Big Bear and the Angry Chicken

WWF WTF!!!!!

2011-12-31T14:33:00.000-08:00

It started slowly. All my friends were doing it. It seemed like harmless fun. It was something I only did socially, and I tried it because I was bored. And now I’m hooked. I’m an addict. Hello, my name is Barbara and I am a Words with Friends junkie. “Hi Barbara.”

I blame that darn Smartphone. It made it so easy to just sign up. And there was that first little ping – a friend wanted to start this online Scrabble game with me. How sweet. My first word was “Dog.” She countered with “Drawl”; I followed with “Wed”; she came back with “Feral”. F. U.C. K. Before I knew it the score was 345 to 82, in her favor.

Then another ping, another friend, another challenge; it was thrilling. What letters would the Scrabble gods throw my way? What words could I create with a simple drag of my finger? I tried my best, I used Xs and Zs, but was still left lagging far behind my competitor – like way behind, like three digits behind.

Words with Friends became my obsession. Soon I was no longer satisfied with my friends. I began trolling that dark world for any random opponent who’d have me. And there were many, like Friday Yah, XYZ23 and JaggerRules. Nameless, faceless players who helped me satisfy an immediate need. Heck, I didn’t even know if it was a man or woman I was playing with. It could have been a hay farmer from Georgia, a Russian novelist, or Alec Baldwin (shiver to think.)

I had multiple games going – all in hopes of increasing my score. Words lost meaning to me. I just saw them for their point value: Wax, Zygote, Quiz – I yearned for these high-point gems. Signs became life-sized Scrabble boards. Every time I drove past Jersey’s renowned hot dog joint, Rhutt’s Hut, the phrase “Sorry, ‘Rhutt’ is not an acceptable word,” flashed through my mind’s eye. (“Renowned” = 14 points)

Ahhh, Words with Friends in a tempestuous dance partner, my friends. Sometimes it was a kind provider, serving up a J, W, C or the wonderful, beautiful high-point B, with the corresponding and critical vowels. I challenged my partners – some strangers to me – with nuggets like “jazz”, “torque” and “nugget”. (“Nugget” = nine points) Other times, it was a cruel prankster, and only gave me vowels. I would look at my screen disheartened, with only “I E E I I I O” as my options. I updated the board with “it” “is” and “in”. (“In”= three points!)

As far as addictions go, Words with Friends was pretty tame. I could smoke, drink or become obsessed with a Chicago-based genre-bending rock-n-roll band. (Oh, wait a minute. . .)

It kept my brain going after hours. Rather than sitting in the couch and frying my brains on bad reality TV, I juiced up the “grey cells” with WWF. (Okay, I never watch bad reality TV because I think that medium is single-handedly causing the stupidification of America. I like The History Channel*.) {Wow if “stupidification” was a word, it would be lots o’ points.}

I even brought my dictionary home from work to increase my vocabulary. I discovered words like “yagi” (a directional radio or telescope antennae), and used that sweet little word to satisfy my dirty, little need for points. (Yagi = eight points) I did not feel bad, I won that game.

And then there were the desperate times when I pulled random letters together in hopes that it would be a word – and it was! Like “obi” (abbreviation for oblique or oblong). The screen would display “sending” and I would have those exciting few second waiting for the points to add to my total.

What a rush when 98 would jump to 128. The first time I broke 300 was exhilarating. I think it was “Quay” that brought me to that milestone.

Now I am always on the hunt for that rush. I swore I would never be that person who was constantly checking my phone while with friends and family. But now I keep checking to see if that WWF icon is up, indicating that it’s my turn. At least I am not updating my Facebook status every five minutes. (“At the gym.” “Eating cookies.” “Back at the gym.”)

Don’t judge me. (“Judge” = 19 POINTS!) I’ve enjoyed playing WWF with my young niece. Until that 16-year know-it-all started whooping my ass. (“Whoop” = 14 points) And it keeps my mind active and will delay my inevitable decent into dementia. (I know it is coming, just don’t know when.)

Even now as I type this, my phone is next to me, tempting me away from my brilliant prose to fill my board. That siren call is pulling me back to that rectangular device, in hopes that I will see those beautiful words: “Your Move.” (“Move” = 10 points)

Could be worse. Could be Angry Birds.

*Okay, I don’t really watch The History Channel, unless it’s Ancient Aliens. (“Ancient”= 13 points)

This is what happens when I get stuck in traffic

2011-12-29T17:27:00.000-08:00

In my defense, this came to me during a five-hour drive from New Jersey to Massachusetts for a Wilco show. My inspiration was the WII-lco t-shirt, which resembles a cartoon. I got to thinking on this long, lonely drive about what the Wilco Scooby-Doo style cartoon would be like. I just started with who would be who, according to cartoon stereo types based on looks.

And then my imagination just went to this place…

Nels: Since he's the oldest, he'd be the smart, rational one in charge -- sort of the Fred, if you will. Often rolling his eyes at the antics of Glenn and Pat (see below).

John: He appears to be just a really nice, normal, intelligent guy. He'd be second in command, sort of the guy version of Velma. He and Nels would be the ones who actually solve the mystery.

Mikael: He wears glasses, so obviously he's the nerdy professor. He's created all these contraptions that come out of his keyboards, e.g., he presses a key and transforms the Wilco-mobile into a helicopter, race car, hovercraft -- whatever the situation warrants.

Glenn: Drummer = wild and crazy guy who's always getting into trouble; scared of dark, scary houses.

Pat: There’s something very Peter Torkish about him. With that mop-top he gives off a very naive, innocent appearance. Therefore, he gets teamed with Glenn to investigate the dark, scary house.

Note: At some point, Glenn and Pat will disguise themselves as French maids to fool the bad guys. Believe it or not, it works.

Jeff: Since he's the front man, the only purpose he serves is to get kidnapped and spend most of the episode bound and gagged.

The plot goes along these lines: Wilco is playing a benefit show to raise money for the local orphanage. The bad guy, Mr. Snively, wants to buy the orphanage to turn it into a parking lot. His dastardly plan to thwart the band's efforts? Kidnap Jeff (see above). So, Mr. Snively's henchmen, Bruno and Max, disguise themselves as teenage girls who want Jeff's autograph. And – despite the fact that Bruno and Max are large men with ample five o’clock shadow, Jeff falls for the disguise. Unknown to Jeff, the pen contains some noxious gas. When he opens the pen, purple smokes flies out and Jeff is knocked unconscious (with the appropriate amount of twirling eyes and birdies).

Back in the dressing room, the other band members realize Jeff is missing. They need to go find him, but the show starts soon, so long-suffering manager Tony M forbids them from leaving.

In true rock-n-roll rebellion fashion, the boys decide to ignore Tony and head out in search of their leader. But how: Tony stationed a big, burly security guard at the dressing room door.

Then the appropriate light bulb goes off over Mikael. “Invisibility!” he shouts. “I programmed an invisibility cloak into my keyboards. All I have to do is play the opening of ‘Walken’, then transition into the mid section of ‘At least that’s What You Said,’ then the close of ‘Spiders’ .. And before you can say ‘Albert Einstein’, we….are…invisible.”

The now invisible boys all sneak out and the search for clues is on. The first one: the discarded poison pen. Professor Jorgensen takes a quick sniff and announces, “If my highly advanced nasal passages are correct, this is knock out gas. And here on the ground is a trail of what smells like Diet Coke. One can only deduce that that a pair of dastardly henchmen – disguised as teeny boppers – fooled Jeff into signing an autograph. Only, the pen was filled with knock out gas than rendered him unconscious, he spilled his Diet Coke and left a trail behind him in that direction.”

Nels hands out the assignments: Nels and John will go to City Hall to find out more about Snively Industries; Mikael will go back to his lab at the Loft to see if he can get any more clues off the pen; and Glenn and Pat are told to follow the trail of Diet Coke.

And the individual adventures go like this…

Nels scratches his head, “Well, ole Mr. Snively must not be too pleased with our little show tonight, which is going to raise enough money to keep the orphanage open for years to come. But not is Jeff is not there. I bet you if we find Snively, we find Jeff. And the show will go on.”

Mikael: Back at the Loft, Mikael has made an interesting discovery. He shows Nels and John that the mysterious substance he discovered on the pen can only be found at Snively Industries. So, Mikael, Nels and John hop back into the Wilco-mobile and head for the big, bad Snively Industries.

Pat and Glenn: The trail of Diet Coke leads to Snively Industries, which, for the purposes of this story, is a dark, scary house. After a few rounds of “I’m-not-going-first-you-go-first,” the boys go inside, holding tight to each other and with the appropriate amount of knobbing knees. They are met with a pair of bright, yellow eyes peering at them from the darkness. The response to Glenn’s shaky “Who are you?” is “Who”. This goes on for a few rounds, with an increasingly agitated Glenn. Mercifully, this ends with an owl flying out.

They find Jeff bound and gagged in a room, being guarded by Bruno and Max. How will Glenn and Pat save Jeff? LIGHT BULB! Dress up as French maids. The boys don the outfits (where they found French maid outfits in a dark, scary house? Who cares? It’s a cartoon and a little thing called “Suspension of Disbelief”) and try to distract the guards. The gagged Jeff rolls his eyes at the attempt.

The French maid disguise works until the wig is pushed off Pat’s head. And the chase is on. Glenn and Pat grab Jeff (still bound and gagged), lift him up over their head and run. They meet up with John, Nels and Mikael, and they all run though the streets of Chicago, while holding the bound and gagged Jeff aloft and being chased by Bruno and Max. This all happens to tune of "Just a Kid," hilarity ensues.

They get back in time to plays to show and save the orphanage.

My Tale from Clinton Road

2011-10-09T17:42:00.000-07:00

Let tell you a little bit about Clinton Road. Every small town has that one creepy house, graveyard or abandoned lunatic asylum. West Milford had the mysterious Clinton Road and the equally spooky Clinton Castle. Rumors said that it was built in the 1600s by some heretic settler who spent his nights in debauched activities with the local virgins and livestock. It was actually built 1907 … in the 1600s the only people in the area where Ramapough Indians and a handful of Dutch Settlers. But that’s not a creepy story.

Long story short – Clinton Castle burned down, the land was turned over to the Newark Watershed and the Castle and the surrounding property was left undeveloped. So – with the abandoned burned out remains of the Castle standing over the pristine Clinton reservoir – the surrounding woods became the playground to Satanists, witches, Nazis or the KKK… at least that’s what the scuttlebutt was. People said that there was a demonic presence that cast a deadly vibe over the area. Hogwash if you ask me.

Oh, I am sure there was some “Satanic” activities going on up there. By that I mean a bunch of 17 year old headbangers taking a midnight drive to the Castle for some Motley Crue, a Anton LeVay Satanic Bible reading, beer pong and mutual masturbation (but not in a gay way… kind of like Liberace was not in a gay way).

So, every West Milford kid was obliged to have a Clinton Castle and/or Road experience – kind of like all New Jersians are required by law to be a Springstein fan. So, one beautiful September afternoon, Johnny (not his real name) drove me up to the Castle. (Being that my tale was on a beautiful September afternoon and not on midnight on Samhain, you know this isn’t going to be creepy.)

I think Johnny may have had some ulterior motive driving me up on that lovely afternoon. Maybe if he scared me with tales of devil worshippers or Nazis I would turn to him for comfort, and maybe let him touch my boob. That was not going to happen. I liked Johnny’s friend, Ben (not his real name, either). I mean Johnny was a drummer, but Ben played guitar…really, who do you think I was going to want more? I was totally smitten with Ben until he switched to bass, and then the attractive waned. (Ben would often regale me with tales of his sexual adventures – for a 17 year old, he was quite adventurous. And all those things he did with Bob [not his real name – dang, I had a lot of weird friends in high school] were not gay – in a Liberace sort of way.)

Back to Clinton Castle on that lovely September afternoon: Johnny started to see that his plan for afternoon dry humping was not gonna happen when, instead of being afraid, I was like, “ooohhhhh, pretty.” So he jumped right away into his tale from Clinton Castle. It goes something like this: The local satanic cult (aka drug addled Ozzy-fans with slightly homosexual tendencies) where having their ritual at the Castle (see: Black Sabbath tape and a big bag o’ weed). The high priest Kevin was all set. Kevin earned that title cos the Anton LeVay Satanic Bible was his. He was also 21, so could buy beer: thus “High Priest”. (He really was a “high” priest – see next paragraph.)

Any who.... this is what Johnny related to me: Kevin had really exceeded his high priest duties that night by bringing not just the beer and black t-shirt, but also the LSD. Our little devil worshippers had piled into their moms’ station wagons and taken that long drive up Route 23 to the dark, mysterious, badly paved Clinton Road. Over the reservoir and through the woods, these bad boys hiked up to the Castle.

Once ensconced at the Castle, the Ozzy started playing and the LSD was handed out. High priest Kevin started quoting Anton LeVay (“It’s good to be bad,” “Christianity is crap,” “I like puppies”.) Moved by the happenings, one of the revelers, Mark, began having visions.

Johnny told me this story with complete seriousness – like he was channeling Stephen King. And this is what Johnny told me: “Mark dropped all this LSD ….and….saw…Satan…in ….Kevin’s….FACE.”

I said, “Ummmmmmmm…what was the first part of that sentence?”

Johnny replied, “Mark dropped all this LSD?”

Me: “Ummmmmmmmm, may that have had something to do with the satanic vision?”

Johnny, shaking his head emphatically, said, “Nooooooo. It was the dark magic.”

No, Johnny, it was hogwash. And when you give another dude a blow job, that’s gay – in a Liberace sort of way.

My Sinuses

2010-08-29T19:04:00.000-07:00

My nasal passages have been conspiring against me for years. What they have against me, I do not know. There must have been some offensive action I committed in my late 20s that turned my sinuses against me. Now, the slightest turn in the weather weighs on my head like a 30 pound dumbbell. My passages so clogged and congested that I’m left a dizzy mess.

This week, what started as my allergies just tickling the back of my throat evolved into a nasty head and chest cold. Did not take the Alleve D in time. Alleve D is a miracle drug that halts the congestion at the first sign, but you have to take it right away. (And another thing – those damn meth heads have made buying decongestants such a task. What up with that?) I started the lovely Alleve D too late, and my sinuses got me.

Work was a fog. Being the super important corporate kingpin I am – I could not take a day off. I could leave early. Damn early. Congestion just made my head so heavy thinking was impossible. When the cough in my chest began to disrupt critical business decisions, I knew it was time to shut my computer and go home.

This was by no means a serious sinus attack…I’ve been clobbered by congestion. Pain so great and head so stuffed I’m dizzy and nauseous. So bad once that I ended up in the emergency room for excessive – hate to be gross – vomiting. The slightest movement would push my balance off course and head me running to the latrine. Then very act of running to the bathroom would set off another vomitous explosion. It sucked.

Luckily, I moved into an apartment with wood floors – opposed to wall-to-wall carpeting that harbored those nasty allergens that set my sinuses off. Then there was the procedure – it involved a long needle, cortisone and my nose. It was gross, painful and it worked. Since then, my sinuses have acted up but have not knocked me out.

So this week I have to contend with feeling kind of eh, a distant notion that something just ain’t right. My chest is phlegmy and my head is hazy—the other day at the gas station, I forgot to put the car in park and started to roll away. I take some more Alleve D, cleanse my sinuses (won’t get into that) and view the world through the white gauze of congestion until my nasal passage have drained.

Ah, my sinuses.

A Perfect Day For Ramen Noodles

2010-08-22T18:19:00.000-07:00

A perfect day to be a Sunday. It’s raining. Sometimes is just some spritzing, then progressing to a steady drenching, not quite a downpour but you still would not want to get caught in it. All the attempts of the past week to get in five servings of fruit and vegetables a day are flushed away like rain down the gutters. I want some Ramen Chicken Noodle Soup. It is hot and soothing and the noodles feel stringy and gooey going down. Yum. I had two cups for lunch. Dinner – peanut butter sandwich.

And I don’t feel great. Just that slightly sinusey feel that leaves me feeling slightly eh. Not enough to keep me home from work, but just enough to make me slow and grumpy. Two attempted naps and some Alleve D later, I’m still not feeling perky. And back to work tomorrow after a week off. *Sigh*

Not the most phenomenal way to close a momentous week. Two words -- Wilco Fest. Actually, Solid Sound Festival, I call it “Wilco Fest” – a consortium, of sorts, of like-minded individuals coming together to celebrate in the glory of our great Wilco. Some modern art, cheap festival food and 5,000 Wilcoians – it was heavenly.

Highlights: Jeff Tweedy in the dunk tank; Laminated Cat, Magazine Called Sunset; the most amazing coffee cake at Belles Victorian Inn; Jeff Tweedy in the dunk tank…did I already mention that? Opps, sorry; Jeff Tweedy cracking jokes and signing his heart out; Mavis Staples shaming me for feeling tire.

Lowlights: Poor line control – I got totally screwed out of front row; parents who took up space with their double stroller – four people could have stood there, and where were the earplugs for the kids????; that one group that feels they’ve the right to the front row cos they get it every time – like it makes them some sort of Wilco dignitaries. Sheez.

Now let’s talk about Philadelphia Folk Festival. $300 for a one hour and 30 minute Jeff Tweedy solo performance – and so worth every penny. Before I get to Jeff, I can’t fail to mention the hippies. Hippies hippies everywhere – and a great reminder of why I like my 401k and deodorant. I saw many men in skirts, I know they would call them “kilts” but that wasn’t Scotland and William Wallace was nowhere in sight. Okay, I’m square, I will admit it.

Now Jeff. I realized at Wilco Fest that I am on the low end of the Wilco Crazy Fan Meter, but I’m not crazy enough to let a chance to meet JT pass. Even if he was standing outside the high-end Port a Johns. In my defense, I was not standing outside the door waiting for him to finish his business. He was waiting for Jason, the road manager. I approached him and he greeted me with a smile and hand shake. There was a brief conversation about the success of the Solid Sound Festival and he asked me the greatest question. Not, “Wanna make out?”, but, “Is there something you would like to hear?” YES – of course, “You’re Not Alone.” “Oh, I’ll think about it.” And I pouted. I had underestimated the power of my pout because he relented and sang “You’re Not Alone” beautifully. In reality, it was probably on the set list, but in my world it was the power of my pout that did it.

So, I’m in a good mood. I’ve got the post-concert blues at bay, but the jonesing for the next show will begin soon. Jonesing for the next opportunity to have those blue-green eyes looking down at me. (They are more green in real life, and more blue in pictures.)

But, tonight’s the last day of my Wilco high. Back to work tomorrow. Time to step up and be a leader – get that promotion and more money. And save up some bucks for a Living Room Show.

Yes, it’s a good day for Ramen Noodles Soup.

The Squisher

2010-07-04T17:34:00.000-07:00

The gynecological exam can be the most feared—and briefest— moment in a woman’s year. For my visit, I was lucky enough to get the new chair. The new chair tipped me backwards until I was are almost vertical, with my head pointing down and my knees towards the ceiling. I assume it gives the doctor a more optimal view.

From below, the doctor had just down her checked and chirped that everything, “looked good” from her vantage point. She eyed me from behind her clipboard. “I see you’re37,” she said. “How about a mammogram, just to get a baseline.”

As a very conscientious, mature woman, I knew this was the right thing to do. “Yup!” I agreed, and the doctor handed me a prescription and was gone. The entire episode, the breast exam, the pelvic, the prescription, was just about 10 minutes long.

But I was proud. I was doing the mature, responsible thing. Thirty-seven had been a hard hill to take, but I was oddly proud of my age and was enjoying some of the tasks that came with it. Even a mammogram.

Two days later, I arrived right on time with my date with “The Squisher.” I was immediately shown to a small changing room by a broad, yet pleasant woman in cranberry-colored scrubs. She handed me a cranberry-colored hospital gown (I guess cranberry serves as some sort diversion) and told me to change.

After I stripped from the neck down and donned the cranagown, I was ushered to a small, warmly-lit room decorated with calming caramel tones and dried flowers. In the center of the room was “The Squisher.”

The technician in cranberry—I think her name was Lisa—positioned me against the “Squisher” and started to manipulate my breast into place. As barely a B-Cup, that was not easy. She pushed, pulled, and mashed my teeny breast into place, then smushed it between two plates. When I thought it could not be smushed any more, Lisa turned a cranked and proved me wrong.

“Don’t breath,” she said, and disappeared behind the wall.

Don’t worry, I thought.

Lisa appeared, moved to the other breast, and followed the same procedure. Then two more times for the side view.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Lisa chimed.

Not so bad!!! I thought, How could you do this to other women!!! You … you… TRAITOR TO OUR GENDER!!!!

But, it was over. Much like my gynecological exam – it was a thankfully brief ordeal. I was told to go home and wait for the results. But why worry – this was for the “baseline” and there was no history of breast cancer in my family. Besides, nothing bad ever happens to the Morrisons, so I had nothing to be concerned about.

Three days later I was holding a letter that requested “Additional Evaluation” and calling the imaging center for a second appointment. The receptionist cheerfully assured me, “Oh, we just need to take some more pictures.”

I knew what it was all about: body lotion.

I was told not to wear deodorant, perfume, or lotion the day of my mammogram. That morning, I forgot and put some of my “Tupelo Honey” lotion on my legs. That must have interfered with the ex-ray.

I had to sit through a weekend before my next appointment, but I was not worried. It was the lotion, right?

But those two days gave be a lot of time to think about my breasts. They’re cute, but no one would call them “spectacular.” I was barley a B-cup and proud of my perky stature. I could wear cute little t-shirts or low-cut sweaters without looking ridiculous or slutty. I would never sag, unlike my sister, Liz – a Double-D who had to do numerous chest presses to keep her girls off the floor.

Alas, I was often teased about their size. When I would promise to lift my shirt for Jeff Tweedy, my other sister, Mary, would comment that he’d wonder why that 12-year old boy in the front row was flashing him. When Liz’s friends would meet me for the first time, they’d give me that what-in-the-hell-happened-to-you look. I’d be a rich woman if I had a dime for every, “She is NOTHING like her sister,” I heard.

Like all women, my breasts—a perky as they were—make me feel attractive and feminine. They are womanly and beautiful and soft. Deep, deep down inside, I even enjoyed when his eyes would wander downward and not meet mine.

That weekend I also thought about probability. I was the sixth of seven children – the probability of all of us leading long, healthy lives was always something I questioned. I had always been on the verge of being a hypochondriac, and concluded that if a Morrison was going to deal with disease, it would be me. Even though I told myself that lotion was to blame, my mind was filled with worst-case scenarios.

My appointment was for 2:00 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. My plan was to leave the office after lunch, go to my appointment, and be home in time for a 4:00 call with my boss, Kathi, and the marketing team. Easy-schmeazy.

But my brain kept throwing up possibilities: What if I’m sick? What if I have “it”? Will I lose my breast? My hair? What if I can’t take care of myself? Will I die? I’ll never fall in love . . . never dance at my wedding . . . never be pregnant . . . never hold my sleeping, little girl in my arms.

My brave front was just that . . . a front.

Kathi, whose capacity to care was greater than that of the entire 2006 Penn State graduating class, assured me that this second date with “The Squisher” was normal. As I left my office that Monday, her compassionate eyes let me now that she was thinking about my breasts, but not in a creepy, I-should-involve-HR way.

When it comes to a mammogram, two words you don’t want to hear are, “Extra Compression.” I had a vision of my nipples popping under the pressure. Why would I need extra compression for my teeny boobies?

But Lisa informed me that this was not the case. I was just ushered into the caramel-colored room with the dried flowers. There was no explanation other than, “extra compression.” Was it a cyst, tumor, water on the knee, body lotion? Lisa just maneuvered me against The Squisher and pulled, push, and mashed my breast into place: two front views, two side views.

“Okay,” Lisa said, “just sit here and I’ll be right back.”

I sat in the comfy chair in the corner of the caramel-colored room and held by cranagown closed over my sore breasts. My mind kept running, What’s wrong, what do they see?

Lisa walked back in the room. “We just need to take a few more pictures.” More compressions and more ex-rays—this time focused on the left side of my left breast.

“Okay come with me,” and Lisa lead me out of the room back to the small changing room. “Now, sit here,” she said, “but don’t get dressed.”

I waited a few more minutes, looking at my watch. . . 2:40, I needed to be out by 3:15 to get home in time for the meeting.

The door opened. “Barbara?” a motherly woman in her fifties was smiling at me. “Hi, I’m Carol. I’ll be doing the sonogram. Come this way.” She held out her arm, and I followed her to another, darker room. I laid down on the examining table and opened the cranagown.

Carol had short, wavy blond-gray hair. She wore blue liner on her upper eyelid and pink lipstick – the typical make-up of a motherly technician in her fifties. Even the white cotton sweater over her blue scrubs said, “I’m here to comfort you, dear.”

“Okay,” she said (they always start with “okay”), “just put your arm over your head. I’m going to up on some gel, it’ll be a little cold.”

The gel was cool and – the best word to describe it was “goopy”. The lump in my throat was beginning to grow, and I turned my head away.

Carol moved the sensor slowly over my breast and hit some keys on the computer. My mind was racing with all the possibilities . . . tumor . . . cancer . . . chemotherapy. . . illness . . . pain . . . hospitals . . . needles . . . tests . . . tears . . . my mom . . . my dad. . . my sisters . . . nieces . . . nephews . . . my life . . . my breasts . . . what did they see?

Carol finished and handed me a towel to clean the goop off. She left the room to study the results. I looked at my watch, 3:15… I’ll have to take the call in my car.

Carol came back, “Okay (always with the “okay”), we just need a few more pictures. Are you pressed for time?”

My mind did a little flip. What more do they need?!?!?!?

“I just need to make a phone call,” I said. I dialed Kathi’s number and heard her chipper voice on the other end. “Hi, this is Kathi.”

You know when you’ve been holding back the tears, but as soon as you speak, the tears overpower you and your voice is several decibels higher and much faster?

“KathiitsBarbandI’mnotgoingtobeable tomakethe4:00meeting,” I rushed before I started to cry.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“You’re sure.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really?”

“Yep,Gottago.Seeyoutomorrow.Bye,” and I hung up the phone.

Back on the examining table, the cold sensor moved over my damn left breast, going back over the same section on the left side over and over again. Carol hit more keys on the computer. This time, my mind traveled to different places.

If the worst case scenario is true, how will I change my life. I’ll say “I love you” more often and “You’re pissing me off” when needed. I’ll give more time to play and less time to TV. I will not be too afraid or lazy take a chance. I will finally take the sabbatical from work to follow my favorite band, Wilco, across the country. And if I ever meet Jeff Tweedy–by God—I’m kissing him on the mouth!!!!

“We’re done,” Carol said. I think she saw my fear and finally decided to give me an explanation. “Looks like you have a few small cysts. Nothing bad, we just want to make sure. We’ll just get the radiologist to confirm.”

A few minutes later, the radiologists, an older Asian man with graying hair, confirmed three small cysts in my left breast. (Cyst: a fluid-filled mass that is usually benign. Can be removed for analysis.)

The lump in my throat vanished, and I wanted to laugh. But, I also felt a little ridiculous; there are many women who receive much worse news, and I was crying over some cysts.

Kathi, who I called from the parking lot, assured me that my worry was righteous. “That was sooooooooooo scary, Babs,” she said. “You were right to be worried. Don’t ever deny your feelings – and don’t ever scare me like that again!”

Did my dates with The Squisher inspire me to change my life? Well, I’ve not increased my “I Love You’s”, but I call my mom more often. I don’t tell people they piss me off, just remind them how they make me happy. After work, I run to the gym, not to the couch. I’m not traveling across country for Wilco, but will be seeing My Boys in soon.

And Jeff Tweedy had better pucker up!

My Brief Flirtation with Haikus

2010-06-29T18:42:00.000-07:00

So – several months ago Wilco had a Haiku writing contest. Below is my attempt at writing haikus. I think they were pretty good – did not win me a guitar. That’s okay; I don’t know how to play. But, think these gems should see the light of day. My favorite line is "With his tools of distortion."

******
Beautiful Tweedy
How your voice, your words thrill us
Sing now, Sing always

*****

Heart, bird, Either Way
Spiders live and Outtasite
Wilco's best by me

******
Just play me Wilco
All the morning, noon, and night
Ipod blares my boys

*****
Oh my Glenn, sweet Glenn
Pound your skins, make my knees weak
So handsome and tall

*****

Nels blows me away
With his tools of distortion
Guitar God, Heaven

******

Mysterious Mike
Sits quietly in the back
In front for Pronto

*****

Pat of the Mod Hair
Struts, vests, and spinning windmills
He's Wilco's style

*****

John brings steady joy
Keeps the bass with warmth and heart
Our friend in the band

******

To Jeff's wool chapeau
Survived departures and drops
Constant as Stirratt

******

Praise for Jeff's neck-eard
Never seen a finer growth
Whiskers of greatness

What's with the scruffy guy in the wool hat?

2010-02-15T17:44:00.000-08:00

What's with the homeless guy in the hat? That is Mr. Jeff Tweedy ... singer, musician, poet, greatest lyricist of a generation .. and Wilco front man. I mean ... look at him. The unkempt, just-rolled-out-of-bed crumple-ness of him. Check out the disheveled hair, days old whiskeres, rumbled, untucked shirt. And what's with that hat? What am I thinking?

In the real world, I'd avoid him. I'd assume he was here to fix the furnace, and be on my way. I'd think he smelled and spent all his time devouring the lasted X-Men comic.

That's what you say.

Who would guess that when he opened his mouth to sing, out came pure beauty. A voice so sweet and words so luxurious that each word sounds like melting chocolate; songs that greet me like a Grandma's warm hug. He can yearn like no other, and the man can scream...best screamer in rock-n-roll.

I think I'm jealous. I wish I had his gift to make people feel more. That the words I use, phrases I create could put butterflies in folks' stomachs (what the phrase, "The night is dissolving in a cup God lifts to toast the lightening" does to me.)

But I have a plan -- a dastardly plan to show the world the beauty and genius of JT & Wilco. You see... when you call my cell phone, you hear Wilco's Heavy Metal Drummer. And when you hear it, you will think, "Hey, that sounds like a pretty good song. I wonder who it is?"

And I will laugh manically, "Ha Haaaa... you like Wilco. Mua-ha-ha-ha."

And I will convert the world to Wilco -- one call at at time.

And you will get what's with the scruffy guy in the wool hat.

I don't get it???

2010-01-10T14:19:00.000-08:00

I know that I have not exactly embraced technology -- my life is not interesting enough to Twitter or provide hourly updates on Facebook ("going to the gym," "eating cookies," "going back to the gym."). Obviously, there some facets of this online universe that we are all slowly getting addicted to that I embrace (otherwise, I would not be here, right?) but the one thing that troubles me is Instant Messaging. Not chatting with friends at home late at night, but in the office. I just don't think many of my co-workers get it. Or, they've just been so seduced by the wonders of technology that they succumb to it and reject all other forms of communication because IMing is so advanced.

Here's my problem ... this is the message I often get at the office.... "Are you there?" What the fuck!?!?!? If I'm not there, how can I answer you? If you have a question, why not just pick up the phone or walk over to my desk and ask. There's this thing called voice mail -- or, if you are very traditional, pen and paper. You can ask your questions and then I can respond with an answer in a timely manner. The IM "Are you there" can linger for hours if I'm in meetings or just don't feel like responding.

Or there's this one, "Can you talk?" Pick up the fucking phone and find out.

I think what annoys me is the urgency of an Instant Message. There it is -- flashing its importance to me, like your question is more critical than what I'm doing at that moment. And you can't ignore it, whether you are online, in a Word doc, or reviewing a PoerePoint, there it is -- flashing flashing flashing. And when you give in to that beacon of distraction, you get..."Are you there?"

"No."

Charka Blue!

2009-09-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

So, I was down at Long Beach Island on vaction this summer. For fun I went to a psychic. Well, I knew she was a off when she said: A -- My middle name is after mygrandmother or godmother (no -- a nun), and B -- I am committed to one man,but in love with another (No and No).

Then she held my hands and was saying over and over again, "No -- this is all wrong. Have you had a cleansing before?"

Me: "My teeth? Yeah, last month."

Her:"No... a cleansing..."

Me: "Oh, yeah. Well, I eat a lot of fruit and fiber, so that's never been aproblem."

Her: "No, your chakras. I feel like you started a cleansing, but never finished. Your head chakra is open, which can let in some negative energy."

Me: "Nope, only cleansing has been my teeth and bowels."

Her: "Noooo, but your chakras are no good. Karmically, you are off. Were you supposed to be a twin?"

Me: "Are you high?"

Her: "Your chakras have been unaligned since birth. Your parents did not do right by you, karmically."

Me: "Whach you say about my mamma?!?!?!?!?!?"

Her: "I think I should do a cleansing now, finish what was started. You have 7 chakras .. . .$150 a chakra . .. that's only $1,050. A small pricefor to get your life in order."

Me: "Order!?!?!?!? Order this lady!!!!!"

Her: "When are you going to do something for yourself."

Me: "For $1,050, that cleansing better be on a beach in Maui and involvef ruity drinks and hot men!"

Her" "Well, let me do at least your pelvic chakra -- where all your problems are."

Me: "Will it get me laid?"

Her: "Yes."

Me: "Here's my credit card."

Concert Etiquette

2009-08-01T15:54:00.000-07:00

Note: it's been awhile -- yes, I know. But no one reads this any way, so what's to miss?

Okay -- it's happened to us all. You are having a great time at the show, then someone or a group of somones kind of spoil it. And it usually comes down to a lack of respect for those around you. Usually do to an over use of alcohol.

I am usually sweet as pie. A nice person -- sometimes to nice, and I get a little advantage of. But not at concerts -- I turn into a raving bitch if some drunk turd interferes with my or a concert friend's concert experience. The worst was the Softy Boys, 2004, Bowery Ballroom. Two lads who mistook the 12-string, psychedelic love fest that is the Soft Boys for a death metal show, and moshed their ways into a near nose-bleeds.

I knew I was in trouble when the dark haired one said to the blond, "I'm not gay, but I would BLEEP Robyn Hitchock up the BLEEP if I could." I don't know, sounds pretty queer to me. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

So, these lads moshed and pogoed through the show -- and on my foot. It was so bad that folks who had a bad spot were not willing to switch with my primo spot right in Robyn's H's line of vision. I finally had to grab Dark haired lad and threaten him with bodily harm if he did not stop stepping on me.

BTW -- these were the same geniuses who -- after lighting up a doobie at sole Hitchcock show --did not catch on that the object of their non-gay gay lust was making fun of them. Hitchcock: "Smoking marijuana is like walking down a long hall lined with door and it does not stop it keeps going and you look at your watch and it has no hands. " Lads: "Whoo -hoo!!!" dumbasses.

Then there was the intoxicated lass (you could have started a car with her breath) who barged her way to the front of the Wilco stage and began to dance on top of the women who had waited hours in line for a primo, front row spot. Bad form.

So, if you want to sit and contemplate to music, or shake your thang, here are some suggestions I have to ensure that all people can have a great time. As the great Jeff Tweedy said, "It's not just you. You're part of a group of people in a really beautiful way. It's wonderful."

Let's keep it wonderful, folks!

1 -- No talking during solo acoustic shows (that's obvious)

2 -- Make friends! Friends make the long wait on line fun and interesting. Friends save your spot in the front row -- that you braved hours in the boiling sun, soaking rain, or freezing cold for - when you need a drink, snack, or potty.

3 -- If you want to get in the front at a General Admission show, get on line early with the rest of the die hards -- the folks who braved hours in the boiling sun, soaking rain, or freezing cold. I don't care if your sweet gray-haired grandma is in the front row, just don't do it. And just because your boobs are big and shirt is low, does not mean entitlement for the front. You have to work or pay for it.

4 -- Respect personal space. Feel free to dance and bop at will -- I do -- but no one wants you mashing up against them or stepping on their toes. Try what I do -- I don't move my feet. I bounce in place. A bonus -- this is a great upper thigh and ass work out. If I had 2 or 3 shows a week, my ass would be rockin!

5-- Respect the opening act. They are well aware that we can't wait for them to end, but if the bands we love like them enough to have them open, then they deserve our attention.

Those are my thoughts. Discuss.

***************************

Songs You Can't Listen to at Work

Rock-n-Roll "N Word" Patty Smith (I can't even write it down!)

__________

Remember Bravo?

2009-05-25T17:03:00.000-07:00

I was watching an advertisement for The Real Housewives of NJ and thought back to when Bravo was the thinking-person's channel. It even advertised that it was for a more intelligent audience -- showcasing movies and shows that had some art and weight to them. It used to show movies, like Heavenly Creatures, or the Les Mis 20h Anniversary Special, that were aimed at our minds. Now it's just the Real Housewives of wherever, showcasing blithering, self-absorbed idiots who we the people seem to love.

And A&E too. Remember Mr. Darcy? It's not as bad as Bravo, but it's seen it's decline as well. "Intervention" is sensationalism disguised as serious journalism. And how many murder mystery shows can guy guy Bill whatever host anyway?

Then TLC and my beloved John & Kate Plus 8. I thought I was above the crowd because this was the only reality show I watched. It was a show about trying to raise a family in unusual circumstances. Sure, that Kate is a bitch, but it was -- for a time -- real. Now it seems that they are all money and fame obsessed (Kate is, at least) that it's destroying their family. Time for them to turn off the cameras and turn their attention back to their kids. I don't think this is good for my little Aiden. And somebody get that Mady into therapy ASAP. She had issues before.

We're a nation that celebrates assholes -- that why all these shows are so successful. These are people who represent the worst of us -- maybe elevating them makes us all look better. We're snobs, and these shows just justify our arrogance. So, your middle manager in a large financial services corp. who will never reach the top because you are surrounded by colossal ass-kissers who will tramble their way over you to get to the top (when did this start being about me??) and watching some skanky hoe-ish type make the lowest of low battle for her love makes you feel better.

This is also why Wilco will never be on the cover of Rolling Stone. Like Bravo, A&E, and TLC, Rolling Stone has lost its focus. The cover sells and -- while many in the know consider Wilco to be America's greatest band -- they don't play em on the radio; therefore, they do not sell covers.

I rant, but I do not have a solution. Unfortuanately, it's the way of the world. I wish we could shine the light back on creativity, innovation, and talent -- but I am greatly outnumbered. I'm getting used to it, I'm always the odd gal out.

Anywho -- I know I was going to write about my stalker-like tendancies, this was just on my mind. Next time!

*******************

R.I.P Jay Bennett -- wasn't the biggest fan, but grateful what you did for Wilco. I hope you find peace.

CRAP!

2009-05-19T18:20:00.000-07:00

So -- I don't blog for a few days, and when I do, I write a nice, little reflective piece abut growing older. You would have laughed, you would have cried. Then it went poof and disappeared. I'm not inclined to try to recreate it, so this is it. Plus, another song your can't listen to at work.

Back tomorrow with this question . . . ."Am I Obsessed with a certain Chicago-based band?"

************************

Songs You Can't Listen to at Work

"Killing in the Name Of" by Rage Against the Machine

Beige is Not Titallating

2009-05-11T18:24:00.000-07:00

The other day at work I could not concentrate -- all that consumed my mind was that my bra was showing. I chose to wear this scooped necked white shirt, and it dipped too low on the right side.

That shirt is notoriously low. I wore it to see Wilco at the Pines Theater in Northampton, MA. When I was not shaken ma thang to the glorious sounds of my boys, I was yanking that shirt back into place. Funny -- you'd think that I would not mind flashing Jeff Tweedy, but that dang Catholic School education has made me quite modest and demure.

So, since I envision myself to be quite the Holly Homemaker -- I decided that I could save my decency by making the straps a little shorter. It worked for the left side, which was adequately covered. But, the right side was no so good.

Last Monday during my mid-morning snack, I looked down and saw a bit of my bra peeping out. It was not a huge swatch, just a sliver on the upper left quadrant of my right boob. For the rest of the day, I was so distracted by this tiny piece of beige fabric that rose above the white shirt. During meetings, I would inconspicuously try to fix the situation. My hand would disappear behind my back, and all of the sudden my short would be yanked up to my neck. Or, I would close my dainty pink sweater.

The worst was in a meeting with a man that I'm friends with, but not close enough to discuss things like boobs and bras. During the whole conversation about strategy and implementation, I worried that he could see bra. If he did, I wonder if he found it titillating. God, I hope not.

I'm not sure what the worst part was -- that bra was showing, or that it was a BEIGE bra -- how boring, no wonder I can't get a man. Beige is very practical, but not very sexy. To quote someone I begrudginly like, it's time to bring sexy back. Add it to the shopping list -- blue, pink, green, maybe even some red bras. Old Sister Mary Catherine would be shocked!

***********************************************************************

Introducing a new feature . . .

Songs You Can't Play at Work:

I Don't Wanna Fuck Off Any More

By the The Minus Five

You can find it on "I Don't Know Who I Am"

Barb's Blog - Day Two

2009-05-05T19:02:00.000-07:00

Day Two of my blog, and I've no hits? What up?

So you may ask -- Why is this random office drone for a large financial services company blogging? Maybe because I sit in front of a computer all day at the office and need to vent.

Maybe because I always proclaim that I'm such a good writer, yet have nothing to show for it.

Maybe because I want a forum to proclaim my Wilco love?

But, really, it's all due to Spencer Tweedy -- 13 year old son of the Great Jeff Tweedy (or just JT).

See, young Spencer has a blog -- about music, computers, and other items that fill a 13 year old boy's mind. And I admit that I occasionally read it and scan it for the word "Dad." Which, he does not use that often (ya gotta commend the kid for not playing the "Hey My Dad's in Wilco" card.) Then I stopped reading it.

One reason -- kind of feel like a stalker, which I'm just one pair of night vision goggles away from. I should not know what's going on in the Tweedy home, even if it's just about homework. The other -- dang kid's a better writer than me. Very intelligent, well-written young lad -- and it makes my blood boil. Well, not really -- but does make me feel kind of down on myself.

So, to improve my self image, keep me from googling little Sam Tweedy, and curb my after-dinner snacking, I sit at my computer and spill my thoughts. Maybe just for me, maybe some one stumble over the chicken and bear. Who knows -- this may all be pointless.

Closing thought -- my 39th birthday is less than a week away. No husband, not boyfriend, no babies, not even a cat. Thank god I've got a Chicken and a Bear,

2009-05-04T18:24:00.000-07:00

Okay -- who are the Big Bear and Angry Chicken? My first idea for a name for my blog was "She Lifted Up her Shirt at the Battle of the Bands," since I figure I'd be doing a lot of blogging on musics, concerts, and bands. (The line is taken from the live version of Wilco's "Heavy Metal Drummer.") But I thought that title would attract a somewhat unsavory following (i.e., guys hoping to see some boobs). Then I thought abut something to do with the cubicle life of a corporate drone -- since I may be going on and on about the absurdities of corporate life. But, decided that would be too limiting -- since I'm more than just a corporate drone. I wanted something ambivalent, that would not give me away. Kind of like R.E.M. -- a name they choose due to it's lack of meaning (except to people who study sleep patterns). Then I remembered the Big Bear and Angry Chicken. I had a dream recently that I was in my bedroom of the house I grew up in. Outside on the roof was this chicken who was trying to pull the cable line out. There this chicken -- pulling on the line with its wings, scratching at is with its feet. When I tried to schoo away, it went after me. I remember distinctly this thing clucking and scratching at me. I realized why it was so angry -- it was protecting his bear friend -- who was kind of big and slow, and sleeping on the corner of the roof. It was kind of a "Of Mice and Men" thing, with the bear as Lenny and the chicken as the other guy, can't remember his name, but Gary Sinise played him in a recent adaption for PBS. Any who -- I thought that would be a great name for a band or children's book. Or, a blog -- whichever comes first..

I will also use this as a count down to my 40th birthday -- which officially begins on Tuesday, May 12, 2009 -- my 39th birthday. It will be so exciting.

In the mean time, I'm going to look for a bear-chicken graphic to brand my blog.

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