A Middle-Age High School Musical

I’ll admit it. I’m one of those people who often wishes that in real life, everyone would burst into song and dance numbers, just like in a musical. In a magical, well-choreographed way, not a cheesy, oh-my-god-I-think-this-show-has-jumped-the-shark kind of way.

Street musical scene from Isn't it Romantic movie

You’re eating with family in a restaurant, and all of a sudden, the patrons at the table next to you start to argue. In the middle of the argument, the man stands on the table and begins to sing in a dramatic way about feeling misunderstood. The woman joins in, too. The rest of the patrons become the chorus, and then, the waiters break into a perfectly timed dance, complete with plate juggling.

Too much?

Sorry. Blame it on my 80s upbringing and mormon TV commercials, with the kid who broke Mr. Robinson’s window, and the kids who learned that they are better off to never tell a lie (an even small one!).

Speaking of 80s upbringing, yesterday, I went to the MixTape Tour — a dream concert for anyone who was a teenager in the 80s. Some of the best 80s artists were playing. No, not Journey, though that would have been cool. Okay, no, not Madonna. Not the Cure, not Depeche Mode, not…

New Kids on the Block. It was New Kids, okay?

New Kids on the Block MixTape Tour concert

Plus Salt n Pepa, Naughty by Nature, and two of my 1987-88 favorites, Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. About 95% of the crowd that packed the arena were middle aged women like me, reliving our teen years of big hair, jean jackets, and like, totally awesome music. The other 5%, I am convinced, were men who were dragged along for the ride.

From the beginning to the end, this was no ordinary concert. Every artist in the stage kept encouraging us to join in, sing along, and dance out hearts out. And we did, in a wave of nostalgia and excitement. Sometimes, we even turned toward our neighbors, who were absolute strangers a moment ago, and shouted the lyrics at one another, all while waving our arms and gyrating our hips, in unison with the performers.

It wasn’t exactly a spontaneous musical moment. It was planned, right down to our expensive seats. But there was something incredibly magical about being swept up in a moment of song and dance with tens of thousands of other Gen Xers, waving our hands in the air like we just didn’t care, and taking in one last gulp of the best part of our teen years.

Me smiling in front of an arena

Me, as a teenager at a concert (for the 2nd time around)

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Hey Batter Batter! (aka: Adult Sports)

“Hey batter batter batter, SWING!”

Familiar words from my childhood, which intermingle with the smell of grass, dirt-smeared white knickers, and the heavy feel of cleats on my feet, scraping against the ground. My little league teammates and I sat around in the dugout, chewing Big League Chew bubblegum and, encouraged by our coaches, yelling out unsportsmanlike taunts to the other team.

Go back, go back

go back in the woods!

Your coach ain’t got no spirit

and your team is no good!

I was a catcher. Kind of a lame position to play, in retrospect, since I had to stay in a squat position for most of the game, and had exactly three tasks:

  1. Catch the ball. A lot.
  2. Return the ball to the pitcher.
  3. Don’t get hit by the bat.

I guess I did pretty okay at these. I also did pretty okay at batting. I’m a leftie, and often got walked by pitchers who were freaked out that I was standing on the wrong side of the plate. I was okay with being pretty okay, and I enjoyed playing softball. But softball was nothing compared to soccer. In soccer, you got to run and move and try out cool tricks and, well, do stuff all the time, instead of standing or sitting around, waiting for something to happen.

Even the major leaguers get bored waiting around.

When my kids were growing up, only one participated in little league baseball. My oldest son did tee-ball and coach pitch, and he was also pretty okay. But for him, just like for me, soccer had the louder siren song, so he abandoned the baseball diamond for the soccer pitch.

A few days ago, I decided to give softball a whirl again. A Meetup group I’m a part of was getting together with another group of mostly middle-aged wanna be athletes to play at a local park. It had been many years since I’d played, so I was pretty nervous that I’d play like a total newb. There were no dirt-smeared knickers or cleats, but the air smelled like grass (no, not that kind of grass). It was exactly as I’d remembered it, though the kids were all aged 30-50-something, and the pitcher would keep pitching the ball until you got a hit, so no one struck out.

I played third base, hoping that I’d see lots of action. But the ball rarely came my way, and runners were often intercepted before even reaching second base. So, there was still a lot of standing around, waiting. A few innings later, I was starting to wish I hadn’t skipped my Sunday morning Zumba class. I mean, how on earth did we kids manage to wait and wait and wait in those pre-cell phone days? Oh yeah. Go back, go back, go back in the woods…

Finally, I stepped up to bat for the last time. Each inning, I’d managed to get a base hit, except for one pretty little pop fly to center field that got three of us out and ended the inning. *Groan*

The pitcher lobbed the ball my way, and — CRACK!! I’ve got to tell you…when you hit the ball hard, and it’s just right, there is nothing like the sound the bat makes when it strikes the ball and sends it soaring. Nothing.

I wish I could say I hit a home run. Or even got an RBI. I didn’t But base by base, I got to fly like the wind, until at last, I reached home plate. Boom! That was the feeling I’d been waiting for all morning. The reason why baseball players can stand all the waiting, waiting, waiting. Because when something finally happens, it’s like a thunder strike. Almost as great as scoring a goal in soccer. Almost.

And it doesn’t even matter that I didn’t hit a homerun. Who cares whether I made it home all at once or one base at a time? The point is that, I made it home.

For the Throne! (Aka: International Women’s Day)

Winter is here, people.

Those of you who know what I’m talking about are glancing at your calendars, counting how many days remain before the series finale of Game of Thrones — one of the most exciting TV shows of this decade. Who will be brutally murdered next? Who will sleep with who? Most importantly, who will take the throne and become king (or queen) of the seven kingdoms?

But that’s not really what I want to discuss. Today is International Women’s Day. All around the world, people are taking a moment to acknowledge women and the contributions we have made and continue to make to society. So it only made sense to take a look at the women of Game of Thrones. Why? Because their timeless archetypes are common among many women, young and old, throughout the globe.

Arya Stark

The tomboy, who eschews femininity in favor of wearing pants and wielding a sword. Later, we see in the character Brienne of Tarth, a glimpse of the great knight Arya could become in the future.

Sansa Stark

The feminine “good girl” princess, who dreams of marrying her fairy tale prince, Joffrey. When her prince turns out to be a sadistic monster, and the world turns harsh and cold, Sansa quickly grows up and develops an exterior of steel.

Catelyn Stark

Catelyn is deeply devoted to her husband and children, which is apparent in everything she says and does. Far from perfect, Catelyn struggles with her role as a stepmother to her husband’s bastard son, Jon Snow.

Cersei Lannister

The opportunist (some might say bitch), who will stop at nothing to get what she wants, for herself or for her children. Seduction, betrayal, and murder are only a means to an end for her.

Daenerys Targaryan

“Miss Independent.” Plays her role as the dutiful, obedient sister and wife until she figures out who she really is. Once she embraces her true self, her power is unstoppable. She gathers an army and pursues her goals relentlessly, all without having to rely on a man to rule at her side.

My personal favorite? The Khaleesi, Daenerys Targaryan. Not only is the badass Mother of Dragons born to be a queen and rule the seven kingdoms, but she is true to herself and always tries to be kind and just (though sometimes she fails). I identify strongly with her sense of independence.

Other women may read this and find that they identify more with the disillusioned princess, the tomboy, or the devoted wife and mother. But most of us may agree that we are multi-faceted. That many of us are sometimes the princess, and sometimes the tomboy, and sometimes the devoted wife and mother, and sometimes the bitch. Kind of the Game of Thrones version of the Breakfast Club archetypes.

But whatever type of woman you define yourself to be, and no matter who you are rooting for to take the throne at the end of the final season, I hope that today you will celebrate being a woman, or celebrate the women in your lives.

Don’t Panic! (Aka: That Famous Band You’ve Never Heard of)

I almost left early.

There were just too many tics. Too many little warning signs that I was not in for the fun evening I had planned.

The day went fine. I had a productive day at work, where I shared with a few coworkers what my plans were for the evening. “I’m taking myself to a concert at the downtown arena,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” My coworkers said. “What band?”

“Panic! At the Disco,” I said.

The reaction was almost universal. “Who’s that?”

“Oh, just a famous alternative rock band no one’s ever heard of.”

To be fair, I did run into exactly two adults who had some inkling of who the band was. And several teens, one of whom only knew the band from a reference by Phoebe, on an old episode of Friends. But I’m pretty used to being excited about things that people around me couldn’t care less about. So off I went, ready for fun.

I managed to snag a $5 parking spot around 4 blocks away from the arena. Sweet! So far, so good. Then I took myself out to dinner at a trendy new burger restaurant, where I ate a bland, overpriced quinoa veggie burger, a side of garlic fries, and a Blue Moon — always a safe choice for decent beer. Then I slung my backpack over one shoulder and headed downstairs to the concert security zone.

“NO BACKPACKS MAY BE BROUGHT INTO THE ARENA,” an official voice blared over the loudspeakers. Great. Tic one. But no worries. I had thirty minutes before showtime, and I could just hop on a Jump Bike to get to my car quickly.

So I tried. Three different bikes, in fact. But apparently, they were all having connection issues last night and wouldn’t accept my account number. Thanks for nothing, Jump Bikes. Tic two.

By then, it was growing cold and dark, and I only had fifteen minutes remaining before the concert began. But hey, I’m not a runner for nothing. So I began to sprint toward the parking lot.

Bad idea.

Because I was not wearing a sports bra. And maybe certain women can get away with running in a dainty, lacy thing. But we um…well-endowed women really cannot. Thanks to that little race against time, I will now have to replace that bra, which couldn’t handle the jiggle. Tic three.

I put away the backpack, speed-walked back, and made it into the arena. A ticket-taker looked at my phone, then directed me toward the tallest, steepest escalator I have ever seen. Ever. It was like a mechanical stairway to heaven. And that wasn’t all. Once I got to the top and went through the doorway, I had to climb a lot more stairs. At last I found my seat, then sat down and looked around.

Worst. Seat. Ever. Tic four.

I was up so high, I felt dizzy and nauseous. Altitude sickness, I’m sure. Or maybe it was due to the beer. When the concert began, and the singer stepped out on the stage, he looked like a teeny, tiny doll I could pick up with my fingertips. So did the lucky duck viewers seated down on the floor. A sea of itsy-bitsy miniature people. And then, there was the screen. You know those big screens that display the band so that the people in the back of the arena can see their faces?

Yeah. Those don’t work for people with a side view. I had a nice view of — the side of the screen. Tic five.

But as the music began, I began to relax. Even though I couldn’t see the stage well, I could see the lights. Dozens of pretty colored lights, swirling and flashing in time with the music. Like a fireworks show without the fire. Because fire would be really bad during a concert. But hey, I was so high up, and so far off to the side, that I’d only have to climb over like, four people to get to the nearest exit.

A view from my terrible seat.

Besides gaining a new appreciation for the lights display, I also realized that the music sounded really, really good. The teeny-tiny, miniature lead singer of Panic! At the Disco had an amazing voice, and the instrumentals were awesome. So I couldn’t actually see them performing. but I could hear them. And I did kinda go to enjoy live music, so that was important. And eventually, I got swept up in singing along and dancing in my seat, along with all the other fans.

By the end of the show, I was too busy feeling jazzed to care about the tic marks that threatened to ruin my good time. True, it wasn’t as fabulous as standing in front of the stage at the Imagine Dragons concert, waving my homemade sign and getting showered in confetti. But I still enjoyed myself. And the way I see it, getting out there, doing fun stuff, and having adventures is way better than not having a life at all. Even if you have to be stuck with one of the cheap seats.

I’d been debating buying myself a last-minute nosebleed side view ticket to see Pink in concert soon, too. But know what? I think I’ll save my money until I can party on the floor, close to the band. And next time, I’ll leave my backpack at home.

Shower Karaoke (aka: Feel-Good Tunes)

When I was in the car yesterday, an old song came on the radio. The Greatest Love of All, by Whitney Houston. Naturally, I turned up the volume and belted it out along with Whitney.

THE GREAAAATEST LOOOOVE OF AAAAALLLLL IS EASY TO ACHIIIIIIIIEEEEVE!!!

It’s such a feel-good song. One of those songs that you can’t help but sing at the top of your lungs, even though you know perfectly well that your voice is nothing like Whitney Houston’s, and you’ll probably hit more sour notes than an American Idol reject. But still, the music starts, and your heart starts racing, and next thing you know, you’ve transformed into Whitney.

LEARNING TO LOOOVVVVE YOURSELF, IT IS THE GREAT-EST LOVE OF ALL!!

Easy A Pocket Full of Sunshine shower scene

Of course, it’s not always Whitney’s music that grabs you by the throat and compels you to break out singing even louder than your shower spray. It might be We are the Champions, by Queen. Or The Wind Beneath My Wings, by Bette Midler. Or Hero, by Mariah Carey. For the longest time, my instant karaoke favorite (when no one was listening) was Hold On, by Wilson Phillips.

I wonder whatever happened to those songs? The songs so rich with encouragement and self-appreciation that we all loved to sing them in the car (or in the shower, or at karaoke night after one drink too many). I guess Katy Perry’s Firework comes kind of close. Or Rachel Platten’s Fight Song. I’m even kind of fond of Meghan Trainor’s Me Too, despite the snottiness of the repeated verse (“If I was you, I’d wanna be me too…”).

Regardless of the song, or the singer, we have all experienced what it’s like to get a boost of positivity from music, whether we sing along or keep it in our own heads. Whoever you are, I dedicate to you the lyrics of the song you find the most uplifting. I hope that sometime this week, you get a chance to belt it out, and let the message fill you.

Wayne and Garth Bohemian Rhapsody

If you care to comment, please share one of your favorite solo karaoke songs.

Raise Your Glass! (aka: Beat the Year)

Guess what, everybody? According the Under Armour, the company who makes my favorite running app, Map My Run, I beat the year! Hooray, me! *Cheers, sets off fireworks*

What does that mean, beat the year? Well, I’m not exactly sure. Last April, I signed up for a fitness challenge to see how many kilometers I could run during 2018. My grand total was 1,019 Kilometers. I’m not sure how far that is, exactly, since we Americans generally don’t speak metric without the help of Google or Alexa. But it sounds pretty good to me!

Now, this whole “Beat the Year” thing might be even more impressive if my opponent had, say, a set amount of kilometers I was actually competing to beat. I’m pretty sure the year was just lying on the couch, watching the rest of us run like rabbits and laughing her head off.

“Look at you!” the Year says to the slowpoke who ran like, two whole kilometers throughout the whole year. “You beat me! How about that?”

Still, despite my cynicism, I feel like a winner. Why? Because I did stuff. I made an effort. I challenged myself to grow. And in my interpretation, that is what it means to “Beat the Year.”

Each new year in our lives is like a big ol’ champagne glass, minus the bubbly stuff. Our goal is to fill that glass with as much bubbly stuff as possible before it’s time for the final toast at the end of the year. (Champagne, soda, sparkling water, take your pick).

champagne bubbly New Year

Everything you do, for yourself or for others, earns you a splash of bubbly in your glass. For every choice you make to the detriment of yourself or others, you pour a splash down the drain. Help a family member move to a new town? Increased your workout routine? Ate a lot more green, healthy stuff? Fill your glass just a little bit more. Wasted money on stupid stuff? Ate a lot of fast food? Spread negative gossip about your coworkers? Dump your hard-earned bubbly into the sink.

In 2018, I:

  • Maintained my almost-daily workout schedule.
  • Ran so much, that I rewarded myself with my first-ever 20-miler race (How many kilos is that, Alexa?).
  • Volunteered a few times in our community, side-by-side with my teens.
  • Drove to SoCal with a couple of the kiddos and one of their friends, and had an AMAZING time together at Disneyland and our favorite beach.
  • Landed a role as the technical lead on a very important, prestigious statewide project at work.
  • Read a lot of books.
  • Learned to step outside of my comfy cubicle and initiate conversations and walks to the coffee shop with coworkers.
  • Stood right next to the stage at an Imagine Dragons rock concert and sang my heart out.

I mean, what an AWESOME year! True, I still walk a pretty lonesome path with only my teens to keep me company. And somewhere out there, somebody else accomplished way more, or had way more fun, or learned way more great things along the way. But so what? My glass is so full right now, on this last day of the year, that it is overflowing with bubbly stuff.

The final countdown for 2018 has begun, dear readers. It’s already next year in Australia. Wherever you are in the world, whatever your stage of this life’s journey, and whoever you walk beside (even if it’s only you), I hope that your glass is full. I raise mine to you. May we beat the pants off 2019.

Cheers!

Archery in the rain (yes, I’m a curly girl 🙂 )

The Golden Hour (a Spooky Poem)

I love the tradition of Halloween. The creative costumes of young and young-at-heart. The zany and macabre decorations. The celebration of the shadow side of human nature, done in a spirit of good fun and camaraderie. Enjoy your parties and sugar-fests as we each perform a role tonight in the great play we call Halloween. Be safe out there!

jacko

The Golden Hour

At last the golden hour is here

The night we shadow-box our fear

And march into the inky night

Armed with jack-o-lantern light

So come you fierce and wicked things

Painted grins and fairy wings

Hear the magic doorbell rings

Come!

Heed the creepy creature’s stare

Perched upon her rocking chair

Grab a candy, if you dare

Beware!

Hear the whistling windy tune

Ghosts and witches flying soon

Silhouette on silver moon

Boooooo!

Tempt the spirits, play your part

Chilling bones and racing heart

Let the hurly-burly start

Happy Hallowe’en

Bastet Bast Egyptian goddess

Me, as Bastet, Egyptian Goddess of warfare and cats, protector of the pharaoh, of women, and of children.