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!)

GaGa has Baggage

It's no secret that the girl has issues. But I'm talking about literal baggage as in luggage, as in Louis Vuitton, Tumi, Samsonite, you get it right?

Among my many responsibilities as the wife of a roadie, e.g., making sure he has clean underwear to pack, has all the necessary toiletries, gets plenty of exercise. I am also in charge of overseeing our bank accounts. 

It doesn't surprise me anymore to see airline charges for luggage - anywhere from $15 to $200. Thank goodness my husband gets reimbursed for all of it. Lady GaGa, however, does not get her money back for her baggage fees. Trust me, her bag tab would make most of us bankrupt.

My husband recalls that during his time with her as a sound engineer, GaGa amassed astronomical charges for overweight luggage. The worst was for a flight from Indonesia to Japan when the total fee was the equivalent of 30,000 U.S. dollars. That's right, thirty thousand United States Dollars. The crew flew with 56 suitcases, more than half of them belonged to GaGa. 

The second worst case, my husband tells me, was in Moscow where the charge was about 207,000 rubles or about 7,000 U.S. dollars. The price came with threats of them not being allowed to leave the country until it was paid. Not very good when they were due for a show in Germany that night.

Shoes, hats, makeup, flaming lingerie. Some suitcases contained just one dress. You must have seen photos of the science projects she wears. GaGa's infamous bubble dress, for example, was packed in a 2 x 3 x 4 foot trunk. Her hats, one for every day of the year my husband says, took up four kick drum cases. I know this for a fact because I accompanied him to a supply store to procure the large containers. I thought they were for, oh I don't know, say, kick drums maybe?

"Nope," my husband told me in a sort of matter of fact way. "They're for all the hats she bought in London." No designer made a suitcase large enough to accommodate the head garnishes. "The powers that be weren't too happy with her little shopping spree," he said. 

"Aren't you glad I only have ten hats?" I wanted to add. But I decided not to say anything and hoped he appreciated my lack of head gear. I also quickly decided not to return to a local store and buy the cute wool hat with a big bow.

I really do sympathize with GaGa's wardrobe lady. I have met her a few times. She's a sugary southern gal who is only a few inches taller than my 4"11 self. I don't know how she manages to keep track of the whole circus of a collection. 

I would rather be in charge of picking up my friend's grandmother's ashes from the funeral home and shipping them to Michigan than caring for very expensive couture as you travel around the world. That's just too much of a liability if you ask me. Especially, if you consider whom all this couture belongs to. I've heard how the Lady has had her moments and apparently she is not so ladylike when she's having them.

Don't get me wrong, I also like to be prepared when I travel and when I say "prepared" I mean having the right shoes to match my outfits. The last thing I want is to look like a bum in a foreign land. But I think being the wife of a roadie has made me a master of packing.

I manage to fit all my stuff into one small carry on. (That's my bag in the photo, the one with the green ribbon) Thus eliminating the baggage fees completely from my travels. The trick is to have one pair of black non-wrinkle pants, one pair of jeans, one black skirt, and a few colored tops. I also have an amazing pair of low-heeled black shoes that I can either sport with a casual or dressy outfit as well as walk a million miles in.

And here's another secret, ladies. The next time I meet my husband in a high-fashion city like Tokyo, I'm purposefully not packing a few items. It will give me a lighter suitcase on the way there and a good excuse to shop once I land. Great idea, eh, eh, GaGa? Rock on!

Wifey of a Roadie - Out!

Allow Me to Introduce Myself...

 

Hello World,

I’ve been debating for some time now (more like two years) about starting a blog about my life or, shall I say, my situation. Today is the day I’m giving in. Today is the day I’ve decided to give all of you glimpses into the life of a wife of a roadie. Most of you have already guessed by the title of this blog that I am indeed married to a roadie.

My husband probably prefers sound engineer or tour manager or whatever politically correct title he’s been assigned for his jobs but the undeniable truth is that he is a roadie. Simply put, he travels the world with various recording artists, some very famous and some not so famous. In fact, I write this in our West Los Angeles apartment as I wait for him to return from doing a few gigs in Miami and New York.

He’s currently working as a tour manager for a pop artist who goes by the name of Erika Jayne. Maybe you’ve heard of her. Maybe you haven’t. Okay, okay, more than likely you haven’t unless you live in Europe where, from what I hear, she’s pretty well known. Anyways, more to come about all of that, but for now let’s get introductions out of the way. So, once again, I say hello.

I’ll write about the crazy adventures my husband and I have had since he started his career. Other times, I’ll write about what the both of us currently are up to. I’ll also tell you what I do to bide my time while my husband is gone and sometimes I’ll write about what I do when I occasionally hit the road with him. Don’t be surprised if I suddenly post something that I wrote a year or two ago. Like I said, I’ve only today decided to go public.

Although, I’m not exactly sure why I want to do this. Maybe it’s because I have the time. Maybe it’s because I need an outlet. Being a wife of a roadie isn’t easy (more to come about this too).

Hopefully, you’ll rant and rave and cry and laugh and applaud and boo with me. I can’t tell you though how regularly I’ll blog. The feeling has to be right and sometimes I’m just not feeling it. Don’t I sound like a diva? Thank goodness my husband is already used to dealing with divas at work. Otherwise, I don’t think this marriage would have lasted as long as it has. By the way, it will be 10 years on June 15^th. Rock on!

Wifey of A Roadie – Out!