Words

June 24, 2010

When I was growing up, there were only a "select few" that my sister, cousins, and I deemed worthy enough to display on our school lunch boxes. If you grew up in the late 70's and early 80's you know what I'm talking about. These lunch boxes really did look like boxes only they had handles, opened up like briefcases, and had a matching thermos inside with convenient pop up straw.

Back then these food totes were like accessories, windows to your personalities, and probably what defined which table you sat at during lunch. The guy with the Scooby Doo lunch box sat at the nerd table. The girl with the Charles Angels lunch box was at the snob table. I had a Strawberry Shortcake lunch box and my sister had The Smurfs, which more often put us at the same table with the Scooby Doo lunch box guy.

But my older cousin Ginny? She had a Bee Gees lunch box. It was beautiful, slightly embossed, and made of metal. It also had the matching thermos, of course. My cousin went to a different school. But I'm pretty sure with a lunch box like that she sat at the cool table. Man, I wanted that lunch box and every time I went over her house, I'd admire it as if I was literally in the front row of a Bee Gees concert. Sigh.

Those Gibb brothers could really groove and I seriously think they sparked in me an attraction for skinny white boys. Hence, I married one. On a side note, a good friend of mine recently told me that her father and stepmother decided to be cremated when they die and so gave their grave plots to her and her sister. The plots are located on the same hill where Andy Gibb, the youngest of the Gibb brothers who died before he was inducted into the group, is buried. My friend and I agreed that this generous gift from her father was both morbid and totally awesome. "It's very hard to find prime real estate like this in Los Angeles and at such a good deal," I told her.

Anyways, my favorite song of all from the Bee Gees is a song they released in 1968 called "Words." In my book, it's the sweetest love song I've ever heard.

Ironically, "Words" has very few words - about 100 from my last count. Still, it goes to show that, as the song says, it doesn't take much to steal a woman's heart away. My roadie husband sang one karaoke song and my heart was his. He was probably relieved that he didn't have to do much wooing with love letters, poetry, and anything else that required a lot of verbiage. That's because he is a man of few words. He listens more than he talks. I guess that's why he is a very good sound engineer (which is the formal title he holds). He's the guy who makes sure that what the artist hears sounds good and sometimes he's also the guy who makes sure that what the audience hears sounds good too.

This requires a very skilled set of ears. I should have figured out that there was something special about those ears when I first saw an old black and white photo of my husband's great grandfather. Grandpa Huckleberry had ears so big I bet he could hear people talking in their kitchens a few miles away. Those things were like radars.

Well, my husband's ears aren't quite as big as Grandpa Huckleberry's although my sister always joked that my husband could use his lobes to fly away. I think his ears are cute and go with his face, which to me is also cute. Most of all, those ears certainly get the job done. I should have my husband's ears insured. Why not? From what I hear, J-Lo has her butt covered (uh, no pun intended).

Since my husband is a small talker and a big hearer, then you can only imagine what kind of conversations we have. I admit that most of the time my mouth is moving a million miles a minute and I bet his ears are tuning in and out just as quickly. Couple that with our present situation and man oh man! Our conversations can get really interesting.

Here is a sample of conversations that could only happen between a roadie and his wife:

(When he was doing some work with Queen Latifah)

ROADIE: I have to go back to La's house tomorrow and help her with some music files.

WOAR: Again? I wanted to take a drive up to Malibu.

(When he was on tour with Lady GaGa)

WOAR: Seriously, you've got to tell me if she's really a guy.

ROADIE: She's not a guy. She's a girl.

WOAR: Wait a minute, how do you know?

ROADIE: She just is okay.

(When he did a few shows with Christina Aguilera)

WOAR: So is she nice?

ROADIE: I really didn't get to talk to her much.

WOAR: Not even a hello?

ROADIE: Well yeah. Oh, but right before the show she took her cough drop out of her mouth and wanted me to throw it away for her.

WOAR: What?! Did you?

ROADIE: No, her manager took it.

WOAR: I was about to say, you wouldn't even hold my cough drop for me!

(Last year when he was on tour with the Paradiso Girls)

ROADIE: Can you do me a favor?

WOAR: What?

ROADIE: Will you go upstairs to my computer, find the Patron Tequila file, and e-mail it to me?

WOAR: Clean or dirty?

ROADIE: Clean

(Two months ago while my husband was in New York with Erika Jayne)

WOAR: More confetti canons arrived today.

ROADIE: Ok. Just bring them inside and don't open the box.

(Last week, the day he left for Oregon)

WOAR: Who was that on the phone?

ROADIE: Arggghhhh! Steve Vai is having a private party at his house on Saturday and they want me to mix his show but I'm going to be in Oregon with Erika.

WOAR: Sucks to be you.

(While he was in Oregon doing a show with Erika Jayne and her five gay dancers)

WOAR: Well, I'm getting tired.

ROADIE: Yeah, the show is going to start here soon and I still have to load the confetti canons, give the dancers their flashers, and light a fire under their butts.

WOAR: I don't think you want to necessarily say that "fire under their butts" phrase in the same sentence with "gay dancers."

ROADIE: Whatever.

WOAR: What are these flashers anyway?

ROADIE: They're like camera flashers and they strap them on.

WOAR: Ookaaay. I'm still not getting a visual but that's OK. Goodnight.

Wifey of a Roadie - Out!

Oh, and the winner of the guess-who-my-husband-is-and-what-model-guitar-he-is-playing contest is.....ahem....the envelope please.....

CONGRATULATIONS to On the Road Again for being the first to respond with both correct answers. Anonymous, you seriously blew me away with your very detailed answer but technically On the Road Again had it right first. On the Road Again, your prize will be in the mail. In the meantime, I have posted photos of the prize pick personally signed and decorated by me! You like?

Oh and On The Road Again? If you're not on the road again or can get to a computer please say a few "words" in acceptance of the lovely prize - ha!

Where Did You Get That Hat?

June 18, 2010

It is 10 p.m. and I'm listening to the the Stanley Holloway version of "Where Did You Get That Hat?" and I'm cracking up. My head is spinning from the jolly lyrics and dance-a-jig beat. Apparently, the little ditty is an old Victorian folk song. Makes sense. Back then hats were mandatory. To be seen without a proper hat was like being caught with your pants around your ankles. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Anyways, the song just started when I literally went into the bedroom to get a hat. It belongs to my husband (who by the way left for Oregon earlier today) and I'm wearing it now as I write this. It is a straw Fedora from Target. The tag says that it was made in China and is intended for men who are ages 14 or older. Ha! I'm breaking all the rules. Look out GaGa! Yes, The Wifey of a Roadie is going to show the world that she, too, can put just about anything on her head.

Well, as you probably guessed, I am writing about hats because this post is the sequel to my S.O.S. post. For those of you tuning in for the first time, S.O.S. was basically about the great difficulty my husband was having looking for the same bucket hat that Joe Satriani wears. Folks, we finally found it. It's not an exact replica but at least it is one that my husband is satisfied with.

So, where did we get the hat?

Of all places, we found the hat on the Santa Monica Pier. Yes you read that right. We found the bucket hat on the famous landmark that is the last hurrah of the historic Route 66. Thank goodness, we didn't have to travel the whole 2,448 miles from Chicago to California to get there.

We just zippity-zipped on the 10 west freeway and 15 minutes later we arrived. Finding the hat was purely unintentional. We really weren't looking for it. My husband and I just wanted to walk along the oceanfront. Every once and a while, when he's home, we try to explore this big old city that we live in. We figured it was kind of odd that we know our way around London more than we know how to get around our own neighborhood in Los Angeles.

Well, during this particular jaunt to Santa Monica, we wandered first into a small aquarium exhibit where we saw some very interesting shark eggs with baby sharks squirming inside. I was both captivated and disgusted. Then we made our way onto the pier.

Even on a weekday, the Santa Monica Pier is in full carnival mode. Street, or shall I say, pier performers give it their all to entertain tourists and hopefully make a few bucks. Who can't resist riding the famous merry-go-round or having a few thrills on the Ferris wheel or roller coaster? There was sun above and ocean below and we were having a great time.

Then we saw her. The hat lady was at her booth with a whole lot of hats. Funky ones and classic ones, tall ones and short ones. Hats for men and women and kids. Hats for all occasions and even for no occasion at all. I bit my lip and went on over to have a look. Maybe...just maybe.....

Score! I felt like a Laker fan at the June 17th championship game. There it was, a few actually, stacked on top of each other at the end of a row of hats heaped upon hats. I called my husband over and he was in hat heaven! "You buy two, I give you good deal!" the hat lady said. Sold!

Needless to say, my husband walked away with two hats and one big smile. Me? well, I'm just relieved that it wasn't an exact replica of Satriani's hat.

Hats off to you Santa Monica Pier hat lady!

- Wifey of a Roadie, hanging up her (err, her husband's) hat for the night!

P.S. Of the two photos above, can you guess which one is my husband and can you also name the model of the guitar he is playing? The first to respond with both correct answers will receive a handy-dandy, one-of-a-kind, super duper, guitar pick signed by yours truly :p (I know it's not much but hey at least it's something, right?)

S.O.S.

March 9, 2010

Among the many fashion phases of my life (believe me, there were many including a corn-row Janet Jackson phase that I'd like to forget about), as a true child of the 70's and 80's, I went through what I call the ABBA phase. From the boots to the bell-bottoms to the bangs, I modeled my colorful and very match-match outfits after this hit pop group from Sweden. Even now, in this century, I occasionally have the urge to wear bangs and high boots.

So I'm not one to judge when someone else goes for a certain look inspired by one of their favorite musical performers or actor/actress. And to help the average person transform themselves into a "supastaaaah" (superstar), retailers usually are one step ahead of the game - often stocking their shelves and racks with all the look-a-like outfits and accessories.

Hello all you buyers, store fashion consultants, or whoever you are that makes things happen or gets items from point A to point B, you dropped the ball big-time!

We just spent nearly two whole hours at a local mall looking for a bucket hat. Not just any bucket hat, mind you, but a bucket hat that resembles the one Joe Satriani wears. My husband has been looking for the hat for the past four months and, let me tell you, it is like finding a needle in a haystack or last minute tickets to a Black Eyed Peas concert.

You would think that living in a fashion conscious city like Los Angeles would make it fairly easy for one to find a hat style that is worn by one of the most famous guitarists out there.

Good grief, a desperate Google search on my BlackBerry informed me that even Mad Hatter hats were available for pre-sale before the movie debut but Joe Satriani bucket hats were no where to be found - if not in our world then much less on the World Wide Web.

We went into store after store looking for THE hat. There were plenty of sort-of-similar hats but not THE hat. I even looked, to my husband's disapproval, in women's accessories sections. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

I've never seen my husband so disappointed over not finding an article of clothing in a shopping mall. Now that I think about it, I've never seen him spend so much time in a shopping mall.

Usually, he's looking at his watch as I'm asking him if an outfit looks cute or not. I told him that I understood completely. Or rather, now he should know how I feel when I can't find the perfect shade of pink shoes to match my pink dress. Not cool.

We finally gave up the search after I found the closest match to THE hat hanging next to the women's purses in a Kohl's department store. Personally, I thought it would look nice on him. All he had to do was remove the little bow tied around its brim. He told me it was time to go.

Once home, he schooled me on THE hat's features as he played a special ordered video and freeze framed shots of Satriani donning his hat.

"I can make that," I sighed, realizing that perhaps it was my call of duty as the wife of a roadie to fulfill her husband's hat dreams. We spent the next few minutes discussing cloths, patterns, and colors. More than likely we will be going to a fabric store next week to purchase all the appropriate materials.

But just in case any of you out there know where I can purchase such a bucket hat. Please, please, I beg of you, let me know. I will be forever in your debt from sparing me from turning our apartment into a millinery. If you need a visual here it is.

Wifey of a Roadie - Sending out an S.O.S!

I Just Wanna Rock (Living with Joe Satriani)

March 8, 2010

We don't have a TV.

I guess that's why home life, or in our case apartment life, is very busy for us. You'd be surprised what you can do without television. Anyways, you can watch just about anything online and our place is probably the most internet accessible apartment in the city. 

Some families have a TV in every room. We have computers, six total, all of them Macs with the exception of one that will soon be replaced by a Mac. One computer, the Mac with the broken disk drive, is on my treadmill so I can listen to music or watch movies while I am power walking. 

The PowerBook G4 is the one I'm using now. The iMac is in my husband's studio for all his music composing. That's where the PC is too but he only uses the monitor as a second viewing screen. Finally, the two other Macs, MacBook Pros, are in any given place in our apartment at any given time and when my husband hits the road, so do they.

Enough about the Macs. You want to know about Joe Satriani, right? But I'm sure the infamous Professor Satchafunkilus has a Mac too. All musicians do and if they don't then I'm sure they really want one. Anyways, I'm getting there. Patience, my dear boys and girls.

When my husband is gone, I write and sing and dance and have free rein of the place, which by the way is another perk when you're the wife of a roadie. Also, (I'm sure my mother-in-law would not believe this but I swear on my father-in-law's corvette and on her corvette for that matter) the apartment stays clean. 

When my husband is home, the apartment is not as clean as usual because there are a few unpacked suitcases that stay stuffed for days. His socks also have a life of their own and when they are home they like to lounge on the floor (also for days). We lounge too and (also to my mother-in-law's surprise) we cook a lot. 

We've managed to have our own spaces in our small place. His is the loft and mine is the living room where most of the natural light streams in during the day. We have cathedral ceilings and large windows with a great view of the Von's grocery store parking lot, the 10 freeway, and airplanes flying into LAX. 

When my husband is home, we also work on music together. He composes and produces and I write the lyrics and sing. When the blinds are drawn, I'm sure that the people out there can see into our little world, especially when we are in the loft recording our music. 

I am sure they're thinking, "who is that girl in her pajamas with oversized headphones and a blue sweatband around her head and what in the world is she saying into that microphone. Wait. There's a guy too. He's at the computer. What is he telling her? Oh wait. Now she's throwing the headphones down and stomping off. What in the world! Why don't they ever watch TV like normal people!"

So yes, it can get dicey when we are both at home but it's not only when my husband is being the producer and I'm acting like Kanye West.

My husband is a Joe Satriani disciple and will do just about anything to follow him even if it means purchasing a $2,000 JS 1000 Ibanez guitar to get a front row seat at the local Guitar Center where the Satch-man is hosting a workshop. No worries if he has to later tell his wife that he charged it on the credit card. "But I got it signed," he said. "It's priceless." I'm looking for hidden cameras because I swear we have to be filming a commercial.

I wasn't too happy about the charge but I understand, to a certain extent, where my husband was coming from. I've seen Satriani in action. My husband and I had gone to one of his concerts at the Wiltern with a few friends. Going there was like landing on Planet Testosterone. 

I thought I would be bored watching a bunch of men rock out to a guy wail on his guitar for an hour without any lyrics. But the music was amazing and Satriani made that guitar sing like any rock diva out there. I quickly decided that "Surfing with the Alien" is by far my favorite song by him. It's just out of this world, man!

Later, I would read somewhere that Satriani was inspired to play the guitar when the great Jimi Hendrix died. He had heard the news while at football practice and told his coach that he was dropping football and picking up the guitar. More power to you dude! He was only 14 years old.

Incidentally, my husband was 14 years old when he first heard Joe Satriani's "Summer Song." He was at home and actually had a TV back then. A Sony commercial came on with the song as the theme music. After some investigating, my husband learned who the composer was. He was hooked and asked his mom for an electric guitar. 

I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that since his teen years, my husband has come a long way with his guitar skills and he is pretty daggone good. He plays all sorts of stuff both on electric and acoustic, but his favorite songs to play are none other than the songs by the ever-talented Joe Satriani. 

At home, my husband frequently shreds Satriani songs on his guitar. Oftentimes, it is while I'm trying to write an epic story. When this happens, it is like trying to have a rock concert at the public library during mid-term week. Not a good idea. 

Either I have to wear earplugs or he has to put his headphones on. The diva in me refuses to wear earplugs and listen to myself breathe. So he usually concedes to wearing headphones.

In fact, he's currently wearing his headphones and laying down a backing track to Satriani's "I Just Wanna Rock." I know this because, even with the headphones, I can still hear whispers of the song. I'm sure it's loud under there.  

For all you non-musicians out there, a backing track is basically a Karaoke version of a song for instrumentalists. Apparently, there is no backing track available for Satriani's "I Just Wanna Rock" so my husband has taken on this sacred responsibility. All you Satriani wannabes will have him to thank. Now you will have this splendid up-tempo song to jam to while you don the apropos bucket hat and sunglasses.

This is, however, an unusual night in our household. I've managed to invade a little of my husband's studio space, comfortably plunked down on the couch and working on this blog. So here we are, the writer and the musician, peacefully coexisting -- at least for now. Great. He just slipped his headphones off and turned up the volume. Not bad though. Rock on!

Wifey of a Roadie - Out!

P.S. Listen to my husband's "I Just Wanna Rock" backing track here.

Missing You

My grandmother died on April 5, 2005. She was 92.

Grandma, hands down, was the first person to introduce music into my life. A very devout believer in God's Kingdom as the solution to mankind's problems and the Holy Scriptures as a guidebook to living a good life, she regularly had a Bible study with me, my sister, and my two cousins.

During these studies (held in our houses) us four young girls would learn about staying morally clean, obeying our parents, and of course Jesus Christ and Jehovah God. Each lesson would vary but always, and I can't emphasize this enough, we sang a religious song after opening prayer and before closing prayer. 

They were called Kingdom Melodies and they were beautiful. The songs were about doing God's will of telling good news to all, living forever in paradise, and no more pain. We sang them so much that we eventually had them memorized. And let me tell you, Grandma could carry a tune! She could hit those high notes like Mariah Carey!

As we got older, Grandma didn't feel the need to have Bible study with us anymore. She figured it was up to us now to take what she had taught us and find our own way. Some of us stuck to the teachings and some of us didn't. But all of us never forgot those Kingdom Melodies. How could we? Grandma was always singing them.

I would stop by her house to visit and eat (because you could never visit Grandma and not eat) and she would be in the kitchen making chicken adobo and humming a Kingdom Melody - letting those notes spin in the air along with the aromas of vinegar, soy sauce, and steamed rice.

One of my fondest memories of my Grandma was when she made homemade donuts. Flour was all over the place, especially in her hair and on her face and hands. I'd often linger by her side waiting to lick the batter from the spatula and bowl. Most of the time, I had to do it when she wasn't looking because she was paranoid of salmonella poisoning. Sometimes I got a lick in and sometimes I didn't. But one thing was certain, I'd be humming a Kingdom Melody right along with her before the last batch of donuts were done.

There was no doubt that Grandma not only had an appreciation for God but she had an appreciation for music. She loved to hear us girls play the piano (we all took lessons) and as kids we frequently put on impromptu shows of song and dance for her viewing and listening pleasure. She always clapped (even if she didn't know who New Kids on the Block were). As time went on and technology advanced, she was also able to enjoy Karaoke. Oh how she laughed whenever someone got a low score (that someone was usually me).

When I got married, she was pleasantly surprised to find out that my husband was like a one-man band and could play just about everything. He could even play some of those Kingdom Melodies on the guitar. Grandma was impressed and had my husband's back from then on. "Very nice music," she would tell him. Then she would turn to me and say, "don't be a tumultuous wife." 

She was sharp as a whip and sang those Kingdom songs up until she had a stroke in 2005. That's when she started fading fast. Coincidentally, it was a rough time for me. My husband had already left for California with high hopes of pursuing a music career. 

I stayed behind to tie up a few loose ends and those "ends", which included leaving a much-loved career and my family, were not easy to tie up at all. Now my grandmother was passing away and facing the inevitable was not easy without my husband around. They say that death and moving are among the top most stressful situations. I was dealing with both at the same time.

Before I flew out to Los Angeles for a few days to help my husband secure an apartment, I visited my Grandmother at the nursing home. I don't know if she was conscious of me or not but I stroked her hair and held her hand. Then I sang. 

I didn't care if anyone heard me and I didn't care if I sounded terrible. I sang every song she taught me, all the while praying that she wasn't in pain. I told her that I was going to California for a few days and that everything was okay and that she could go now and I'd see her in that paradise that she so often talked about. Then I gave her one last kiss on her forehead and left with a heavy heart.

I was only in Los Angeles a day or two when I got the call that my Grandmother was gone. I didn't cry at first and shed only a few tears later that night. The next day my husband and I flew back to Virginia for her funeral. 

It was a crisp and sunny afternoon. I still remember the pink and white petals from the flowers of the spring trees falling like snow -- something that never ceased to fascinate my grandmother ever since she came to America from a small province in the Philippines where there was no such thing as cold white stuff showering from the sky. 

We laid her to rest next to my grandfather who died 18 years prior and I realized that she went on for a long time without her other half. But I also realized that she had the hope of seeing my Grandpa again and that those Kingdom Melodies helped her keep that hope alive. We said one last goodbye and, of course, we sang those songs that she loved so much. 

Maybe I was in shock or maybe I didn't want to deal with it just then, but as I mentioned before I wasn't as emotional as I thought I would be. As the years passed by the memory of Grandmother's death faded into the back corners of my mind. 

But earlier this week, as I was lying in bed, thoughts of my Grandmother flashed in my mind like a lightning storm. I could see her face coated with flour, I could smell her cooking, and, most of all, I could hear her singing. 

Tears broke from my eyes like a heavy rain. All my husband could do was hold me. "Why are you crying?" he asked.

"When did my Grandma die?" I managed to say.

He thought she had passed away in March but somehow I knew I was crying because it was close to the day of her death. The only thing that could calm me down was a song. I forced my thoughts upon the lyrics of one of my Grandmother's favorite Kingdom Melodies -- a song about restored youth, no more tears, and a resurrection of the dead -- and I let it carry me off to sleep like a lullaby. 

The next day I got curious and I looked up when my grandmother had died. It was no surprise that it was the night of April 5, 2005. I had broke down on the day and hour of the five-year anniversary of my Grandmother's death. 

It's funny how you can never forget certain things even if time has nearly erased them. There are events and people in your life that come to your mind like a song that you've heard a long time ago. Suddenly, you catch yourself singing it for no apparent reason and you can't get it out of your head.  

The memory of my Grandmother came back to me like a song. I'll sing it for the rest of my life along with those Kingdom Melodies. 

Wifey of a Roadie - Out!

How I Deal

Many people have wondered how I handle my husband being on the road so much. 

Honestly, I can say that sometimes I handle it like one of those Stepford wives -- patiently waiting for my husband to call, off to lunch dates and tea parties with my friends, and always with a smile.

Other times, I handle his absence like a Stepford wife with a wire or two loose -- anxiously waiting for his call, not wanting to see my friends, and throwing a temper tantrum.

It's very hard not feeling resentful sometimes when he's sharing sleeping quarters on a big tour bus with the likes of "Paradiso Girls" and "Girlicious", supervising after parties, and having lunch and dinner with these women when all the while you're just wishing he was home spending time with you. These are the times when I really do have to listen to the voices in my head telling me that "it's just a job. Chillax!" 

To my husband's credit, he does his very best to keep the home fires burning. He calls just about every day when he's away. Occasionally, we Internet conference and when he is working in an amazing city for an extended period of time he'll fly me out to be with him. I've practically traveled around the world this way. 

But I am a woman, and most women, I admit, are emotional. On a scale from 1-10, one being completely stoic and ten being completely crazy, I tend to lean toward the higher end of the spectrum, especially during certain times of the month. This is when I really don't have patience for just about anything or anyone and the emotions are off the charts. Brace yourself.

It is day four since my husband left to do a few shows in Miami with Erika Jayne, a pop-artist who's still making her rounds at the clubs but steadily gaining popularity with the late night crowds. Her song "Stars" is straight up dance disco and she has a twist of Madonna in her voice.

My husband is staying at the W hotel. The four-star accommodations on Florida's South Beach accommodates just about anything except cell service so he's having me call his room. 

"Welcome to the Whatever, Whenever experience," the receptionist answers. 

"Is this a hotel?" I ask.

"Yes this is the W," he says, "where you can have a Whatever, Whenever experience." 

"Ooookaaay," I lag and quickly give him my husband's room number so he can transfer me. "Whatever," I say to myself. 

Anyways, the truth is, I've been in a "whatever" kind of mood since my husband left for work. Presumably, the word is my reply to everything lately. This has been irritating my husband simply because he hates the word "whatever" -- especially when it's coming from my mouth. 

So I'm sure he's just loving his stay at a place where he can have the "Whatever, Whenever" experience. Oh well, if he's not having one at the hotel then he is definitely having the ultimate "whatever" experience on the phone.

"So what do you want to talk about?" he asks.

"Whatever," I say.

It's one of those times when the distance has put me in a blah-blah mood. I guess I could have joined him in Miami but I opted to skip this trip since we're planning a huge vacation in the next few months. But that hasn't changed the fact that since his departure I've really had no motivation to do anything, what-so-ever.

My treadmill and I had a staring contest today and I pretty much won. I'm also eating things that I really should not be eating like Subway sandwiches and cookies. I might as well swallow a fistful of gluten. Hey, at least I'm eating something because usually when my husband goes, so does my appetite. Will someone please offer me some cheese to go with this whine???

Back to the telephone conversation. Our little long-distance chat is just that -- very little chatting. There are, however, lots of long intervals of silence. I'm in our apartment and near my laptop, so I have resulted to working on this blog while I listen to him breathe in his "Whatever, Whenever" hotel room. Exciting, I know. 

"You're boring," he finally says.

"I'm boring?!" I exclaim. 

"What are you doing?," he asks

"Nothing," I say.

"Something."

"Whatever." 

This conversation is obviously going nowhere so I ask him if he's going to call me later. He says he doesn't know because he has two shows tonight. Work will wrap at about 3:30 a.m. his time. Fun, fun.

"OK," I say. "Call me later then, or whenever."

He laughs.

"Whatever," I say.

"Whatever, whenever!" he says sarcastically, still laughing.

We get off the phone. I roll my eyes and can't help but chuckle for a few seconds. Thank goodness he can't see this. I've really got to get myself together. Now I'm fighting back tears. I just miss him so much. 

Wifey of a Roadie a.k.a Stepford wife with a wire loose or whatever! - out!

Oh No She Didn't! Oh Yes I Did!!!!!!

When I was working as a newspaper reporter for a large daily in Virginia there was one question that I hardly ever asked,

 "is it okay to publish this?"

It is the obligation of a reporter to tell the facts, regardless of what people may think. Apparently, as the wife of a roadie the rules are different.

My husband and I just had a heated debate over what I can and cannot write about in this blog. This, honestly, is a little exasperating to me having still the hard heart of a hard-nosed reporter. 

We spent nearly an hour going back and forth as to why I shouldn't and why I should. He's currently letting out his aggressions on his electric guitar and, well, you can guess what I'm doing to let off steam. 

I had accused him of defending this certain person. He asked me how I would feel if someone was writing about my business.

"Well, I don't know what they would be writing about," I retorted. "I'm certainly not as stupid as this little girl." I wanted to add, sarcastically, that I guess I am now a superstar blogger with a life so jam-packed with juicy tidbits to gossip about that people are writing about me left and right. Excuse me while I answer this phone call from TMZ. Is that paparazzi I see just outside our window?

My argument was simple: I believe that if one chooses to be in the limelight then one also chooses to be under the microscope and, therefore, is accountable for one's actions.

So if a nincompoop pop star decides to get inebriated one night and (minus the details here out of respect for my husband) gets rushed to the hospital, then they should expect to suffer the consequences - even if it is a little write up in a little blog by little ole me who simply wants to say: 

"Listen you little imp. Grow up. You have no idea how good you have it and neither do you have any sense of responsibility. Just because someone comes around and says 'I'm going to make you a star!' does not give you the license to idiotically drink yourself into a stupor. My husband may have very well saved your life this time but he won't always be there to do so. Even worse, one day you just may have someone like me managing you and I can't guarantee that I'll just as graciously call 911 when I find you marinating in your own throw up. So how's this for some advice. If you can't hold your liquor then don't drink. Isn't that a smart idea? If you don't understand this, go back and read it aloud to yourself slowly until you do." 

Believe it or not, I am a sympathetic person but I am not as sympathetic to people who don't respect themselves. Sadly, most pop stars have no respect both for themselves and other people. They live life without shame and then expect us "other people" to cover up their crap.

Oops, I did it again (to put it in pop-star lingo). I just did one more thing that I never did as a journalist. I gave my opinion. Well, if I must now be censored, then at least I can publicize my own opinions, right?

Wifey of a Roadie - Out (with a head roll and a snap!)