Score One for the 'Burbs

One of the nice things about working in BaCo (my affectionate term for Baltimore County) is that a bus will stop at a crosswalk in the middle of a busy road to allow pedestrians to scoot across the lanes. And I'm talkin' about intersections with no crossing signal, no light, no nothin' except the diagonally striped safety zone.

In DC, I think a bus will actually aim for pedestrians, daring the fragile meatbags to enter into a ten-stone versus six-ton game of chicken. Guess who begs off first?

Like I said, it's nice for a public service vehicle to follow the rules of the road.

Cleanin' Out My Closet...Sorta

A few weeks ago, one of my friends gifted me with loads of clothes that she didn't want to move to her new place. The collection comprised her "maybe I'll fit into this again someday" wardrobe. As she says, reality checked in: if she does return to this particular size, she's going to want to go on a spree and reward her reduced dimensions. Since I'm the sixth of seven children, I'm no stranger to hand-me-downs, and I eagerly accepted the goodies.

But oh, the jumbled clutter that my bedroom became. The overstuffed shopping bags tipped over and spilled their contents all over the floor. Honestly, I nearly wiped out a couple of times trying to hurdle past the piles to pick out a pair of shoes.

On Monday, I couldn't take it anymore, and decided to clean out my closet. Not Eminem-style, mind you. I literally cleaned out my closet. Flinging the windows open so the lush scent of Spring would inspire me, the closet carnage began. My rules were simple:

1. If I didn't were an item for a full season, it goes in the Good Will box;
2. If the item looks better on the hanger than it does on me, it goes in the Good Will box;
3. If the item looks like it should belong ot my sister and not me, it goes in a shopping bag that will then go to her.

What could be easier, right? For the most part, it was. I mean, I can't imagine why I've held onto that mock turtleneck for so long. Or that cami; I mean, I cannot walk around without a certain degree of support, and camis aren't so good at keeping Victoria's secret. One of my favorite wha-huh? articles was a paisley print button down. Paisley? Paisley hasn't been in style since about 1989. It's not comin' back (dear God, at least I hope it isn't). That stuff all got pitched without any hesitation.

Then it got hard.

There's that henley that I bought for my husband (then boyfriend) for our first Christmas together in 1997 (and then stole back from him). And the Aran sweater that my parents picked up for me when they went on their anniversary trip to the Emerald Isle. And the tattered concert t-shirts that aren't really fit for wearing anymore: Depeche Mode, U2, Nitzer Ebb, Rush (one of these things is not like the other one....).

These items aren't just things. This stuff is autobiographical. It's tangible evidence of who I was at 14, at 17, at 20, at 30. So, they are neatly folded and resting comfortably in a dark, difficult-to-reach corner of my closet. Sure sure, I've heard that the things we own begin to own us. But I'm not sweatin' the three cubic feet that owns me. Well, not yet anyway. We'll see where I'm at when I'm 60. For now, though, I'm just satisfied that I can see my floor again and that wire hangers aren't sticking out from between my clothes at every angle.

Blood Is Thicker than Etiquette

It's a glorious spring day here in the 'burbs of DC. How did I spend the morning? Strolling along the Mall? Sailing the Potomac? Dining al fresco at a waterfront bistro?

Nah. I went to one of those franchise medical services joint to have blood drawn. Nothing serious, just routine bloodwork. Seeing as how high cholesterol is as prevalent in my family as blue eyes, I like to keep up with it.

Anyhoo, the joint opens at 8:00 a.m. Silly me, I thought I was being an early bird by arriving at 8:20. Boy oh boy, was I wrong. When I got there, you would've thought they were handing out $20 bills to the first 100 customers. Seriously, the line stretched out the door. For medical services. On a Saturday morning on Easter weekend.

Come to think of it, that's kind of an ironic link-up.

So, there were about 30 people in front of me on the sign-in sheet. And there were about 20 seats in the waiting room. Know what that means? Yep, time to stand. Not that I minded the standing; I figure it burns more calories than sitting, so I might as well roll with the opportunity. Besides, I had my trusty Entertainment Weekly with me, so the time would pass quickly. Right?

Um, wrong. Hugely, unequivocally wrong. I was standing and waiting for an hour before the receptionist called me to the front desk to hand in my insurance information. And EW, much as I love it, is kind of a cotton candy magazine, so I'd finished with it at about minute 35. This left me with oodles of time to observe other folks in the waiting room. Know what I figured out? Common courtesy is not exactly alive and well.

At least six people got cell phone calls in that hour. They all tried to answer them, and the receptionist had to bark that no cell phone calls were allowed in the waiting room. Yeesh. Could you imagine that many people having conversations at once? And since I live in a pretty diverse area, these conversations would've been conducted in at least four different languages. One woman actually just went to hang out near the door to the place, like it was not as big a deal for us all to hear her conversation since she was almost outside.

There were no fewer than 10 children there. I think one of these kids was a patient. The rest of them were chillin' with their parents. Now, I totally get that some of these folks might not have childcare on a Saturday morning. But I can't think that lurking in a medical office was exactly fun for them, especially since there weren't any magazines, or kids books, or televisions. Seriously, if your ten-year-old son is entertaining himself by locking the front door of the office, maybe you need to re-think bringing him to places like this.

And finally...I wasn't the only one standing. Not by a long shot. Admittedly, I can't know what the seated folks were there for, and maybe they really needed to hunker down in those chairs. I passed up the opportunity to grab a chair when one opened up, causing my standing compatriots looked like they might need the chair more than I. But no one even offered to give up a seat, and there were more than a few hale and hearty teenagers, men, and women clutching their chairs like they were life preservers.

Maybe people just don't do that kind of stuff anymore...

Family Ties

This has nothing to do with anything, but I have a theory that 90% of Americans have an Aunt Nancy and an Uncle Bill, either by birth or by marriage. I started out with an Uncle Bill, and married a fella who has an Aunt Nancy. My sister did the same. A friend of mine had neither, but when she got married -- WHAM. An Aunt Nancy and an Uncle Bill.

I guess it's not all that shocking, considering that "Nancy" was one of the top 10 girls' names from 1935 to 1955, and "William" has never really left the the top 20 since the time that the Social Security Administration's been collecting this info.

Can you tell it's the Friday before a holiday and that things in the office are S-L-O-W?

Christian Passover?

For awhile now, I've thought that Christians could legitimately celebrate events associated with the Old Testament. I mean, it's the first half of the Bible, right? Christ, through Joseph, is a direct descendent of some of the major playas in Judaism, correct? And Jesus was a Jew, yes? So it seemed logical to me that Christians could participate in Hanukkah, Passover, etc.

Here's the thing, though. Folks need to celebrate these miracles, these deliverences, with a deep and abiding understanding of their meaning. I mean, these are not secularized traditions in the Jewish culture, like Christmas trees are in Christian culture. Sure, I could whip up a Seder (hey, I was always in charge of the matzo ball soup at Jess'), invite some pals over, and imbibe some Manischewitz. But after having attended a coupla Seders in college, I know that there's more to it than that. It'd be like non-Christians grabbing an Advent calendar and gobbling up the goodies without paying attention to the messages.

And making Christ the central focus of predominantly Jewish traditions, as described in the WaPo article, seems wrong. My limited exposure to Passover celebrations left me with the feeling that the gathering is supposed to be a remembrance of shared miseries and the wholesale deliverence from them by God. But to spin it into a metaphor for what Christ endured pulls the focus away from the people who endured centuries of slavery and abuse.

Clearly, I need to ponder this some more. And I swear, I'm not looking to add eight days of gifts or a rich meal to my calendar.

Scrabbled Memories

Why wasn't this happening when I was in middle school twenty years ago? I wouldn't have pestered so many family members to Scrabble with me if I coulda joined a club.

Wait. Was middle school really twenty years ago?

Commenting on Comments

Hello, tens of readers. A humble request: if you comment, please don't do so anonymously. Apparently my rant about the silliness of fans (or former fans, I guess) filing an FTC complaint against Clay Aiken sparked a couple of comments. Hmph. I really need to evaluate my topics if a post about that dude gets more comments than most of my other posts.

Anyway...

I'm annoyed that I can't respond to these people. It's not that I would respond and point out where they might've misinterpreted what I wrote. But it's kind of a pain that I don't have the option. Eh, oh well. In the end, it's hard to take a comment seriously when the author isn't willing to own it.

New Rule #3

No one is allowed to say "She looks good for her age" any more. It is hereby stricken from the English lexicon. Well, it's stricken from mine, anyway.

My white-hot dislike of this phrase peaked while I was watching The Surreal Life 6 over the weekend (go ahead, cast your stones and raise your eyebrows). There's a moment when Florence Henderson steps over the transom of the kooky household, and many of the castmates stare in awe and shock. During their one-on-one snippets with the camera, pretty much every female (or on-the-way-to-becoming-female) castmate said something akin to, "Wow, she looks really good for her age."

What a backhanded compliment! It's like saying, "Wow, she looks good, but if she looked like that at thirty, then she'd be a total troll and we would all heap pity and plastic surgery coupons upon her."

I get the feeling that people tack on the "for her age" so that no one is confused about their ability to evaluate beauty. 'Cause if they just say she looks good, then the whole 'verse will think their physical ideals are outta whack.

Ooh, and this goes for, "She looks good for just having had a baby" too. People who say that need to be poked in the eye.

That is all.

I'll Show You! Well, Maybe Not.

Oh for pity's sake!, as mon père would say. The Claymates are filing a complaint with the FTC against Clay Aiken's label, manager, et. al. for misrepresenting his personality. They feel duped? Criminy. You should buy music because you like the MUSIC, not because you think the singer is a delightful, virginal young man. I mean, I guess that can be a bonus, sure, but it shouldn't be the sole rationale behind picking up a disc.

What's next? Are we going to complain about other people who "duped" us? Let's go tack a frowny face on Rock Hudson's tombstone. And let's not forget Ashlee Simpson; I mean, I totally thought she could sing before the Saturday Night Live debacle. Ooh, maybe Britney Spears isn't a sparklingly straightlaced young woman; jot her name down on the list. You know, come to think of it, I'm not sure that the Hollywood glitterati are as beautiful and handsome as they appear to be on the silver and small screens. You know what? Let's place ALL of the entertainers the world over on the FTC list, just to be safe. That'll teach ENTERTAINERS, people who get PAID to help us SUSPEND DISBELIEF, to lie through omission. Yep, they'll sure change their ways.

Puh-leeze. I just think that the 9 folks who signed the complaint are big dummies because (a) they didn't realize that Clay isn't the asexual dude he was "marketed" to be, (b) it matters to them that he might (horrors!) be a non-celibate gay man, and (c) they compare this brouhaha to Enron. ENRON! The company that caused rolling blackouts in California which resulted in who knows how many deaths! The company that ripped off investors! The company that blew up the pensions of thousands of employees!

Think maybe these folks are being a wee dramatic?

It Was Really Pretty When They Followed the Drinking Gourd

This past weekend, Hubby, my Friend and I went to Ocean City, MD for our annual St. Patty's Day weekend. We don't go because Ocean City is any kind of Irish epicenter for the big green holiday. But we've dubbed it a tradition so that we have a pre-planned getaway weekend. With little 'uns around, you need to draw a line in the sand somewhere (har har) so that you can actually get away.

Anyway, as you cruise to and from the beach via Route 50, you'll notice "Scenic Byway" signs dotting the road. One of them caught my eye this year that I hadn't noticed...it read, "Scenic Byway: The Underground Railroad." Wha-huh? When I hear the words, "Scenic Byway," I think, "Ah, this'll be a pretty drive for a lazy Sunday." When I hear the words, "Underground Railroad," I think, "What a tragic part of our national history that people of color had to risk life and limb under cover of night to escape to the northern states and gain their freedom." These are two notions that don't easily marry. Couldn't the state call it an "Historic Byway," or something like that? I'm just sayin', is all.

You Can Call Me Hon

"Hon" is a ubiquitous endearment in the greater Baltimore Metro area, so I take no offense if a perfect stranger, or perfectly strange acquaintance, dubs me such. Well, OK, I raise an eyebrow if the person doling out the "Hon" is a 16-year-old Denny's waitress. Still, though, it doesn't prickle.

But "Honey" and it's ilk ("Sweetie," "Sugar," "Pumpkin") are a different matter entirely. These nicknames are strictly limited to family and friends. Which means that the next time the guy behind the counter at the bakery calls me Sweetie, I may have to go all Julia Sugarbaker on him.

I refuse to appreciate the coincidence that the Sweetie-man is the cash register jockey at a bakery. Where I buy brownies. So there.

Ms. Washingtonienne Goes to Hollywood

Oh, for the love of all that's holy, Jessica Cutler's got a TV deal now too? Why, why, why is our nation celebrating and generously compensating a chick who proudly spilled the beans about her political booty calls? It used to be that we as a nation would fork over some cash to peruse the steamy memoirs of someone who was famous for SOMETHING ELSE AS WELL.

Honestly, are we so strapped for gossip that we'll make TV shows and movies about any celebutard who snags 15 minutes o'fame? If this were, say, ten years ago, I can't help but feel like this story would've been one of those sobering four-page "It happened to me, names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved" features in Cosmo. But alas, no. Now, these kinds of life experiences generate multimedia empires.

Yay for progress!

One tiny bit of consolation...her pseudo-eponymous book has plunged in Amazon.com's rankings to #33,281, whereas Moby Dick (the book to which I originally compared rankings back in June, 2005) is at #3,191. Cold comfort, eh?

Blog Numbers

I'm suffering through some blog blockage, so you get to suffer through some numeric goodness. Aren't you excited?

1: Number of people I've told about my blog

1: Sites that link to mine according to Google (which I think is wrong, since I know of 3)

1.31: Revenue (in dollars) earned since I installed Google AdSense (YESSSSSS! That dream house will soon be MINE!)

3: Times LtW has been featured on DC Blogs

3: Blogs that I check every day (DC Blogs, Harshing My Mellow, Miss Snark)

4: Friends of mine who blog (Matter-Eater Blog, A One Girl Revolution, All the Rage, She Who Must Be Obeyed), not including MySpace folks. Only 1 of them knows that I know that she blogs....kind of sounds like that Friends episode, eh?

10: Months that I've been blogging

17: Links that precede mine when you Google "Louder than Words"

24: % of visitors who stick around for more than 5 seconds

34: % of visitors from other countries

103: Posts (not including this one)

1,253: Value (in dollars) of my blog according to BlogShares

1,436: Visits to my site since I installed a counter

Hmph. Dunno if those numbers are good or bad. It's kind of like when you proudly blurt out your annual income, then realize that you're in the company of tycoons.

I figure if I actually told people about my blog, I'd have more hits. Since I use my real name, I'm not exactly in the blog closet. And I'm not tapping out any particularly salacious tales, so I'm not embarassed by what I'm sharing. Sheesh, if I weren't actually somewhat pleased with what I write, I'd use a pseudonym like "Danger Kitten" or something. I s'pose I opted to post under my real name to give my friends, family and co-workers the opportunity to stumble upon my ouevre.

But viewership is not the reason I started this, really. I'm not a megalomaniac who believes my particular take on the world must be read the world over. Well, not yet anyway.

Mostly, I'm an undisciplined writer who was looking for a way to open the floodgates of creativity while producing a visible result, some means of measuring my efforts. 'Cause lemme tell ya, when you fiddle around with writing novels, you don't have a really clear idea of how much progress you're making. As the metrics above indicate, I get numbers with this blog.

There are a couple of other nice benefits to the blog thing...

I've always wanted to journal to capture me in all my glory for all of posterity, but man alive, my hand cramps easily. Typing gets around the claw hand nicely.

My writing voice has improved, 'cause if other people are reading what I'm writing (even if it's only 10 of 'em), well, I feel the need to refine and proof like never before. Also, I permit myself to use unfiltered vocabulary and slang, rather than tailor my language to the audience. Little Bro once shared that he knows that I'm probably funny, but that my jokes (and lingo) are a little above his head. But when my readers are online, I can assume they are savvy enough to look up whatever they don't understand. And if my references are particularly obscure, I can link to source material that'll clarify my posts. Ever think that Dennis Miller should present his rants in blog form only? But I digress...

Last, but not least, my blogging efforts make me feel like a part of a writer's community, loosely bound as it is in the ether. Maybe I'll hie myself to one of those DC Blogger get-togethers in the near future...

So, yeah, I'll be keeping up with da blog, despite what the paucity of my posting indicates. If you've got any topic requests, lemme know, 'cause that'll help me avoid going down the numbers path again...

Strep Poker

Now that I have the ability to swallow without wincing, let's do a brief re-cap of the whole strep throat experience, shall we? (Gimme a break; since I was incapacitated for most of last week, I've precious few recent experiences to blog about).

My six readers know that the Boy went ten rounds with roseola and an ear infection two weeks ago, and his parents and grandparents spent the better part of those sicky days tending to a very unhappy toddler. As he felt better, though, I started feeling worse. And on Oscar Sunday I woke up in pain. Eh, whaddya gonna do? I self-diagnosed a change-of-season cold, went to work on Monday, and tried to convince myself that I was fine.

I kinda knew something was up when all I wanted to do was nap under my desk and my eyes were leaking like a broken water main.

Tuesday morning, I went to the doctor's around the corner from me. My master plan was to get there about 10 minutes before they opened 'cause it's one of those places that doesn't take appointments. But I was clearly delirious, because I went to the wrong shopping center. By the time I figured that little factoid out and hustled over to the correct shopping center, five other people had signed in before me. Those five people translated into a 45-minute wait to be seen by any medical professionals.

The only available magazine in the waiting room was an issue of Time that I'd already read cover to cover.

When my name was called, I followed the tiny Physician's Assistant to the cube where she took my vitals. My weight was down two pounds due to my inability to swallow anything thicker than broth. Then she led me to curtained exam room where she swabbed my nose and throat. Awesome. That's exactly what I wanted: to be jabbed in tender spots. During this swabbing frenzy, she chit-chatted about how she washes her hands like crazy. Maybe I'm sensitive, but I got the distinct impression she was hinting that the acres of white pus spots in my throat are a result of lax hand washing. Listen, my hands are STILL chapped from the umpteen times a day I scrubbed during the Boy's illness.

Then she shared that she will occasionally sniff water and spit it out to clear her nasal cavity of any bacteria that are thinking about setting up house. At that point, I decided I could stop listening to her advice. If I wanted to snort water, I'd plunk down some coin for a Neti pot.

She left to run the tests and see what they tell her about my ailments. Fifteen minutes later, the flu swab came back negative, and the strep swab came back inconclusive. So, Physician's Assistant-ette swabbed my throat a second time. Joy. Another fifteen minutes, and another negative result. Uh oh, what does that mean?

That means that mustachioed Mr. Dr. Man decided to send a throat culture out, because those tests are more reliable. I am then swabbed a third time. Mr. Dr. Man then says that if the throat culture also comes back negative (by Thursday or Friday), then I should come in to have a mononucleosis test done. Yipes! MONO? I'm THIRTY. And I'm not smooching anyone by Hubby, so mono seems very unlikely. To battle the unconfirmed strep, though, Mr. Dr. Man prescribed me some antibiotics and sent me home.

On the way, I drifted through the supermarket to pick up some sicky sore throat essentials: soup, pudding, throat lozenges, Thera-Flu. Unfortunately, the supermarket is remodeling and the ONE aisle that they hadn't totally restocked yet was the cold medicine aisle. Pickings were slim, and I had to knock a couple of clip boards and carboard boxes out of the way, but I managed to get everything and get home.

Cut to three days later. My throat is almost back to normal (hooray for antibiotics!), but my test results for strep still hadn't come in. During the Friday afternoon commute, I punched the doctor's office number into my cell phone so I could confirm that the test results were positive for strep. I mean, what else could it be? The symptoms fit, and the antibiotics were helping, which wouldn't be the case with a virus. But the nurse on the other line told me that the culture was negative too. Confound it!

So...my weekend kicked off with sitting in the doctor's office AGAIN, thumbing throught the dogeared copy of Time, and having blood drawn for a mono test which...drums please...came back NEGATIVE. A different doctor saw me this time and decided that my throat must have been crammed so full of pus that the strep test was negative because none of the strep bacteria had a chance of getting caught on the cotton swab.

Appetizing, eh? But I'm on my eighth day of antibiotics, and I am hale and hearty once again. 'Til the Boy dances with another childhood ailment, I guess.

Operator, Could You Please Connect This Call

Now that the Boy feels better, I've gotten smacked with strep throat. Poor Hubby. He traded one sick family member for another. Anyway, I've been riding the couch at home for the past two days. When you're home for a stretch of time, you start to notice things, like...

For the love of all that's holy, we get a lot of telemarketer calls! I guess I'm normally in and out of the house when I'm well, so I didn't notice it before. Here's a list of the phone numbers of companies trying to shill their services:

8:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
7:01 PM: XXX.585.6996
6:24 PM: XXX.952.3140
5:01 PM: XXX.688.1146
4:59 PM: XXX.342.4066
4:43 PM: XXX.910.3503
3:32 PM: XXX.204.1128
2:32 PM: XXX.821.0077
2:28 PM: XXX.585.6996
2:13 PM: XXX.324.4066
1:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
12:36 PM: XXX.213.0687
12:29 PM: XXX.458.3014
11:23 AM: XXX.588.4430

Ye gods! That's fourteen calls in nine hours! If I didn't have caller ID, I'd probably pick up the call and waste a couple of minutes each time saying thanks, but no thanks.

Right around call number ten, I decided to re-register on the National Do Not Call Registry. Charities, political hoo-ha, polling agents, and companies from which we've purchased services (ironically named "courtesy calls") will still get through.

But I can hang with (or hang *up* on) that.

Put on Your Mask, My Roseola

Let me just say that I think it's valid if you want to deduct quality points from this post since I'm taking poetic license with a Better than Ezra tune from about a million years ago.

A pox has descended on our house. Its a minor pox, but a pox nonetheless. That's right, the Boy has roseola. It's a lovely little virus whose hallmarks are:

1) Crazy high fever that spikes up to 104 degrees outta nowhere and lasts for 3 to 7 days, reducing pretty much only with the assistance of miracle drugs like baby Tylenol or Motrin;

2) Much anger and irritability in the toddler afflicted with the ailment (can you blame them?);

3) Mild diarrhea;

4) Swollen eyelids;

5) Lethargy/listlessness;

6) To cap it all off, when the fever breaks, he'll most likely develop a splotchy rash on his trunk, arms and legs. The saving grace of this last one is that it is apparently not itchy.

Know what the doctor's say to do? Dope him up with the Tylenol or Motrin as often as needed (while staying within the limits of the dosage directions), give him plenty of fluids, plenty of rest, and lukewarm sponge baths and/or cool compresses.

That's it.

Now, I know viruses need to run their course. But couldn't they just pretend and give me a placebo so that I felt like I was actually doing something for him? Thank goodness his grandparents drove the many, many miles to stay with us during the quarantine. I'm sure we'd be a sight if they hadn't -- Hubby and I are also fighting colds, but neither of us can really take time off of work right now, so I'm sure we make for a fabulously grumpy trio right now. The patience my in-laws have is unrivalled.

Oh, and did I mention that the Boy also has an ear infection?

Let the good times roll...

Sometimes You Kick, Sometimes You Get Kicked

INXS' music has served as the soundtrack of my life. Long before I was able to discern what was cool and what wasn't, they were a part of my collection because I liked the music for what it was. It didn't matter to me that a hottie sang their tunes. It didn't matter that critics and cheerleaders alike lauded their music, that they were a great equalizer of a band, much like the way U2 is today. It didn't matter that they oozed cool. I just liked the music.

"What You Need" was on my first mix tape, carefully crafted when I was 10. "Need You Tonight" was the only song that could get my painfully shy, 12-year-old self out on the floor. "Mediate" taught me who Bob Dylan was. "Never Tear Us Apart" was my first slow dance with a boy at age 13. Kick was the first album I copped from my older sister. "Live Baby Live" was the first concert album given to me at age 16, and was also the tape that I listened to when I drove to my first (brief) stint as an events intern at WBAL TV in Baltimore. In 1993, during the summer between high school and college, I caught the boys from Down Under at the HFStival at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC. When their Greatest Hits CD came out in 1994, I picked it up and played it at college parties 'til I almost wore a hole through it.

Then, in 1997, the year I graduated college, INXS' frontman, Michael Hutchence, died. Since then, I've been spinning the albums with regularity and not a little nostalgia, but I haven't really dwelled on the loss. Chapters of my life were closing all over the place, and his death, and what I thought was the death of INXS, dovetailed with that.

Cut to two weeks ago: I went to an INXS concert at the Tower Theater in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. If you're looking for a local comparison, the venue was akin to the Uptown Theater, except retro-fitted to host live musical acts. Not a stadium, sure, but not just a club show either.

See, my older brother called me up and said that he had two tickets to spare, so he invited me and the Hubby to come along. Problem is, we'd have to outsource the Boy to friends or family for an overnighter if we were going to zip on up to the outskirts of Philly for a concert. And since the Hubby is lukewarm about late eighties/early nineties pop music...well, we decided that I'd go it alone. The last concert I'd caught was the Erasure show at the 9:30 Club in June, so I was itching to see some live music.

As much as I was looking forward to mixing with the general pop fan population, though, I was a little apprehensive. For me, Michael Hutchence was INXS. His mug enjoyed the most screen time in their videos, his hair inspired many a young lad to grow luscious wavy locks, his voice was the telltale sign that the music piping through your car radio was part of the INXS discography. I don't mean to play down the fact that the band, musically, really belongs to Kirk Pengilly, the Farris Brothers (Andrew, Tim, and Jon), and Garry Beers. But all of my teen and tween friends plunked down their babysitting earnings for INXS tapes 'cause of Michael Hutchence.

So why, then, did I nearly cry during the opening salvo of "Suicide Blonde," their first ditty of the evening? Why didn't I cheer at the rebirth of this band that had surreptitiously, inextricably entwined itself with my wonder years?

I can only offer an analogy to explain. For me, it was like seeing a widower whom I love dearly remarried to a very nice woman after a really respectable amount of time had passed since the death of his first wife, whom I also loved dearly. I'd be deliriously happy that he gets to partake of the sweetness of love and partnership once again, but I'd mourn the first wife all over again.

I looked around at the crowd to see if I could glimpse anyone else going through the same Tilt-A-Whirl of emotions. But in a darkened concert hall, you can't exactly read feelings easily, so I let it go and sat back to try to enjoy the concert without overthinking it.

INXS 2.0 is now fronted by Canadian singer J.D. Fortune. For what it's worth, he was adopted into the band via Rock Star: INXS, a reality TV show that aired last summer on CBS and VH1. It doesn't matter how he came to be a part of INXS, though. He's good, and clearly deserves to be there. I didn't watch the TV show, so I didn't know what to expect of him. Older Brother, who was addicted to the show, shared that J.D. has always been a superfan of the group. That's an interesting factoid 'cause alot of times it seems like J.D. channeled Michael Hutchence. I can't tell if J.D. performs like that because he thinks that's what the fans want, or if it's because he idolized Michael Hutchence so much that he can't help but sing and prance like him. Despite that niggling thought, I really enjoyed his performance. Dunno if that's 'cause I want to be aurally fooled or what, but I liked it.

I know I'll listen to their new tunes on the radio. I may even pick up a CD. But will I let this new incarnation into my life again? Eh, probably.

Dental Damn

You know that your dental visit was not a good one when your dentist schedules your next four appointments before you leave. And those four appointments all take place within the next three months.

Looking for Lloyd in All the Wrong Places

This WaPo article sums up the feelings of virtually every chica I know. Cameron Crowe and John Cusack, with one simple little movie, forever altered women's perceptions of attainable love. We got all the gooey feelings of a bodice ripper without the gothic setting. Romance, not lust, for the teen generation. Some (like Chuck Klosterman) would insist that Say Anything actually ruined the romantic expectations of women born between 1968 and 1977. I disagree, 'cause I found my Lloyd. And you know what? It's everything it's cracked up to be.

Valentine's Gift Ideas

It's my experience that there's almost as much value in knowing what not to do as there is in knowing what one ought to do. So...I present to the world (and by world I mean the U.S., Canada, Mexico, the U.K., France, and Australia, where the holiday is celebrated) the top four gifts men should not to buy for their sweeties on Valentine's Day. These gifts have actually been given to friends of mine to celebrate the day...

There are two caveats to this list:

1) If the object of your affection has explicitly requested one of the items below, by all means, fulfill her wishes. But if she didn't...well, she can't be held responsible for her reaction.

2) This un-guide is for significant others only. If you're a parent, or a friend, or a sibling, some of the items below are just ducky.

Here we go...

1) Exercise equipment and/or a gym membership.
This is tantamount ot saying, "You're looking a little plump, so here's a tool that can help you out with that." She may have expressed her generic desire to join a gym, or go leaping like a Gazelle. However, that doesn't mean she wants you to passively agree with her on this topic during the highest of romantic holy days.

2) Domestic appliances/aprons/cookbooks.
She may love to cook, and to try out new new recipes. But anything with the KitchenAid logo stamped on it should not be given on Valentine's Day. "Here honey," says the man proffering an appliance, "let me help you feed me better." Nice.

3) Gift cards.
I know, I know, it seems like it's a good way to go. But it's so impersonal! Gift cards are an awesome thing for Christmas, or birthdays. Know why? 'Cause these are occasions when an individual is probably receiving multiple gifts, from multiple people, and the gift card allows her to pick up that one special something that she'd had her eye on, but didn't receive. And she gets to shop, which is always a bonus. But a Valentine's Day gift is supposed to reflect how you feel about her. And if you go the gift card route, you're saying, "I know you like this store, but it would've taken me a really long time to pick out something you liked, so I'll just let you go ahead and buy yourself somethin' nice instead." Think about it. Gift cards = money (sure, money you can only spend in one place, but money all the same). Would you give your girlfriend/fiancée/wife cold hard cash to show her that you appreciate her love? Probably not...

4) Nothing.
Listen, even if you both agreed that money is tight, and that you won't get each other anything, you should still give her a card. It doesn't matter if it's crafted out of construction paper and crayons. Tangibility is what counts here, folks.

The truth is, there is no silver bullet for this Valentine's Day gift-giving hoo-ha. (And no, that doesn't mean you should run out and buy a silver bullet.) You just need to know your partner, and the gift needs to show that you were thinking about her when you weren't actually sitting next to her. That you know stuff about her. Does she like theater? Get her tickets to a show. Does she like lazy Sunday mornings? Comfy pajamas and breakfast in bed. Has she been singing a song over and over and over again? Buy the CD. Has her car been acting up? Take it in to have it serviced. Does she despise laundry? Wash it for her. Does she want to go out to dinner? Book the babysitter yourself.

And I'm all about equal opportunity, ladies. Valentine's Day should not be a one-way street. You gotta show him the love, too. Don't visit the Snap-On truck unless he said that's what he wanted. Get the video game he wanted, even if you think it's silly. Go see the movie he wants, even if it's Jerry Bruckheimer explode-o-rama. You could even (and I'm just spitballin' here) watch a sporting event with him, without asking questions.

You don't need to be extravagant...just thoughtful. Think O. Henry, not Donald Trump.