Tag Archives: Chris Martin

Why Chris Martin owes me a refund

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So. I went to see Coldplay for the third time last month. Those of you who’ve read my blog, know me or have driven next to me in traffic know I love Coldplay, specifically, Chris Martin and believe he is magical. Not like a unicorn, because they only exist in the mind of the truly innocent and that guy from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, but still as magical as one can be without the ability to spew glitter on demand. On second thought…

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I was depending on Chris Martin to help me recover from my Annus horribilis, which is not Latin for hemorrhoids but Horrible Year, a term I learned from Elizabeth the Second after she tripped over a Corgi three years back.

 

My year, however, has actually been worthy of whatever award they give First World People when life has smacked them about for more than a week or two.

 

Hold on to your wigs and keys, as Dave Letterman used to say when he cared about what I wanted to see on TV. Don’t get me wrong, I love Stephen Colbert and watch him most every night, but I wish I could have my cake and eat it too and, also that Dave would pop up from time to say something smart and snarky before sinking into his beard again, while Stephen Colbert continues to amuse.

 

Anyway, here’s a list of what has gone on in my life since March 2016. Ironically, I was given a mood leveller in hopes that I would stop dragging my nose on the ground on a regular basis, instead, it knocked me on my ass for 5 weeks while I laid in bed trying not to move my head, which caused vertigo and a plethora of unpleasant symptoms no one truly wants to hear or experience, trust me.

 

As I pulled slowly from that sinkhole, I fell into the larger crevice of my father’s death, followed closely with my big brother teetering on the edge of death for a number of weeks and then, one week after her 16th birthday, my dog, Gracie Louise Greco barked at her last mail carrier, successfully sending him from my porch, gripped in terror, or so she likely thought.

 

By this time, it was late June and I pinned my hopes on Chris Martin, who, most likely was blithely unaware and mostly goofy, because as Dr. Phil says, the past is the best predictor of the future.

 

I had bought my tickets last December, splurging mightily and shockingly to my more pragmatic friends. As a freelance writer, I won’t be taking any solo trips to Paris or even Peoria any time soon. Still, I thought, I love my Coldplay and I took a leap of faith that I would continue to receive a fairly regular, two or three gigs from The Daily Herald on a monthly basis, thereby paying off Chris Martin in hopes he didn’t send out one of his goons to break my kneecaps. Luckily for my legs, I did so and proceeded to squirm and squeal in anticipatory joy for the weeks leading up to the concert.

 

The concert was at the end of July and I would be in the second row between the stage and one of two runways. He would probably have to sit in my lap to perform a couple of songs as I intended to be in his way. My hope was that I would have my face splashed on the evening news: Local Woman Arrested After Chris Martin Incident.

 

Sigh. I dreamt of it nearly every night, knowing that this would end my losing streak and begin a new age of delight and peacefulness if I managed to ignore the conventions and subsequent elections.

 

Unfortunately, and apparently Chris Martin caught wind of my upcoming intent to violate my probation and removed the two ramp, replacing them with one ramp down the middle of the floor. The following ensued.

 

One week before the show I got a letter from Satan AKA Satan. Dammit, Spellcheck, I’m trying to write Satan and it keeps changing it to Satan.   Hang on. Ticketmaster is the accepted term, but, just for the record, I agree with Spellcheck.

 

So, the letter was from Ticketmaster, telling me, due to a production change and I was now sitting in the 24th row, unless I wanted to return those tickets and try to do better, which I did. I ended up choosing 12th row floor tickets, which seemed to be stage right, but turned out to be stage Southern Illinois.

 

Yada, yada, Big Storm, yada, yada $49 parking, yada, yada, jumping kids obscure any view I might had in the steam bath that was the floor of Soldier Field. One more yada, yada, huge storm, buckets of cold water. Concert is cut short, or so I heard as I was in a cornfield in Springfield.

 

My friend and I muddled our way back to our car in a deluge and it took three days before ducks stopped following me, thinking I was a lake.

 

So, suffice it to say, I am less than cured of my 2016 malaise and am open to ideas of how to get past this year without having to live through autumn and Satan. Winter. I meant winter. For the record, Spellcheck is on a roll.

 

By the way, I still haven’t received my refund from Satan. (Ticketmaster. Not Winter.)

 

 

 

Why Game of Thrones, Coldplay and Laundry are a Bad Combination

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Fire and Blood (Game of Thrones)

Fire and Blood (Game of Thrones) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve started and stopped watching Game of Thrones this season. The reason I began was Will Champion, drummer for Coldplay, was set to make a cameo appearance, the reason I stopped was laundry related.

I’ve never been good at getting stains out of my clothes and if I can’t spray an article of clothing with something, throw it in the wash and have it come out of the other end of the process looking like I just carried it home in a TJ Maxx bag, I pronounce it dead and panic about how to rid myself of it.

You can’t give away spotted clothes to anyone, it’s like saying, here’s money for food, but it’s in rupees, good luck to you.

I don’t use rags because I apparently don’t care about the future of the only planet available to my grandkids, especially when you consider that I still buy magazines and newspapers despite my new Kindle. I figure, with the rate technology is advancing, they’ll probably be able to make a new planet from stuff we’ve had lying around for years with no notion of its planet-making quality and once Congress votes on its use, we’ll be set. (Wait for it. You know it’s coming.) So, we’re doomed.

Anyway, to those keeping score, back to Game of Thrones. I watched about six in a row, scanning mass murders for a glimpse of Will, hoping he wasn’t a target, as he seems to be a very nice fellow, despite his habit of stealing nano seconds of camera time from Chris Martin on the rare occasions he is pictured at all.

Here’s something I read about Will; in most photos of Coldplay, he looks slightly insane and not in a good way, in a I’m-currently-mapping-out-a-plan-which-will-make-Game-of-Thrones-look-like-a-Disney-film-and-not-the-current-offering-type-but-the-era-where-Walt-had-yet-to-take-residence-between-the-peas-and-the frosted-sirloin way.

Turns out he’s ruined many of the groups publicity pictures by being in them. I’m kidding, of course, he’s perfectly nice looking, the only problem being, standing next to Chris Martin, in my admittedly warped way of thinking, would make even the affable and charming George Clooney look like last nights perch.

The real reason Will looks as if he’s about to make mince meat of a photographer is that he blinks at inopportune times, thus destroying the photo, so his solution has been to stare into the lens, looking as if a preëmptive prison sentence might be in order, a practice I am considering as I also am a destructive blinker. This has been: Things I never needed to know about Coldplay. Tune in next week to find out why Chris has a scar on his neck. (Hint: Noel Gallagher has nothing to do with it.)

Ok. Game of Thrones. After the fourth murder, in the first ten minutes of the first show, I started watching the show from behind the crook of my elbow which makes it at least twice as difficult to ascertain which mangled victim might be holding a drumstick. After a while, you start seeing drumsticks everywhere, when actually most of them are severed limbs.

By the way, for those of you who have not yet watched this show, here’s my synopsis: many people hate the snot out of most everyone else in the Middle Ages. Rather than engaging in diplomacy and/or therapy, everyone tries and often succeeds at gruesomely murdering every one else and those victims are the lucky ones. Some poor schmuck was hanging from lumber for the whole season while his hosts considered ingenious ways to practice depravity on his body, and there was absolutely no safe word. Plus there were dragons.

After I’d “watched” several episodes, ruining, not only that night’s dinners, but three or four after, my son, who is part of the generation responsible for building a new planet, said in that smirky, I’m-24 sort of way, “You know you could wait until it’s over and google Will Champion on Game of Thrones.” Smart ass.

By that time I had already mopped up (with paper towels) a quart or two of blood from my newly installed bleached wood flooring and that was only from lumber schmuck, (which is a good name for a band.

Once it spattered my “Look at the Stars, look how they shine for you” hoodie, and said hoodie emerged from the washing process with pink splatter marring the perfection of my white hoodie, I had to stop watching.

I’m being allegorical, of course. I’ve never owned any white piece of clothing which wasn’t discolored, rendering it unwearable, for more than 15 minutes of my life. Even if I had covered myself in a tarp during Game of Thrones, my hoodie would have been sent to the Now-what-do-I-do-with-this pile within moments of my trying it on. I once sat on a caterpillar in my mother’s white shorts and she has never gotten over it, and, needless to say, neither did the preëmpted butterfly.

Anyway, sitting here in my previously mentioned hoodie, complete with non-recognizable stains which I am ingeniously wearing over pajamas, I finally watched Will’s 17 second bit as a drummer on Game of Thrones. Not only was it the only clip not marred by human innards, but it was about the same attention he gets from me during a basic concert, so what was the point? Well, he wore a funny hat.

As I finish typing here, I’m beginning to see a problem with this post. If I tag it with Game of Thrones, fans will become irate that I spent little time discussing their terrifying show. If I tag it with Coldplay, fans will become irate that I dissed Mr Champion’s face, if I tag it with laundry, those in charge of clean clothes will become irate that I didn’t pre-treat my hoodie.

Will I get credit for writing the first blog post which mentions Game of Thrones, Coldplay and laundry in the same breath? Most certainly not. If there are three more ardent groups of admirers other than Game of Thrones fans, Coldplayers and launderers…launderators…laundrynistas…, I haven’t met them yet.

OK, The Beatles, but that only gives me another tagging issue.

I can only apologize to each in turn and remind you that violence should not be practiced or even considered by drummers during photo shoots. It almost always ends in stained clothing.

Why Sting Hasn’t Been Arrested

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The Very Best of Sting & The Police

Sting needs a hobby (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Recently I was discussing one of the most famous cases of blatant stalking in which Gordon Sumner trailed after a woman who prefers to remain anonymous, noting every breath she took, every step she took, every single day.

This horrible creature then proceeded to publicly declare that he would continue watching her, and there was little or nothing to be done about it because, and I quote, “you belong to me.”

Creepy, right?

If the stalkee in question ever got a restraining order, it never came to light. Maybe because Gordon Sumner became Sting, thus making everything all right.

But why is it different if Sting shows up in your shrubbery, peaking through your window while you’re breathing and stepping, etc?

Imagine watching TV and you see a shadow at the window. At first you’re terrorized, but when you get a closer look, you see that it is Sting, famous musician and collector of inappropriate relationships, (Besides the woman in EBYT, there’s the schoolgirl in “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” and of course, ROXXAAANNNE! and her habit of buying red bulbs for her porch.)

Would you then scream and call the Police and see if they would come over and collect their wayward former band mate? Or maybe even law enforcement?

Or would you recognize him and say, “Oh. Sting. Does this mean you’re stalking me? Great! Here’s the keys to my house.”

Don’t lie. You’d feel pretty good about yourself. It would probably be a little off-putting when he showed up at your work. Not the first time. The first time it would be like, “Did you know some blonde guy followed you into the parking lot and is now sitting outside in a limo?”

You’d be all, “Oh him.” You might even yawn here. “That’s Sting. He’s stalking me.”

Your co-workers would, most likely throw pencils at you and call you a dirty, rotten,no-good, liar whose pants were currently ablaze, what with you lying and everything.

But, then you’d pull back your chair, settle into your seat and say, “Go ahead. See for yourself.”

When your co-workers returned, not a one would say, “Oh you poor dear, have you called the Police?” (Because I already used the play on words, I’ll just let it be, hoping you will recognize it this time around.)

No. Your fellow employees would rush back into the office and see you with new eyes, especially if Sting bought everyone wildly expensive designer sunglasses in order to buy their silence.

Because you would then have to counter with something way better than designer sunglasses in order to make sure your office mates tell everyone, it would be inconvenient. If you’re being stalked by Sting, you want it spread around.

Or you could ask everyone to take a solemn vow not to tell a living soul, in which case everyone would make the promise, and you’d be assured to trend on Twitter within the hour.

Barbara Walters would make you person of the year along with some housewife with her own TV show, a politician who told the truth on the second Thursday of February and Sting who will have to explain while he feels compelled to follow you around to the detriment of his career, reputation and relationship to his wife, despite the restraining order you took out, because it’s not cool to admit you’re delighted to hear “Message in a Bottle” being sung outside your window at night, although it has absolutely nothing to do with the situation and he probably has a better song is his vast library.

You tell Barbara Walters to take a hike because you never forgave her for making Ringo cry in 1980 and because her face has begun to look like a puppet in that only her mouth moves while the rest of her features remain eerily still.

Tabloids begin to follow you around as well, but cease to do so after several “reporters” fall asleep mid-chase due to your lackluster life outside of the whole Sting state of affairs.

The whole situation would probably lose some luster after a month or six, but you continue to let the situation slide because Sting is British and may know Chris Martin and, when you ask him to get you some French Roast coffee, he flies to freaking Paris to retrieve it.

You may even miss Sting when he wanders off when he finally realizes he’s stalking, well, to put it bluntly…you.

Now, the same scenario with Gordon Sumner and a beat up Chevy Impala. Sure, he has a British accent and therefore probably knows Chris Martin, but after he follows you to the office for the third time, you tell your big brother who has a conversation with him after which he disappears from the face of the earth like all the boys you told on before him.

So what’s the difference? We all know it’s because crazy behavior from celebrities is different from crazy behavior from your basic Gordy. It shows up on ET, Letterman makes fun of it and everyone goes back to Charlie Sheen and his antics.

Now let’s just say a 54-year-old woman plants a tent in the yard of another British pop star to have more efficient access to someone whose name I don’t want to mention (again) but his initials are Chris Martin. How long do you think it would take for him to call the police (small p) and have me…or her dispatched? Turns out about seven hours and I can only blame my inability to write a catchy tune about the hypothetical situation.

In closing I want to say that stalking is a crappy thing to do, it is not about a person’s love and desire for another person, it’s about devious narcissism and celebrities should stop it immediately. I, of course, have not pitched a tent in Chris Martin’s yard because I live in Chicago and hate camping. Also because, unless someone has written a multi-platinum selling song about it, it’s just the wrong thing to do.

Why Football is Not My Religion

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Recently, I created a new religion that I’ve only shared with a few people because if I announced the tenets to the general public, people would either believe or not believe and then there’d have to be a war.

Speaking of the Super Bowl, I won’t be watching. The game which the rest of the world calls “not football,” is just a small representation of war as far as I’m concerned, although there are no religious undertones, which rarely happens. There are those, however, who seem to enjoy football with a fervency of a southern Charismatic Church, in which case, amen and carry on.

Still, and don’t take this the wrong, to me football represents all of the things that are wrong with the world except for chewing loudly, which most likely happens at viewing parties, however, as far as I know, is not sanctioned by NFL.

The idea of football gives me another case of “Where the hell are their mothers?” syndrome, which was last examined in my post Why Mothers Would Ruin Les Miserables. (Football fans: Les Miserables is one of those musical things you’ve heard of which inexplicably involves sudden outbursts of song and Neil Patrick Harris, which is not that surprising. You might like this one, football fans as it has to do with war. Now, back to the game.)

Anyway, so your kid comes shuffling in and says, “Mom, I’m going to go to a large field and play a game where men the size of a bull and twice as hostile, will try to knock the stuffing from my innards (which is the best place for them) if I touch a ball shaped, ironically like a squashed head.”

If the mother is on the phone or watching Judge Judy of course, she will nod quickly and make the move along signal with her free hand. If the mother, however is actually listening she will say, “Do you need a ride to practice?” I’m serious! I’ve seen it happen!

**I want to take this opportunity to state emphatically; I am not criticizing any mothers. It has been my experience in life that 99.9% of all mothers are working at the peak of their game, giving parenthood all they can and then, crossing their fingers and hoping for the best, which is what we do at my church meetings.**

Now, back to the game: For better or for worse, if my son were to relay a request such as the one above I would, most likely respond with, “Over my dead body, let’s go see Les Miserables!” Given, most young men would not find this a satisfying alternative, but some will and that’s why we have the Tony Awards. (Football fans: it’s like the Super Bowl with no serious injuries except for hurt feelings…Feelings are something…never mind, it’s best you don’t know.) Now, back to the game. (I’m told these words are often used during football games and I want you folks to feel comfortable.)

Despite my pooh-poohing the idea of my son’s participation in football, however, he sustained a football injury and isn’t that always the way. He was in the end zone when another kid, who I was persuaded not to sue, ran right over him. My son, of course was sprawled out, drawing pictures of Star Wars Characters and it might be argued that he should have sketched in a less volatile environment, still…This all happened in third grade and I still have nightmares. I want to be clear about it, this actually happened and he won’t particularly like my sharing this, but football is dangerous and everyone should consider that.

Also, by my son’s avoidance of the sport, your sons (and occasional daughters) are safe from my wrath as evidenced by the time my kid was pushed by a fellow two-year-while I Jazzercised on the other side of a glass partition. I still find the occasional shard of glass in my teeth, although I’m told the child in question went on to live a perfectly normal life with only the smallest phobia of organized exercise.

There are those of you who might think I’ve tried to make my son less than macho, but the truth is, he came that way and I simply never tried to whip him into shape. We encouraged other sports, but a kid who is outraged at the rudeness of other players who take possession of a ball he is clearly playing with just doesn’t have the warrior spirit needed to knock out the teeth of his fellow four-year-olds.

Still you needn’t worry about him as he plays lead guitar in a rock band which seems to allay fear that I will not know a grandchild with my genetic material. For those of you that are worrying in that direction, please turn the page on your calendar, we’ve moved out of the 19th century, and whizzed past the twentieth. For those of you saying. “hehe…she said whizzed,” there’s no hope for you. Enjoy your raw meat.

Anyway, because a part of my religion deals with tolerance of those I don’t understand, I’ve had to internalize that football is something I will never understand but doesn’t necessarily make its participants or fans bad people; just people who are missing Animal Planet’s  Puppy Bowl IX; a game where teams are seldom formed and the worst thing that happens is pooping on the field, although you can’t tell me that doesn’t happen in the NFL from time to time.

I’ve come to the conclusion that while some people enjoy Wolverine, other’s understand that Jean Valjean is the greatest singing hero the world has ever known. Which is why Hugh Jackman has been elevated to sainthood in my religion, but has not reached the status of Chris Martin who should be aware that I’m considering an annual sacrifice.

With that, and because the Puppy Bowl starts in 40 minutes, I want to emphasize that no one should consider the previous paragraph as instruction to kidnap Hugh Jackman and demand he choose a side. Watch your Super bowl, spit out nachos as you yell at the team you support, complain about Beyonce as you smear chicken wings on your host’s couch, with my blessing.

Peace be with you. After the Super Bowl. Amen.

Why TMZ is unhealthy for me

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I was merrily skipping through my exorbitant amount of TV stations (skipping being a deceptive word as I have Direct TV and trying to surf their channels is very much like the unlikely event of my mother literally surfing. (Up! And she’s down…Uh, uh, up, no she’s down, etc.) when I came across TMZ, a show populated by third grade graduates, wait…I’m being told they are, indeed third graders, who seem to think they have a career in journalism when in fact they are simply bed bugs dressed like wannabe hipsters.

These six-legged pests crawl into the world, bother people and then return to their nests with tales of how angry people get when they are annoyed by biting insects.

Now, I am not a celebrity and TMZ seems completely uninterested in accosting me as I go about my life, no matter how many times I call ahead to give them a heads up as upcoming whereabouts. So, one might assume that my displeasure, bordering on simmering disgust is out of proportion to the situation and that I would choose to ignore them since there has been no legislation enacted requiring me to suffer fools gladly. You’d be wrong, because on this particular day, TMZ was harassing Coldplay’s frontman and my pretend gentleman friend, Chris Martin.

I know what you’re thinking, aren’t you a middle-aged woman who should have matured beyond crushes on rock stars? A: Is this the first blog post you’ve read of mine? Go back and do your research before accusing me of teen-aged behavior B: Shut up.

Anyway, this post is not about Mr. Martin as much as I’d like it to be. This post, eventually, will be about misplaced anger and why it is unhealthy. Now, back to Chris Martin.

The reason I paused to watch TMZ (which stands for, you rat bastards, you’re going to hell,) was that I glimpsed Chris Martin getting into a car at an airport, which naturally needed immediate attention from the press and never fails to garner mine.

As he was stowing his luggage, wannabe arachnoids skittered towards him, throwing out the kind of questions that are completely appropriate to yell at human beings who write music, sing and put on a sensational show. “How many times do you go to the bathroom everyday?” “Is there a sexual position you prefer when cheating on your wife?” “Can we see your feet?”

Chris attacked ne’ery a one of them and hopped into a car with a smile and a wave. This is where I should have changed the channel, but instead, to my everlasting regret, I lingered, having never had a close up view inside the nest of nuisance insects.

At this point, the “reporters” discussed what was surprisingly evident to them: that the questions asked were less than professional. Then-get ready for irony to make a guest appearance-a female of the species offered, that given the opportunity to accost Chris Martin, she would have asked, “… how he stays married to that insufferable woman,” (Gwyneth Paltrow, presumably.)

Now, I have only achieved an Associate Degree in Ms. Paltrow in the course of getting my doctorate (cyber stalking) in Chris Martin studies. Much to my chagrin she seems to be quite cute, smart and funny, so much so that I almost hate to put my fiendish kidnapping plan into motion.

Even given that information, however, there is absolutely no reason for me to borrow rage from her loved ones, and yet I made the decision to gnash my teeth and carry that insufferable woman (insect girl) with me for more than a week, to my admitted detriment.

(OK, here comes the social commentary portion of tonight’s entertainment.) There are many things which should anger humanity as a whole: injustice, war, and why we can’t cure static electricity, but still, we feel the need to drop coins into the anger vending machine and take whatever random item that drops into a less than sanitary receptacle slot, holding our dubious treasure tightly in our hands and wandering off eating, even though it tastes like the stuff your mother used to make which could only be made relatively palatable with large doses of catsup or ketchup, whichever makes you less angry.

Of course, indignation on behalf of celebrities is a purposeful exercise of which we should all indulge, but do we have to turn our stomachs into acid milkshakes over our neighbor’s rickety fence? (And we’ll be working on it this summer, neighbors, FYI.)

My mother is the queen of random anger, (which is a good name for a band). High on the top of her list, which rivals the government’s Facebook files, are high heels and the women who wear them. On the bright side, neither she, nor I, nor anyone we visited while she was here, wears them. Plus, we agreed that the huge lifts that pass for an elegant shoe these days resemble what The Bride Of Frankenstein might wear to The Bride of Dracula’s open bar wedding reception.

I argued that, since we were neither shopping for these items or are required to wear them to avoid a fine, we might as well laugh at them and then go about our business in the closest thing to slippers we can legitimately wear out of the house.

Instead, my mother chose to grunt like an amplified tennis players every time a woman on TV or in a magazine slipped on these monstrosities and stumbled into view before careening into the next available wall.

My mother has the same reaction to women in low cut dresses, men in low cut dresses and women who dress very modestly (Ellen Degeneres). She hates teenagers, Ann Margret, the idea that she should have to pick up her dog’s poop (She doesn’t. Feel free to become infuriated if she lives in your neighborhood) and the other political party, when she figures out which is which.

Early on in her visit, I explained that anger is a destructive thing which turns in on ourselves unless it’s directed at my middle brother. However, for whatever reason, she chose not to change her lifelong view of the world because I told her to and continued to harrumph at an alarming rate for her entire visit.

I suppose we all have our triggers which we should be able to ignore but, instead offer a rent free room in our mind so we can conveniently visit at our leisure. Whether it’s politics, sports, who lives in the stupidest state, (I won’t name names, but it starts with In and ends with ana…I’m KIDDING! Can’t you take a joke? Why are you Hoosiers so angry all the time?), we choose our own destruction via pointless temper.

Maybe as a New Year’s resolution, we can all attempt to release our anger and find the peace which would replace it.

But don’t @#$% pick on Chris Martin or his circle of loved ones or I will torture myself with unfounded fury. I’ll do it! Don’t think I won’t!

Namaste, dammit.

Why I’m Thankful Post-Thanksgiving

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So, on Thanksgiving, did you go around the table expressing your gratitude? (Prepare for a series of run on sentences. In fact, as Dave Letterman says, “Hold on to your wigs and keys.)) Although we didn’t say it aloud, I’m sure we were all grateful that the burn I got my stomach from nudging a pan of rolls out of my way because my hands were full and my counter more full because the sink backed up and we were unable to cycle the dishes through the dishwasher didn’t mean a trip to the ER where the people who didn’t cook their turkey properly were less than appetizing to be around.

Speaking of thankfulness, and despite what it may seem for the next few sentences, I am speaking of thankfulness; you know how when someone says something to you and you fumble around in your brain looking for Oscar Wilde or at least Groucho Marx and can only come up with the neighbor kid who answers every question with “huh?”? And then, in the middle of the night, when you wake up to worry about vitally important stuff like, should I bring my jacket back the tailor that hemmed the sleeves a good half-inch higher than my wrists or fold shirt sleeves back over the cuff and act like I mean it? You know how, during that same time of the night when TV used to play the national anthem and go off the air, but now airs commercials starring people who can’t sleep because they’re on crack so you don’t bother watching and instead come up with the perfect in-your-face comeback which is not only witty, but thoughtful with the ability to change a persons entire perspective to that of your own, which is the only the only rational point of view? You know how that works, Sparky? That’s how I am when someone asks me a complicated question like, what’s your favorite song or what are you grateful for?

So, when my husband asked me what I was thankful for during our Thanksgiving meal, I could only come up with the fact that my little dog seems feel better and therefore was not urping during dinner. Now that I’ve had a few days to think, I have a much better answer, at least in my opinion. Here are the highlights.

I’m thankful there are so many mind-blowing, reality warping, tear provoking, danceable songs that I can’t come up with just one favorite. I’m grateful that composers can still write new music with the same handful of notes. I’m really grateful that my son is one of them and that everyone who hears his music agrees he’s a freaking genius. OK, not everyone, most people are just impressed with his musical abilities and skills as a conversationalist however, me, his dad, his grandparents, his godmother and some of our life-long friends are in agreement that his is a musical force to be reckoned with. (Please, if you care anything for me, don’t tell him I called him a musical genius as this seems to annoy him.) He’s also adorable.  Buy his CD.
I’m grateful that the election is over and more so, that the election commercials are gone, at least for a few months when the next cycle will begin.

I’m grateful that out latest attendance of the musical Les Miserables is over, because, no matter how astonishing the talent, how evocative the set design, how sweeping the epic, how memorable the music, in the long run, we are paying an enormous amount of money to attend a show with the title, Les Miserables, which translated means get ready to lose hope in everything good in the world. You should go see it. It was sensational and I’m still dehydrated from participating in the mass weeping. What greater tribute is there than that?

I am, as I mentioned, thankful that, after a bill from our vet which fell somewhere between ouch and BWOING, my little dog is feeling well enough to be irritating again.

I’m grateful that my husband made it possible for me to attend the best concert I’ve ever seen. Had I paid to see Coldplay with my own nickels and dimes I would currently be questioning whether I had actually seen Coldplay. Considering the fact that he has seen me slap my hand over my mouth and squeal at the sight of Chris Martin and still loves me enough to pay for me to scream at Mr. Martin in person, that and his charming good looks make him the best husband ever.

I’m grateful that (hang on while I knock on wood) that I have thus far evaded my regular head bashing which I have scheduled nearly every decade whether I need it or not. Thus far, I’ve had three skull related car accidents and one collision with a porch railing when I was short enough to run headlong into a railing. If we ever meet, ask to see my dent.

I’m thankful for the editors who remember I have a car payment.

I’m grateful to those of you who take the time to read my essays which, in case you’ve been thus far unaware, were meant to be funny. I’m especially grateful to those who’ve let me know that they realized this.

And finally, I’m also grateful for my ability to grant wishes to those of you who shared my blogs. Spread the word and bless us, every one.