The Inappropriate Concert Goer

There’s one in every crowd. The person that doesn’t seem to grasp where exactly they are. They walk into a concert venue, already having decided how they’re going to act. They are immovable, unchangeable forces. They threaten the sanctity of the concert experience.

These people can show up at any type of concert. Last night it was a Swell Season show. For those unfamiliar with the band, you should go to their website and listen. They are wonderful. A laid back, heartfelt band full of amazing musicians. It’s the kind of show that mesmerizes you, drags you through a full spectrum of emotion, and leaves you exhausted and inspired by the end.

I settled into my seat last night, ready for the experience. The opening singer, Rachel Yamagata began performing. She was sweet and acoustic. At the end of her first song, before anyone had even raised their hands to clap, all of us in the theater learned who the inappropriate concert goer was. Two rows behind me it was the man who yelled

“YEAAAHHHAAAHHH”.

He yelled

“YEAAAHHHAAAHHH”

after each and every song for the first half of the concert. I don’t know what happened then. Maybe someone leaned in close to him and informed him that this just wasn’t that kind of concert.

I saw Andrew Bird about a month ago, and there was a blond woman who made her way, sloppily, down the aisle with a cup of beer in each hand and proceeded to dance her sloshy dance in front of the stage. It wasn’t that kind of show.

At the Pearl Jam concert in 2006 there was a young kid sitting next to me. I wondered if he had even been alive when Ten came out. He held a sign with the name of a truly obscure track from an album no one, not even fans, liked written large enough for the band to see from the stage. An hour into the show, he gave up on the sign; instead turned to his glow sticks. Yes. Glow sticks were twirling through the air. I tapped him on the shoulder and informed him that it wasn’t that kind of show.

Jesus Christ Superstar, featuring Sebastian Bach of Skid Row as Jesus. At least five people in the audience threw up devil horn hand gestures. It wasn’t that kind of show.

It’s the people who clap between movements at orchestra concerts.

The woman who complained about how smoky it was at the Frightened Rabbit show.

Worse: the guy who complained about a different kind of smoke at the Dave Matthews concert.

I called Atticus to tell him about the concert, and my inappropriate concert goer.

“Yeah I had one of those at the concert I saw too.

Only mine said sweeeeet.

It wasn’t that kind of show.”

Bacon is the new Chuck Norris

A few years ago, there was a huge insurgence of Chuck Norris Jokes

Stuff like: One Chuck Norris tear could cure cancer. Too bad Chuck Norris doesn’t cry. And Chuck Norris doesn’t do push ups, he pushed the world down.

Lately, I’ve noticed that there’s a new fad.

It’s bacon.

Bacon has become somewhat of a status symbol. I see posts on my Facebook regularly.

“MMMM. Bacon”

“I want Bacon.”

“Bacon is the fruit of the Gods” or, if you’re trying to lose weight

“Bacon is the fruit of the Devil.”

“It’s another thick cut bacon Sundaaaaaayyyy!”

“This meal would be better if it had bacon with it.”

I think I’ve figured out why bacon is the current “it” food. In our body conscious world, where we’re all supposed to look 25 until we die and fit into clothes made for teenagers bacon is like a food rebellion. People who eat bacon, especially those of us who do so in large amounts, are thumbing our noses at health food. We’re letting the world know that we will eat what tastes good no matter the consequence.

Then there is the practical side of bacon. It’s perfect, it can be used in any dish to make it better. I work in a restaurant where we call bacon pancetta, but it’s still bacon and it shows up in pasta and wrapped around shrimp. It confuses me when people ask that it be left out. Who doesn’t love bacon?

Bacon can be eaten at any time of day or night. Fry your bacon in a pan and then use the grease to fry a couple eggs and you have a perfect breakfast. Have bacon on your salad for lunch if you’re feeling the need for something green. A bacon sandwich with a side of bacon for dinner is the definition of romance. Chocolate covered or candied bacon for desert. At the bar in the evening, go ahead and order a bacon infused vodka on the rocks. And when you are driving home and the vodka has made you hungry don’t be afraid to order the Baconator at Burger King.

I almost always have some bacon in my fridge, just incase I feel the need.

I have a friend who admits that the only meats she purchases are bacon and salami.

I fell in love because of bacon.

Last night, I knew bacon had infiltrated my life completely. I made a bacon joke.

Very Overweight Man (VOM): “How’s the Minestrone?”

Me: “Good?”

VOM: “You don’t sound so sure.

Me: “Truth is I don’t really like cooked vegetables. And Minestrone is like a big bowl of veggies. So it’s not my favorite.”

VOM: “I don’t really like vegetables either. But I’m trying to watch my weight” He says as he pats his bulbous belly.

Me: “I get that. I watch my weight too. Only I do it with Bacon.”

To the Gym Rats

Dear sweaty gym going guy,

It’s been a long time since I saw you last. Months in fact. I had almost forgotten all about you. Pushed you from my mind, the way I’m always trying to forget clowns and bigheaded mascots.

But today I decided it was time to address the looseness I’ve been feeling on the underside of my arms and the fact that I felt my butt jiggle just the slightest bit while running up the stairs the other night. I didn’t like it. Which brought me to the gym.

I know there are some women who go to the gym in the hopes of finding themselves a boyfriend. I can point her out to you. She’s on the elliptical machine wearing tiny bike shorts, and a sports bra. Her long blond ponytail is swinging in what I’m sure is perfect rhythm to the Britney/Justin/Beyonce mix being piped into her ears from her hot pink iPod. She’s drinking Fiji water, and somehow manages never to break a sweat.

On the other hand, there's me. My sweatpants are too big, and splattered with green, orange and purple paint. I have a hard time keeping them up under the weight of my brick like fake pod, which is outdated but since it still works I stick with it. I wear a sports bra, yes, but it stays hidden under any number of hideous and loose fitting t-shirts I choose to wear to the gym. And I sweat. A lot. My face turns a lovely shade of purple during my forty-five minutes on the stationary bike I ride, because the elliptical machine requires a kind of coordination I’ll never have.

When I move on to lifting weights I don’t want your help. Machines don’t require a spotter, and I don’t need advice on proper form thank you.

And if my t-shirt happens to creep up while reaching my arms over my head and you catch a glimpse of the tattoo on my right hip it is not an invitation to reach out and touch it. Your hands are sweaty, and have been touching equipment that has been sweated on by countless other people today. Yuck.

I know I should be flattered that an in shape guy such as yourself would be interested in me. And that anyone could possibly find me attractive after an hour long workout is a miracle. However I’m far more likely to be interested in a man with a beer gut and a sick sense of humor than a man with a six pack who clearly cares more about shaving than I do.

So, sweaty gym going guy, go flirt with Barbie and leave me alone.

The tooth stays.

Everyone has a calling in life.

Some people want to be builders. Others want to be teachers, or lawyers, or gourmet chefs. Moms and Dads, Rabbi’s, Priests, and Nuns. Hairdressers, actors, web designers and radio DJs.

The more daring among us may claim to be painters, sculptors, writers or musicians.

I can understand all of these callings.

I don’t understand those who are called to Dentists.

Describe what a dentist does and it sounds like this:

Scrape plaque, tartar and whatever other kind of build up from the surface of peoples teeth.

Use my sharp metal poker to measure the depth of a humans gums. Fondle a tongue to check for mouth cancer.

Polish teeth with gritty goo and whirring rubber thing.

These are the more pleasant things a Dentist can do.

Friday, a tooth on the bottom right hand side of my mouth hurt a little. I thought it was caused by one too many sour patch kids and I vowed to take a week off.

Saturday morning, the tooth hurt a little more and included the area around the tooth and heading up my jaw line. I took some Advil, used a little Ambesol. Achy, but bearable.

Saturday night, no more pain thanks to Vodka.

Sunday morning, woke up in tears. The Vodka had worn off, and the entire right side of my face was throbbing. Advil, Excedrin, Ambesol and a bag of frozen peas placed on my face managed to dull the pain ever so slightly. I slept Sunday night very peacefully, on the frozen bag of peas (which Vedder conveniently gnawed open at some point in the night, apparently wanting a snack) after drinking half a bottle of Nyquil.

Monday at eight am I called the Dentist. I was being fit in at 10:40.

The pain has now been unbearable for more than 24 hours.

First thing Dr. Paininflictor says to me: So, do you want to keep this tooth?

Well, Dr. Paininflictor, this tooth has been hurting for three days, the last one being so horrible I considered pulling it out myself. Then I reconsidered.

See, I’m a single, thirty-year-old college student with bills up to my eyeballs who enjoys cheesy eighties music, Stephen King books, and playing scrabble. I have a passion for writing, like people who can talk about nothing for hours, and sometimes I crave Buffalo wings. I wear a pink snuggie, and I let my dog sleep on the pillows next to me.

That’s more than enough to keep me single for the rest of my life.

Let’s not add a gaping hole in my smile.

Loneliness is random

An awkward version of U2’s “In the Name of Love” plays inside Meijer today. I think I’m the only one who notices and wonders about the bongo solo at the end.

This makes me feel alone.

I buy a half gallon of milk, half a watermelon pre-packaged in Styrofoam and cellophane, half a pound of turkey breast, wonder if it’s possible to purchase just a half loaf of bread. I see couples, happy and otherwise not wondering if they will be able to finish eight bagels before the last one in the bag goes moldy. They don’t have ice cream in their freezer that has gone rubbery from sitting too long. No stale chips are thrown into the garbage, because between the two of them they can finish the bag in less than a week.

I’ve adjusted to this half grocery list of mine, stopped over purchasing food two months after I started living alone. I even use one of those half grocery carts they have at Meijer now, and only pack two canvas grocery bags instead of four. I don’t buy Tina’s Burrito’s or those bags of frozen food that simply need to be dumped in a pot and heated up, or olive loaf. I don’t feel guilty when I decide to buy a bottle of wine instead of a case of beer.

I didn’t expect to miss knowing how someone’s day went based on the frizziness of their hair and the way they smell when they walk in the door. Or having someone understand why I blocked the heat vent to my office and turned on the space heater next to my feet. The one who knows what I’m working on based on the drink sitting to the left of my keyboard.

No one told me loneliness is random; that it would strike when I want to share a joke, eat cookie dough, clean the house and sing along to love songs.

And force me to wonder,

who do I talk to about that Bongo solo?

Paranormal Activity

Going to the movies alone is an interesting event.

The first time I did it, about a year ago, I was seeing “The Reader”. I had decided that I would no longer wait for a date to take me to see the films I was interested in, and besides going alone meant that I could wear the same Western sweatshirt I’ve been wearing since 1998 and a baseball hat. And that’s what I did. Walked into the theater on a Friday night, bought my ticket and proceeded to the concession counter, where I fell in love-- with the kiddie snack pack:

Small Popcorn.

Medium Drink.

And a box of Mild Duds.

Excited by my selection, I approached the usher taking tickets.

“Um… this is a rated R film. Do you have your ID?” Was it the hat, the sweatshirt, or the kiddie pack that made me look so young?

“I’m 29 years old!” I squeaked a little.

“I’d have given you at least 22.” The man behind me laughed while he hugged his well dressed, perfectly coiffed date.

Saturday night, I ventured to the theater alone once again.

In mild protest of the hallmark holiday and to celebrate the Halloween season, I went to see Paranormal Activity.

I bought my snack pack, choose sour patch kids this time instead of milk duds, and settled into my seat in the center of the back row. Of course, being a Saturday, the theater began to fill up a bit, and someone decided to sit directly in front of me. I hate that. He could have moved one seat left or right and I’d still have had my leg room. I blame him for what happened; he put himself in the line of fire.

The movie started slow, I didn’t even jump for at least the first hour.

However, in the last fifteen minutes of the movie I jumped, squealed twice, and somewhat loudly yelled “Holy God” and “Dumbass”. And in the last minute of the movie I did something that I’ve never done before.

Actors call it a “spit take”.

Yes, I got so scared right after taking a sip of my Dr. Pepper that I blew it out of my mouth all over the poor guy sitting in front of me. Some of it may have even come out my nose, I can’t be sure.

Then the lights came up.

“Did you just spit all over me?” The guy turned around and looked at me through glasses too small for his face.

“Um. Yeah, I’m so sorry. That just really freaked me out. That last sip of Dr. Pepper turned out to be a really terrible idea.” I cringed, waiting for him to get even angrier, maybe yell at me.

“Well, how about you come buy me a beer to make it up to me?”

Shocked I replied, “I could do that. It’s not like I’m going home and going to sleep anytime soon. Or ever again for that matter.”

Remembering

I see him in my face, especially in my eyes; hear him in my voice when I am too loud in public and friends attempt to shush me.

I wear his helmet when I ride my bike, carry his backpack to classes, and it’s his winter jacket that keeps me warm when the snow flies.

It’s been four years since I talked to him.

Four years since the last time he hugged me.

Though my mind is full of memories of him, I sit here soothing a sore throat with a frosty and choose to remember this:

My Dad is seriously sucking orange jell-o through a straw.

He could have been offering a dissertation on the collapse of capitalism with the amount of concentration he shows on his face.

The jell-o finally gives in to the pressure, uncorks like a champagne bottle and slides up his straw. The other people eating at Wendy’s SuperBar that night turn and look as his enormous laugh fills the fast food restaurant.

“You just made root beer come out my nose.” I say between gasping laughs.

“Better that than chocolate pudding.”

He was always so logical.

It's about a seven on the pain scale.

Work:

“It’s not my heart, it’s my chest bones!”

Four Mexicans and a tiny Italian are standing around me asking me if I’m okay. Clearly, I’m not or they would have no reason to be asking.

The tiny Italian yells: “What can we do for you Liz?”

“You could stop yelling, since it’s my chest that hurts and my ears seem to be just fine.” He hustles his short legs out of the kitchen to tell Boss Lady that I’m in the Kitchen freaking out.

“What happened?” Boss Lady really does look concerned

“I picked up a tray to carry it down the stairs, it was too heavy. So instead of setting it down like a smart person would have done, I carried it anyway and now my chest feels like it has split in half. I’m having a hard time breathing in. I don’t think I can carry any more trays tonight.” I cringe.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Not particularly. Maybe I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

Driving:

I naturally underestimate how difficult it is to pull out of a parallel parking space when your sternum has clearly split in half, which makes the already frustrating task of un-parking my car excruciatingly painful. I find myself thankful there are no sharp turns or curvy roads between work and home.

Home:

A phone call to Atticus to tell him I have broken my chesticles and I fear I will not be able to move my upper body at all come morning. He suggests wine and Motrin. Wondering at his great intelligence, I take this superior advice and go to sleep with a belly full of cheap wine.

Morning:

My chest still aches, and now so do my shoulders, upper back and head. Headache most likely being caused by cheap wine. Reminder to self: Five dollar wine is not a bargain the next morning.

Concentric Circles Healthcare:

Waiting for a half hour in a paper gown and terribly sexy paper shorts, Dr. Unpronounceable finally shows up. Hearing my story of the heavy tray he thinks I must be overestimating it’s weight, it’s obvious he’s never waited tables before. A series of movement and pain rating scales later, he decides that I am not broken only sprained. I’m handed two bottles of pills and passed to the physical therapist who wants to show me some stretches for my chest. What I actually learn is that he feels comfortable picking a wedgie in front of me.

Skelaxin:

It’s like relaxing, only drug induced.

Invisibility doesn't work with the windows down.

No one can see me while I’m in my car. A cloak of invisibility envelops me the instant I shut that door. I can sing as loud as I want to, have conversations with myself, pick my nose or a pimple on my chin, and feel secure that no one is looking at me. I pump my fist, pound the steering wheel and play terrible air drums. I run over conversations that just happened, or ones that I wish would happen.

I like to believe this shield keeps me anonymous, but more likely a professor of mine, a student or some truly beautiful man in the car next to me is thinking;

“I never knew it was possible to sing ‘Part Time Lover’ with a finger up your nose.”

My invisible shield disappears the instant I roll my window down.

Apparently, some people think theirs stays intact.

I was outside yesterday, wishing I was waiting on a table instead of just waiting, when I heard the bass. I fully expected it to be a young kid in a rusted out civic, holding his camel out the window, desperately trying to look like he’s enjoying the vibrations inside his car.

What I saw was a man, probably in his late thirties in a pink oxford. His arm was hanging out the window. His F-150 wasn’t shaking under the stress of the bass. At first he was only bobbing his head, perhaps momentarily aware he wasn’t truly alone. As the song ended, and the next one began the head bob was integrated into an all out seat dance, shoulders moving, hips bouncing hand leaving the steering wheel to emphasize the words his lips had begun mouthing.

“You can do it put your back into it…”

Sunshine and The Quiet One join me on the sidewalk. Silently it is agreed that we should join this one man dance party, and so we simultaneously succumb to the shaking. Sunshine started with her signature move, a loose limbed limp in which her joints appear to be made of Jell-o and her arms fly left and right, waiting to be released from her shoulders. The Quiet One entered with a subtle cabbage patch, which soon enough turns into an all out running man. I contributed my version of the whipping boy, the trout, and a little shopping cart. Just as we were about to top this delicious pile of dancing off with a synchronized stab at a Michael Jackson crotch grab, the music stopped.

The man in the truck had been watching us.

The Quiet One turned tail and ducked back into the restaurant.

Sunshine aimed her dancing directly at him, since she needs no music to keep going.

The man in the truck waved as he finally cleared the intersection, and rolled up his window to reactivate his invisible shield.

Morning at the Mall

Malls are strange places. People from all walks of life migrate to them. I was one of those people this morning while my car was in the shop, because given the choice between sitting at the dealership for two hours and observing the throng of humanity at the mall, the choice was clear.

First person I saw when I walked in was a middle aged woman in Capri pants and platform flip-flops. Why, why do platform flip-flops exist? The point of the flop is that they are comfy, flat, and easy to walk in. The extra four inches of foam rubber on the bottoms of those shoes only made her walk like a cow, and could have provided at least 100 children with flip-flops of their own. And they didn’t flip or flop… they clomp, clomp, clomped.

Stealthily, I avoided the Mediterranean man who always wants to talk about my cuticles, but my detour landed me directly in the sights of a tiny European woman selling hair straighteners. She wore black hot pants and a corseted T-shirt and had the loveliest wavy hair. Obviously she doesn’t use her own product. Before I knew what was happening, she had me sitting in a chair saying “You are just so tall, I cannot reach your head if you don’t sit down.”

“Really, I don’t need a hair straightener.”

“Well, Vhat do you use to straighten your hair now honey?”

“I don’t.”

“Your hair is this straight, you lucky girl. I show you how to use this to make a wavy hair too. You must brush lots; your hair so smooth.”

“I haven’t used a hairbrush in 12 years.”

“You so funny.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

Making it wavy lesson; over. I walked away with one wavy pigtail, and one straight.

Then it was the lovely young lady leaving a store called Vanity. I swore her jean shorts were actually panties and hoped the little boy she had stolen her blazer from wasn’t going to freeze this winter. Her belly jewelry swung to and fro as she swayed her hips, and as I always do I wondered why her parents let her out of the house looking like that. Until a gray haired man and peroxide blond stepped out behind the young girl, “Honey, wait for us!” The girl glared at them the way only an angsty teenager embarrassed by her parents can do.

The dippin’ dots guy gave me a free sample, played on a computer I will never purchase at the Apple store, seriously considered a Cinnibon, and missed the presence of a music store.

And the sign at Chico’s said “A pair of Jeans that will fit every body!”

So I went in.

I said, “It’s so hard for me to find Jeans that fit, do you really have something for me? I need a thirty-six inch inseam, prefer a boot cut or a flare and I sort of have heavy thighs for my size.”

The short woman’s eyes darkened and she didn’t crack a smile.

My phone rang, the car was finished.

She was happy to see me leave.

Waiting for the light to turn

Two people, middle aged adults, standing on a street corner in Ann Arbor late in the evening. The woman, in her white Capri pants and green satin halter tops giggles as the man dressed in jeans kisses her neck.

I stand a safe distance away, waiting for the light to turn and hear her say to him, “But will you still love me in the morning?”

I tap her gently on her shoulder, “No. He won’t. If you have to ask that question, then you already know the answer.”

And God sent me Wonder Woman

I would have accepted a rainbow or a phone call from a long lost friend. Being narrowly missed by a speeding car as I crossed a busy street, not slipping on the greasy floor as I carried a tray full of dirty dishes through the kitchen last night. Instead, God sent me Wonder Woman.

It was just another night of slinging pasta at the restaurant. The weather was perfect, and I was pleased to be serving outside at the café instead of being stuck in the restaurant that can feel so much like a mausoleum. All but one of my tables were filled, I had just finished taking a couples order and convincing them that a white zinfandel would not be the best wine choice that evening, and there she was being seated at the table directly to my right by the general manager. Linda Carter. Wonder Woman.

“She’s just another guest,” pragmatic Liz told overexcited Liz. “Do not go over there and act like a fool!”

I approached the table, ready to treat them just like I would anyone else. And then she looked at me with her clear blue eyes and for a split second I swore she was wearing her red bustier and blue star-spangled hot pants. I saw the sun glint from her golden crown. Then the illusion was gone and she was just another beautiful woman enjoying a meal on Main St. in Ann Arbor.

I did what I always do. Described the menu, made recommendations, made sure their food was cooked to their liking. It was nothing special. I did no more or less for this table than I did for any other. Dinner came and went as all dinners should, enjoyably. I returned to their table as they set down their forks, and the stunning woman asked me about desert. I reached in my apron pocket, where I should have had a menu. It was empty. I took a deep breath, and began describing the deserts to them.

“Tonight we have a wonderfully creamy Tahitian Vanilla Gelato, and our Sorbetto is Red Raspberry which tastes like the berries were just picked yesterday. I’ve been fantasizing about putting a scoop of each in a bowl, imagining…” Wonder Woman put her finger up.

I’ve gone too far in my excitement about desert and annoyed the celebrity. I’m so going to get fired.

“Are you a writer?” Wonder Woman was again in uniform and asking me a question about myself. I paused. Took a deep breath. My mind went blank and for that moment I believed I might never speak again.

“Well...yeah... I did my undergrad in creative writing.”
Why was it so hard for me to look her in the eye and tell her I am a writer?

“I can tell.” Her impenetrable bracelets blinded me.

I pinched my left arm.
Then I pinched the right one.
I thanked her for saying so.
Then I got stage fright.
And she took off in her invisible plane.
I should have asked if I could borrow her Lasso of Truth.

Incoming call from "Withheld"

While sitting on my patio having a long distance drink with Atticus, call waiting alerted me.

“Atticus, let me call you back. I’ve got a weird phone call coming in.” Click over to the other line, “Hello?”

“Is this Liz?”

“Yeah, who is this?” Questioning now the decision to answer “withheld” at 10pm.

“This is Heather. Have you been spending time with Jaime?” I’ve seen this movie before.

“Yeah, well, we’ve gone out twice. Who is this?”

“I’m Jaime’s girlfriend. He’s been living with me for the past five weeks. The police just picked him up from my house and I’ve decided to call every person he’s called from my phone and warn them about him.”

Stop.

This isn’t a poorly written “chick flick”.

This isn’t a writer’s lie, or even an exaggeration.

Though at times I wish it was.

“The police? Why?” The script had been written; I had to say my lines for the cameras I imagined were hidden in the shrub to the left of my patio, in my neglected grill, in my dog’s collar.

“He locked my children out of my apartment today, while he hired a prostitute. My daughter went to the neighbor’s house and called me at work. I called the police to have him removed. He said she was a massage therapist. Then why were they naked?” Heathers voice has risen an octave since I first accepted her call. I hear Heathers hysteria and want to run away from it.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Lame words are all I have to offer. “I had no idea. He and I met a few weeks ago. We had lunch twice. He told me you were his sister, and you and his nieces were living with him for the next month. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

“Well, I’m not telling you what to do. Just thought you should know.” Heather has retreated from the cliffs edge, and I am thankful.

“Clearly, Heather, I will not be in contact with him anymore. I appreciate this phone call. Keep yourself safe, dear.” I never can resist the urge to call even a stranger dear or hon when I know they are in distress.

Gently giggling, I pour myself a glass of vodka. The giggling has turned into silent laughs as I resume my long distance drink with Atticus. Recounting the story I just participated in, the silent laughs turn into chesty chuckles. The therapist that lives inside my mind tries to speak, but those chesty chuckles have turned into belly laughs interspersed with a healthy snort or two and tears are running down my cheeks.

“Who do these things happen to, seriously? Whose life is this?” I ask Atticus.

"It’s yours Liz.”