, let’s just say it. I’m old. I know it. I’ve never minded when people sing a long with a band, I do (although I try to keep my vocals to a low volume), but screaming not singing, SCREAMING while the band is playing drives me batty. Shriek all you want between songs, but while they are playing, I’d like to hear the band. Thanks.

Two songs in, I broke my cardinal rule of getting up during a band’s set to head for the bathroom. In the ladies room, the bass vibrated the concrete walls. Again, I’m old, but when the structure I’m in is shaking because of the sound, it might be time to turn the levels down just a smidge. I spied a machine on the wall. You know, the ones that NEVER work when you are in desperate need of a pad or a tampon. Fortunately, this arena is fairly new and I was rewarded with a tampon in exchange for my shiny quarter.

There was a gaggle of women crowding the sinks to hear one of their comrades in cleavage relay her latest man trouble, so I headed outside. I can’t imagine what a casual passerby thought of the woman deconstructing a tampon by the ketchup dispensers. When you get down to it. Tampons are cotton, shredded and balled up, it makes an adequate noise dampener.

I headed back to my seat, and waited with the usher for another break in the music. I guess I was gone longer than I thought because A-Man looked a little concerned upon my return. I offered him a set of home made earplugs, but surprisingly, he declined. I managed to survive Lifehouse’s set and by the time Daughtry took the stage, I was able to snag the seat on A-Man’s left putting more distance between me and the screaming meemees. Lifehouse gave a good performance, and while Daughtry wasn’t as good a showman as some acts I’ve seen, he and the band put on a solid performance.

We weren’t the oldest in attendance, but we were in the ahem generational minority. With three bands, the show started at 7:30 and Daughtry finally closed at 11pm. I can’t say I didn’t get my money’s worth but 11pm on a work night is well . . . late. We didn’t get home. Oy, in the immortal words of Lethal Weapon’s Roger Murtaugh, “I’m too old for this sh*t.”

Item number one on my Murtaugh list. I’m too old to attend rock concerts.

Special thanks to Jane Boursaw of Reel Life with Jane and Film Gecko for connecting me to the CBS promo people who kindly sent me the above photo.

Live Fearless Lee

Or at least that's what I tell myself