Flying With The Eagles

I still have a buzz from Saturday night. I’m sluggish, headachy, nauseated, and have an overall feeling of unpleasantness. No, I didn’t drink. I went to see the Eagles in concert at The Forum.  The Madison Square Garden Entertainment Company claims they spent $100 million dollars and I was looking forward to seeing this concert mecca’s makeover.  I do so love the Eagles. There’s just something about thousands of screaming people under one roof that tends to make me want to run for the hills. I often remind myself that it isn’t because I am grumpy and don’t like people, it’s because I am an introvert. It turns out I am evil as well but more about that later.

I read an article put out by, The Domains Project, that if you put a drop of lemon juice on 100 people’s tongues, and measure how much saliva is produced, those producing the most will be introverts. Introverts are more stimulated by the environment than extroverts and may react more strongly to it in every way, even taste.

Armed with that knowledge, I purchased two tickets (they were selling out fast) that cost nearly $250. Without looking at a seating diagram (duh) but considering the price, I was confident that the seats would be close enough to the stage that we wouldn’t have to depend on the jumbotron screen to see what was going on.  LOL (I really am laughing out loud, but it hurts).

Okay, so it turns out that we were not informed that section 208, row 22, seat 2 & 3 should require, GPS, hiking shoes, trekking poles, tethered harnesses, helmets equipped with headlamps and perhaps a pee bottle.  Pest repellant is useless in this situation.

The air was thinner at that height but because the heat from 15,000 bodies tends to rise and the venue must not have paid the full electric bill because the air conditioning was non-existent. Somebody got ripped off. I sat there sweating and wondering why I would spend our hard-earned money to sit in hellishly uncomfortable seats spaced way too close together. You would think $100 million dollars, would pay for plush, leather, canopy chairs, cushy headrests and built in speakers but I guess money just doesn’t buy what it used to.

My negative musings were harshly interrupted by loud hoots from the couple behind us. They were howling every two seconds even though the only ones on stage were the roadies setting up. Obviously, this couple had smuggled in their own supply of alcohol instead of filling out the credit application required to finance a couple of beers. They were already lubricated and greasing up for the show.  I only had one frayed nerve left and they were getting on it. In fact, they intended to ride it with a cinch and latigo like a bareback bronc.

“Woo hoo!” is a sound I could go the rest of my life without hearing again. Why is it they never lose their voice during the concert? “Woo Hoo!” The Eagles came on stage. “Woo Hoo!, Woo Hoo!, Woo Hoo! Woo Hoo!”

Have you noticed that the universal sign language of turn-and-glare does nothing to dissuade people from annoying you? I remember a time when it carried some weight but those days are long gone. “Woo Hoo!” The Eagles are performing, Already Gone. “Woo Hoo!” My ears are starting to drip down my neck in an effort to escape.  “Woo Hoo!” I can almost hear the harmonies in, Take It Easy.  I gave my husband a look of apology and helplessness. He just smiled and nodded his head to the beat of the music.  Several more, Woo Hoo’s and the people around us begin use the universal sign of annoyance on the couple, again with no luck.

The Eagles finished their song and the narration of their history was camouflaged with a barrage of Woo Hoo’s. To add to the misery, the woman was constantly flailing her arms and jutting her hands in the air in the shape of hook ‘em horns and screaming how much she loved Henley. Sadly, I doubt he heard her. I was having visions of swinging around, grabbing the couple by their slightly protruding woo-hooing lips and throwing them down the several flights of cement stairs we had just climbed. 

The Eagles announced they would do one more song before taking a break. “Woo Hoo!!!!”  It was this particular woo hoo, placed in a pocket of silence that prompted my husband to stand up, lay his jacket across my lap and turn around. My first thought was, uh-oh, clean up on aisle 23, but what he did next will forever impress me. He took the lady’s hook ‘em hands in his in mid-hoo and said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm and I’m not asking you to stop but your yelling is killing our ears. Would you mind switching seats with us?”

She immediately apologized and they were happy to switch seats. That put them one row closer to the stage. My new neighbors thanked us and intermission began. The loud couple went to relieve themselves and a man further down in row 22 shuffled by and as he passed I noticed the sweat glistening across his upper lip.  His wife was fanning herself. He looked at me and said, “I only ever punched one woman in my life but I was ready to punch her.” I didn’t respond because he didn’t look receptive to having a conversation.

The concert began again and the woo hoo couple eventually returned huffing and puffing from their long climb. Once they caught their breath, they resumed their woo-hoo’s with just as much enthusiasm as before but thankfully it wasn’t as hard on our ears. Yet, her arms were flailing, spirit fingers pointing and she began standing up to block our view.

I leaned over to apologize to my husband. He smiled and whispered, “you know I recorded the history of the Eagles on our DVR from Showtime. We could be at home right now, sitting on our couch, hearing every word, every song, pause it if we need to go to the bathroom or make a sandwich and a bottle of water doesn’t cost seven dollars.”

I pointed to the stage. “But we wouldn’t be seeing them in person.”

My husband smiled and squinted.  “They look like miniature action figures.”

We left the Forum right after the Eagles played Hotel California. We checked out of the place AND we were able to leave. The cool night air rushed to meet us at the door and it felt as if we had been released from prison.

We have decided to curtail our concert viewing but I’m sure the woo hoo couple will more than make up for our absence.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

I was watching a movie with my husband today when all of a sudden he paused it, looked to the left and to the right then nodded, “Motorcycle.” He resumed the movie.

I asked him to pause it again. “What do you mean, motorcycle?” 

He thumbed over his shoulder and in the next moment a motorcycle roared past our house. “See?” He said, with his ever so familiar I-told-you-so expression.

He resumed the movie and I sat there wondering why I hadn’t heard the engine coming. Is it because my hearing isn’t as good as his is or am I better at filtering out meaningless noise? Often, he tells me when my cell phone is ringing. It baffles me that he can hear it because I keep it on vibrate, it’s inside my purse and is in the next room. How could anyone possibly hear that well? Especially when music or the television is on?

You would think his hearing would be impaired from all the years he has been a musician but it certainly is not. We were recording music one evening and suddenly he stopped playing.

“What’s that noise?”

I shrugged. “I don’t hear anything.”

“It sounds like Rice Krispies in a suit case.”

After a lengthy investigation we discovered it was the sound of carbonation coming from my diet Pepsi can. It had to be removed before we could continue recording.

He tells me when the coyote’s are yelping on yonder hills at night, what type of helicopters are flying overhead and can hear the neighbor’s kid practicing his dance moves in his back bedroom. No, we don’t share any common walls.  He knows when someone pulls into our driveway and which friend it is by the idle of the engine.

He is aware of how many scoops of ice cream that plop in my bowl when I sneak to the kitchen for a snack. He can hear me take the plastic top from the peanut can no matter how quiet I try to be and why does the plastic chocolate syrup bottle have to make that rude noise when you squeeze it? It must sound like a faulty air horn to him. He hears it all. It just isn’t natural.  It feels like I’m under surveillance. 

I’ll bet the government has use for someone with his hearing abilities. I’m sure someone is conducting studies for the acoustic analysis of the sound of the flight patterns of chestnut tiger butterflies.  Just having the capacity to hear bacteria communicating and chatting it up with each other before they have the chance to infect could put us on the road to riches!

We’ve been talking about getting a dog. Great. Now I’ll have two individuals with superior audio skills who will be monitoring my activities.  I will never be outside of their awareness. Ever. I may have to invest some dollars in a white noise generator or a toy drone to act as a decoy if I want to escape their detection. But then why would I want to do that when it gives me such a wonderful feeling of being safe?

Holiday Shopping and ADD

This year I thought I would make a couple of changes to avoid the traditional holiday stress. I need to take it easy, beat the crowds, the frustrating search for parking places and cold weather. I decided not to cook the holiday dinner and to do my shopping online but I wasn’t quite sure where to start. It has been said that Amazon is the granddaddy of online shopping so I started there…Click…

Several family members are the crafty type, I typed in Arts and Crafts and found over a million results for crafts ranging from fashioning headbands to carving elephants on a gift box.  The elephant signifies power, commitment, strength and royalty. I really should research some images to make sure the finished product would be an accurate representation…Click…

Did you know that elephants are the first wild animals to understand pointing? I smiled. It reminded me of a dog I used to have, a mixed terrier named Stinker Bell.  When I wanted her to see something I would point to it but instead of looking into the direction I was pointing, she just looked at my finger.  “Look!” I said excitedly but her eyes remained glued to my finger.  Ultimately, I would put my hands on the sides of her head and aim her line of vision. Eventually she would either see what I wanted her to or it would be too late and she would completely miss the point of interest…Click…

I just searched points of interest. Did you know that Egypt has seven zoological parks? Oh my God, just recently a giraffe named Roqa hanged herself inside her enclosure. They believe it is due to the political unrest. It seems police fire tear gas at chanting protesters and the vapors make their way to animal enclosures.  Earlier this year three bears died mysteriously in one night. They called it a ‘bear riot’. Surely there is something that can be done to bring peace and calm to man and beast…Click…

It seems ancient Egyptians knew a lot more about our endocrine system than first suspected. They believed that our pineal gland located in the center of our brain is the portal that our soul passes through from life to life.  Meditation can stimulate this gland and provide answers to questions about the existence of an afterlife. I really have to get back to meditating. I wonder why the Egyptians scooped out and discarded the brain when bodies were mummified if the pineal gland was so important? I just found some Pineal Activation Cream. It is said if you apply it to your third eye, you will be much more open to psychic experiences. That would be awesome, then I wouldn't have to guess what everyone wants. I just bought some...Click...

Wow, someone has invented a build your own potato gun with PVC pipe and a rudimentary combustion chamber fueled by hair spray and ignited with a barbeque lighter.  The demonstration video is quite impressive.  This gun is capable of mashing a large russet baking potato against an abandoned car window effortlessly. Might come in handy if you have a lot of dinner guests or enemies for that matter. Raw potatoes would leave real serious tater knot on your head. Click…

My sister and I got a Mr. Potato head for Christmas one year. The bug eyes always scared me.  We had a Mrs. Potato head too.  I think this is why so many women believe they need lip augmentation. They played with Potato Heads when they were little. Have you even seen the lips on Mrs. Potato Head...Click…

My mother used to make the cheesiest potato pancakes from leftover mashed potatoes. Yum. Even though she’s been gone a long time, I still think about her cooking. The taste of her Sunday pot roast with homemade egg noodles sticks like a magnet to my mental refrigerator…Click…

Isn’t it funny how some people get into a routine with their weekly menus? Growing up, Monday was spaghetti, Tuesday was pork chops and gravy, Wednesday was chicken, potatoes and canned corn, Thursday was meat loaf, with roasted vegetables, Friday was fish sticks, and Saturday was hamburgers.  My father was an excommunicated Catholic due to his divorce but I can think of a multitude of other sins that he could have been excommunicated for. There’s little worse than a bitter Catholic. I suffered from second-hand Catholicism growing up; it’s many times more carcinogenic than second hand smoke. I think the only commandment he threatened us with was, ‘Honor thy Father and Thy Mother’ and that was the end of any possible conflict.  Even though he was dropped-kicked out of the church (can you believe they used to do that?) he never ate meat on Friday. Maybe he was afraid he’d go to hell. As a child, I promised myself that I would never develop menu monotony after I grew up but I can’t count the number of times I would be stirring spaghetti sauce and suddenly realize it was Monday…Click…

It is often said that more bad things happen on Monday than any other day of the week, heart attacks, accidents, long lines, rude clerks and memorials. Monday night football used to drive me batty. Memorial day is always on Monday.  Scores of years before it was called Decoration Day…Click…

Good Grief, I forgot about decorations! So caught up in holiday shopping that I need to buy a tree and replace the ornaments that I accidently gave to Goodwill last January. It was probably on a Monday, spaghetti day….Click…

Man, this online shopping is for the birds. I can’t see that it has saved me any time at all! Sitting in front of the computer for hours and not have ANYTHING to show for it, well, sounds like a typical day for me. There isn’t enough time to get gifts shipped on time now so it looks like I will be out among the throngs again, pushed, shoved, stepped on and honked at...Click... 

Sigh, I have to admit, I do love the memories made during the holiday season…Click…

Up Against Medical Advice

During one of my lunch hours last week I called my doctor to schedule a routine, bi-annual blood test. It’s a very busy office, and just as I anticipated, the receptionist who answered my call asked if she could put me on hold. I sat at my desk and played with my shoe letting it dangle from the ends of my toes bored from listening to the advertisements boasting of the wonderful services the clinic provided. Suddenly, the announcer asked a shocking question, “Do you know if you have an abdominal aortic aneurysm?” My eyes widened, my ears opened and my shoe dropped to the floor. I pressed the receiver harder against my ear.

The following explanation was provided; the abdominal aorta is a large blood vessel that supplies blood to your abdomen, pelvis, and legs. An aneurysm can develop at any time, in anyone, but it was the next sentence that really got my attention. The monotone voice went on to explain that there are virtually no symptoms that will warn you of this condition. The larger an aneurysm is, the more likely it is to rupture. I rested a hand on my abdomen and gently pressed. If there were no symptoms, how would I know?

What the heck kind of hold entertainment was this? Why don’t they play the typical, noxious please-hold music, like every other establishment aching to have power over you? This is cruel. It would be like an airline, showing continuous documentaries of plane crashes on a non-stop fourteen-hour flight.

“Aneurysms develop slowly over many years,” the voice cautioned. “If they rupture, treatment is needed, and thin, hollow tubes called catheters are inserted through arteries in your groin.” I crossed my legs tightly. “The outcome is good if an experienced surgeon repairs the aneurysm before it ruptures. However, less that 50% of patients survive a ruptured abdominal aneurysm.”

I would have been more comfortable, rapidly stabbing holes between my fingers with a pocketknife into the top of my desk. I looked at my watch. I had listened to the abdominal aneurysm warning in its entirety and now was being asked again, “Do you have an abdominal aortic aneurysm?”

My skin turned clammy, I was anxious and I felt my heart rate increase. I quickly turned to my computer and looked for any information about this medical condition. The Internet is a great source of medical information that doesn’t bother to sugarcoat anything.

I frantically pressed around my navel. It could have been a pulsating mass I felt, I wasn’t sure. My bladder seemed to be overfilled with fluid, but then, I was on my third cup of morning coffee, and I had been on hold, approaching the twenty-minute mark. I was dizzy and nauseous… both were classic symptoms. I took my pulse. My heart was racing. I felt confused. My fingernails were a strange bluish color, or at least I think they were beneath the flaming-red nail polish I was wearing. I became light-headed and began to sweat. My breathing was shallow and I thought I might faint.

It has been years since I was obsessed with the idea that I might have an undiagnosed fatal disease. It was like being constantly accompanied by an uninvited annoying and depressing traveling companion. I ditched her at a rest stop and now she was back!

In the next moment, the receptionist interrupted the recorded antichrist, the Nostradamus of health threats.

“Can I help you?”

“I think I’m dying!” I screamed into the phone.

“If this is an emergency,” she said calmly. “Please dial 9-1-1.”

              

Let's Do The Time Warp Again

A wise Arizona Indian chief once said, “Only a white man would believe that you could cut a foot off the top of a blanket and sew it to the bottom of a blanket and have a longer blanket.”  Wisely, Arizona does not observe Daylight Saving Time.

In my opinion, this is a very logical observation. Nevertheless, year after year we in other states fool ourselves by continuing to sew an hour to the bottom of our summer days and cut it off again in the winter. The custom began in 1918 though it wasn’t wildly popular and so was discontinued in 1919. Unfortunately, the practice was resumed in 1942 and referred to as ‘war time’ and damned if it didn’t stick.

In 2007, immediately following the manufacturing of my radio alarm clock that was pre-programmed with the time to change automatically on the last Sunday of October, a law was passed to end Daylight Saving Time on the first Sunday in November. Lord knows I’m stubborn. So for the sixth year in a row, it seems I would rather be late to work than replace a perfectly good alarm clock. Just because some do-gooder thought it would be helpful to invent a smart clock is no reason for me to have to spend my hard earned money on a clock that I don’t have to arm wrestle with.

I awoke for the fourth time on Monday, October 28^th (It takes at least four snoozes for my eyes to fully open). I sighed and turned the alarm off and prided myself for resisting a fifth snooze. I always feel guilty (but not enough to stop) for hitting the snooze button because my husband is also in the room and although he never complains would probably prefer that I wouldn’t insist on sleeping in 9-minute intervals when I should be in the shower. 

So there I was taking my time, thinking I had forty-five minutes to get ready, when I looked at the kitchen clock. I always wish I could catch that look of stupefaction on video so I could show it to myself in preparation for next year. I had fifteen minutes to get dressed, paint on a face and drive to work. I transformed myself into one keystone cop and managed to only be fifteen minutes late. The same thing happened last year, and the year before…etc.

The next night, I tried setting my smart alarm clock to the correct time but in the middle of the night it readjusted and I was late to work again. On the third night I got smart and set my alarm an hour earlier so I wouldn’t be late yet still have time for a couple of nine minute intervals. Success!

I would be happy if I could remember that I will be an hour early for work the last week of March but we all know I won’t.