Category Archives: Blog Posts

Opera Betty: La Traviata

 

La Traviata, as it turns out, means “The Lost One.” This is news to me as I always thought it was a derivation of the verb travailler and had something to do with a working girl. Which would make sense since, as we have previously discussed, a courtesan is a high class working girl.

There’s heaps to like about La Traviata. Operas with courtesans always have great costumes and fancy sets and this one is no exception. Also, someone dies in the end and I do love an opera where someone dies.

The people you need to concern yourself with here are:

  • Violetta – the title character
  • Alfredo Germont – the guy who falls in love with her and whisks her out of courtesanness, kind of like in that Police song or Pretty Woman, if you will
  • Flora – Violetta’s friend
  • Annina – Violetta’s maid
  • Giorgio Germont – Alfredo’s father, (they just call him Germont)
  • Baron Douphol – Violetta’s escort before Alfredo came along

The opera starts with a prelude that is, like many preludes, a clip show of what’s to come – specifically, the love theme and the somebody’s-going-to-die theme. The word on the street is that the prelude is the last bit to be written. Composers are reported to knock them out just as the orchestra is tuning up, wondering where their music is. They can do this because preludes are an assemblage of the Big Smash Hits they’ve already written in the opera. So. The sad violins are the dying theme and the happy violins are the love theme. Moving on.

Act I

A party at Violetta’s house. At this party she’s introduced to Alfredo, who has been charmingly stalking her for the last year. She had been sick (still is – it’s consumption and did I already say she dies at the end? Spoiler alert), and he’s come every day to check on her. He arrives to the chagrin of Baron Douphol who is Violetta’s escort. The baron has not checked on her every day because, well, he’s not supposed to be likeable. After a bit of chit-chat (which in operaese is called “recitative“), Alfredo sings a drinking song. Who doesn’t like a good drinking song?

Alfredo tells Violetta he loves her. She tells him not to bother. They go on like this for quite some time. And then she tells him to go away, but to come back tomorrow. After he leaves, Violetta sings about how swell it would be to fall in love and have someone love her back. And then she decides she’s really meant for the courtesan life after all.

Alfredo is heard singing outside her window, which changes Violetta’s mind briefly, but then she’s all back to living the high life. No way no how will she leave all this for love.

Act II

She has left it all for love. Violetta and Alfredo have been living outside Paris for three months in unwedded bliss and are running out of money. Alfredo discovers this when he talks to Annina, who tells him Violetta has gone to Paris to sell her stuff and pay their bills. Alfredo is horrified and goes to Paris to get the money himself. There are no details as to how he plans to accomplish this. Maybe he learned a thing or two from Violetta?

While he is gone, Violetta comes back. And then Alfredo’s father, Germont, arrives. Germont asks Violetta to leave Alfredo because her reputation is tarnishing the family name. As long as she remains, says Germont, Alfredo’s sister cannot marry her fiance. It’s complicated. When Violetta waffles a bit, Germont throws in the zinger that when she gets old and saggy, Alfredo will probably leave her anyway. Violetta agrees and writes a letter to Alfredo. She goes to Paris and leaves Germont to deal with Alfredo.

Alfredo comes home and receives Violetta’s letter just after she leaves. He also finds a discarded invitation to a party at Flora’s house, so he storms off to Paris to find Violetta.

Violetta does indeed show up at Flora’s party, with the Baron. Alfredo arrives and proceeds to school the Baron at cards. He wins a pile of cash, enough to pay their debts. Dinner is served, but Violetta asks Alfredo to stay back so she can talk to him. She doesn’t explain what happened, just warns him that the Baron will probably try to provoke a duel. Alfredo kind of loses it a little and calls everyone back into the room. He tells them all how she sold everything and, throwing his winnings at her, declares that he’s paid her back. And then he sings to himself  “Ah si! Che feci! No sento orrore!” which is Italian for “wow, I’m a total asshat.”

Act III

Violetta is dying. She’s at her house, which is not such a party these days. She’s attended to by Annina and visited by the doctor, who has quietly told Annina she doesn’t have long to live. Violetta, I mean. Annina’s fine.

At the last possible minute, Alfredo shows up – having been told everything by his father. They sing to each other and Violetta suddenly announces that she feels better. Oh happy day! And then she dies. More sad violin music.

The end.

Abundance: The Zucchini Principle

We’ve been eating zucchini bread, zucchini pasta, stuffed zucchini, zucchini “crab” cakes, zucchini salad and pretty much everything else, up to but not including zucchini cobbler. It is zucchini season and we are experiencing abundance.

I am a fan of abundance.

I love watching abundance at work. The first thing it does is forces us to be grateful. We have to be grateful because otherwise we will be suffocated by squash. To avoid this fate, we take stock of what we have and acknowledge it. That’s gratitude. Even saying “damn, that’s a big pile of squash” is gratitude.

We may express our gratitude aloud, in the form of (for instance) a facebook update such as “Holy huge pile of squash, Batman!” Expressing gratitude aloud then results in an abundance of zucchini recipes.

It’s easy with zucchini because there’s so darn much of it, but this is tried and true: the next law of abundance is that if you give, you will receive. I’ve given vegetables from our garden to anyone who expressed an interest. Not only have we not run out, we’ve been on the receiving end of some culinary windfalls – completely unrelated to what we gave and to whom we gave it.

Don’t ask me how this works. It’s quantum physics.

One day I came home to find a huge box of smoked meat and cheese. Since we are flexitarians (read: dietary hypocrites), there are some meats we don’t eat. So we thought of people who would enjoy it and passed it along. Within the week I discovered salmon fillets in my freezer, delivered by a friend who had a windfall of her own.

When things pile up they don’t benefit anyone. We complain about what we don’t have, but then let what we do have sit underutilized. When our focus is on the empty basket, we don’t notice the one that’s breaking apart at the seams. Why would anyone, the universe included, put more stuff in a basket that’s already overflowing? (It does. It’s just harder to tell.)

Other things I’ve tried this with are jobs, baby clothes and a quart of heavy cream. I love volunteering but I can never do it for very long because inevitably someone comes along and hires me. I gave all our baby clothes and baby-related hoopla away, knowing if we had a second child we’d have everything we needed (we did, and we did). The quart of heavy cream scored me a mended slipcover I couldn’t figure out how to fix myself.

Exhibit B: A friend of mine is a very talented sculptor whose work sells in galleries across the country and can be seen in many public spaces. A few weeks ago I saw a knock-off of his work in a gift shop and emailed him about it, figuring he’d want them to stop stealing his designs.

He just laughed, telling me they’d have a heck of a time duplicating his latest, life-size, commission. He knew no one could steal his abundance.

My friend is no more afraid of running out of ideas and commissions than I am of running out of zucchini.

And believe me, I’m in no danger of running out of zucchini. Here, have some cobbler.

This column originally appeared in The Magazine of Yoga

I have no idea what your name is

I am great with faces, and not so good with names.

Yes, that’s a cop out. If you see a familiar face and are friendly to the person it belongs to, who cares if you know them? They either walk away thinking it was nice to see you, or how friendly people are in this town.

I am by-face-only friends with a woman who goes to the same events I do at least three times a year. Before we became face-only friends I waved and said hello repeatedly, thinking she was my friend Paula. She is not. She is somebody else, who looks, dresses, and walks just like Paula. One day, on probably the 17th smile and wave, I explained myself and we have been strangers who chat frequently ever since.

“Strangers who chat” is my ideal situation, and probably the reason I can’t remember names. Strangers who chat is my happy place. I am perfectly content staying there. I will see the same person every week for several months and be quite happy not knowing names. There is of course a point where it is too late to admit you don’t know their name and then you’re out of luck unless you sneak a picture and run it through the facial recognition software you don’t have but should totally get.

It’s different when you see someone whose name you are expected to know. I don’t know why people expect others to know their names. I almost always remind people who I am and how we know each other, unless it’s my husband or someone related to me by blood. Not everyone does this though. It’s like some kind of test.

As we talk my brain goes through a search function to glean context. Where are you from? When did we last see each other? How much am I supposed to know about you? I haven’t even started to wonder what their name is. It’s like in “The Long Kiss Goodnight,” where Geena Davis realizes she knows everything there is to know about someone and surmises that they were once in love when actually she was supposed to assassinate him.

You have no idea how often this happens to me.

I used to begin the recognition process with “friend or foe?” but found it clogged the machine. Now I figure if I am accidentally nice to someone who dumped my best friend in high school* they will see it as me taking the high ground and will accordingly become a better person, seeing the error of their ways.

There are those people who can sense you don’t know their name and taunt you with it. They refer to you by name. You counter by mentioning something you have in common, which has miraculously surfaced in your brain. They up the ante with your husband’s name, and as you try to remember if they’re even married or not, they ask about the kids by name, acknowledging their correct ages. This is blatant overkill. No one can keep track of kids’ ages, not even their parents.

Five minutes after one of these exchanges I say to no one in particular, “Lisa.” Her name is Lisa. She is the ex-girlfriend of my ex-neighbor.

Twenty minutes later: Her husband is Tariq.

Twenty two minutes: We still know each other because our kids were in playgroup together.

3 AM: Daniel and Lydia. Now 9 and 12.

Don’t ask me to tell you what they look like. For the life of me I can’t picture them.

*As if any of us had boyfriends.

Angels in tutus

When my daughter turned two I made everyone wear tutus at her birthday party.

A friend had given me two bolts of white tulle – reclaimed from her wedding. It was then a matter of buying several yards of elastic and running amok with a sewing machine the night before the party.

It’s important, if you want to feel like someone’s mother, to stay up very late sewing tutus at least once.

When I say I made everyone wear tutus at the party, I should mention that Sugarplum* only had three friends her own age. The party was made up of adults: general contractors, an art gallery owner, a manager from Talbots…you get the idea.

*Not her real name.

Looking back, I realize what good sports my friends are.

And we do look back. Do you know what makes for great pictures? Dressing your friends in tutus.

It’s impossible to be unhappy looking at pictures of people wearing tutus and party hats. Did I mention I added tufts of tulle to the party hats?

There is a saying: Angels fly because they take themselves lightly.

When I was little, my mom would call out a little prayer as I ran down the driveway to the school bus. The quote was “he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways” but all she’d say was “angels charge!”

I grew up thinking it was a verb. Angels, charge! After all these years, I still try to obey her call.

Sometimes we forget to be charging angels. We take ourselves heavily. We do not think we are angels at all.

Do you know what angels are? There were several at Sugarplum’s second birthday party. They jump out of photographs with light hearts and happy eyes.

Maybe angels are moments. Moments of self-forgetfulness. Moments of joy. Moments of lightness and action (because angels charge).

It’s when we take ourselves too seriously that we get bogged down. We let little things unhinge us.

Trust me on this. According to Merriam Webster, “lightness” is:

1 the quality or state of being light especially in weight

2 lack of seriousness and stability of character often accompanied by casual heedlessness

3a the quality or state of being nimble

3
b an ease and gaiety of style or manner

4 a lack of weightiness or force: delicacy

I want to be very clear that I’m not talking about “casual heedlessness” here. I’m going with curtains number three and four. Or even better, Merriam Webster’s alternate definition:

The quality or state of being illuminated: illumination

This morning I was talking to a coworker who had surgery recently. She said the hardest part was asking someone to drive her home. Recently divorced, she was alone and had no one to call.

Finally, she asked her neighbor, who chided her for hesitating. The neighbor drove her to and from surgery, bringing her homemade chicken soup on her return. My coworker noted that the curative properties of the soup were not the ingredients, but the fact that someone made it for her. Later, she discovered her neighbor’s last name is Angel.

Give people a chance to be illuminated.

They are angels just waiting for a tutu.

This column originally appeared in The Magazine of Yoga

Trout Towers eggs

The best possible way to cook eggs

Whoever said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results has never had my eggs.

[“It was Einstein, genius” – my entire family, including the dog]

I can totally cook eggs. I can make a poached egg so perfect it will make you quietly weep. I have to watch a video when I’m doing it to remember the steps, but I can do it. I also do a mean scramble – both the fancy slow cook method and the here’s-your-breakfast-eat-it-on-the-way-to-the-bus method. But those aren’t the eggs I cook daily.

Daily, I make path-of-least-resistance eggs, aka fried eggs on the griddle. Lately I’ve been frying eggs every morning because we are overrun with eggs. Eggs are the new zucchini.

Making them on the griddle means they have a little extra trace of iron. It also means I don’t really have to clean up after myself because you’re not supposed to wash cast iron. Instead, you wipe it off with a cloth, or vacuum it or something. DO NOT let the dog lick it off because it turns out that completely removes the “seasoning” aka layers of absorbed fat and your eggs will stick. Also, people think it’s gross but only if they see the dog doing it. Ignorance is bliss.

So I make these eggs on the griddle and every single time they come out differently. I have heard people in restaurants order all the kinds of eggs I’ve ended up making, so I know they’re legit: over easy, over hard, over easy with a broken yolk, sunny side up with a side of shell, etc. It’s not that I don’t know how to make eggs. I just like to mix it up so people don’t get in a rut. I don’t have a method, I have a repertoire.

Okay, fine. They never come out the same way twice, despite my efforts to do the exact same thing every time except a little more this or that to avoid whatever went wrong the morning before. It’s Mystery Breakfast Theater at my house. You can order whatever you want in my kitchen, but you get what you get and you don’t get upset. Scrambled, you say? Here’s your sunny side over hard.

I see my eggs as a morning meditation for my family. It’s a metaphor for the other things that may well happen to them during the day. Things don’t always come out the way you planned, or were told. Broken yolks, surprisingly rubbery whites, and perfectly solid over easy eggs are a gentle way to encourage my family members to be okay with things that really don’t matter. They get fresh eggs, with a side of buttered toast. When life hands you something unrecognizable on a plate, focus on the toast.

At least until I learn how to make a fried egg.

Cartoons, chocolate cake, and the silent treatment

When we were kids, my sister and I would get up crazy early on Saturday mornings and do things we weren’t allowed to do. It required stealth, dedication, and complete silence – attributes we honed over the years. We were so good at being bad.

We really knew how to live it up. While our parents slept, we’d make ourselves bowls of cereal and rot our brains in front of Saturday morning cartoons. By not waking them up, we could go rogue and put Quik on our Rice Krispies, approximating the highly coveted, sugar-laden cereal mom refused to buy. We’d creep into the den and watch cartoons, sometimes in a pillow fort, banking hours of t.v. time before anyone started paying attention. It was the greatest.

Later, it occurred to us that mom and dad were probably awake, lying in bed silently but for the occasional high five. Furthermore, mom may have forbidden our making of Quik Krispies to ensure that we washed all evidence out of our cereal bowls when we were done. As an added bonus, we had to do all of this without arguing. She’s an evil genius.

To our credit, we figured this out before we both had kids and understood the value of a morning off.

I was reminded of all this today, Saturday morning. It is not early, but I am still being quiet in the hopes no one notices me. While the kids exceed their allotted computer time, I am in the kitchen eating leftover Buffalo chicken strips and chocolate cake. No one is judging me. No one is criticizing my choices. And no one is asking to share.

Do I hear them whispering? Are they saying things like “shhhh, if we’re really quiet she won’t notice.” Or are they completely hip to my shenanigans, bookending me between generations of people benefiting from my silence?

Frankly, I don’t care. It’s Saturday morning and I have cake to eat.

tiny chicken sympathy

Congratulations on your grief

I realized that “Congratulations! So proud of you” was the wrong thing to write on the group sympathy card almost as soon as I signed my name. I say “almost” because it wasn’t until I looked at what others had written that I realized it was a sympathy card. Things like, “So sorry for your loss” and “Our hearts are with you,” and nine other distinctly non-congratulatory expressions.

In my defense, I have signed a lot of congratulatory cards this month. Plus, I am a Pollyanna sort of person who thinks “oooh, who has news?!?” when the phone rings, not “who died this time?” Note: I still won’t pick up. It’s not what I use my phone for, and that’s why God made voicemail.

Anyway there I was, the last one holding a thoroughly signed card.

I tried to figure out how to make my words make sense with additions like, “so proud of your strength” but there was really no way around “congratulations.” Which left me with only one possible alternative because putting the card in my purse and never speaking of it again is something I’m trying to give up.

“I’ll go ahead and mail this,” I said, sealing the envelope before anyone else could see. I tucked it in my purse (where it will never be seen again), and set about making a forged duplicate.

I tried to find the same card but honestly who will know? I resisted the urge to get a graduation card on the sale rack and went straight to the bereaved section of the store, where I picked out a suitably sad yet supportive expression of our shared grief. And then I proceeded to forge my friends’ notes and signatures.

Some were completely illegible, so I made up something appropriate in their place. “We’ll always have Paris,” is my go-to in such cases. Most notes were easy to replicate. To make them more authentic I utilized what I know of the Stanislavski acting method, and became each person as I performed their signatures. Note: I am not an actor, but I rock at googling “what is the Stanislavski technique?”

By the time I got to my own contribution I felt totally legitimate writing “my thoughts are with you.” Like, you have no idea how much my thoughts are with you. In reenacting the others’ laudable thought processes I had spent more time thinking about my friend than it would have taken me to make a casserole. Or a grieferole, as we call them.

I felt actual grief, and compassion, and an overwhelming desire to go to Paris.

Now I’m not saying you should intentionally screw up a group card, but I am saying that if that’s what it takes to overcome a knee-jerk interaction, go ahead and screw up the card.

Also, congratulations. I am so proud of you.

 

10 things I meant to do before my book release party

I imagined this going down differently. The launch is now 5 hours away and I am out of time for a whole list of things I envisioned myself doing. Specifically:

  1. Sit in the sun to cut the leg glare
  2. Have my makeup done again
  3. Decide what to wear
  4. Try on that thing I decided to wear
  5. Give up and buy something new to wear
  6. Send an email to people who subscribed for the sole purpose of hearing about a book launch and now will never make it omg
  7. Live in a country that is part of the Paris Climate Agreement
  8. Warn people who are in the book
  9. Get a fancier carrying case for Turnip the chicken
  10. Write a blog post about my upcoming book launch

Things I did:

  1. Marry someone with a cool last name because it will look so great on the cover
  2. Write a book.

There is a book. We have a gorgeous venue. I will have clothes on.

I’m calling it a win.

Book release party!

Frying Pan Gallery
250 Commercial Street
Wellfleet Harbor, Cape Cod
June 3, 5-8 PM

Books by Susan Blood $15 signed by the author
Prints by Rob Conery $10 signed by the author (includes free download)

Food! Drinks! Books!

Music by Brady Signs
Flowers by GATHER

 

a Cape Cod diet

The Monomoy South Beach Diet

I was listening to Robert Finch talk about his new book The Outer Beach: A Thousand-Mile Walk on Cape Cod’s Atlantic Shore with Mindy Todd on WCAI this morning, and discovered that Cape Cod has its own South Beach. Which means Cape Cod has its own South Beach Diet.

Still listening, I looked up Monomoy South Beach to find out which ice cream stands and clam shacks were closest because surely that would shape this diet. If you’ve ever been to the Cape in the summer, you know it’s all about ice cream and fried food.

I was mistaken. The South Beach Bob mentioned is in the Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge, which changes everything.

Not only is it a NWR, but it is an IBA too – which of course I know is an “important birding area” because obviously my finger is on the pulse of all things ecological, biological, and geological in my adopted region. Or at least it is while Bob is reading. According to Mass Audubon, Monomoy and South Beach are home to many significant species, including Peregrine Falcon, Bald Eagle, Roseate Tern, Piping Plover, Tern both Least and Common, Common Loon, Northern Harrier, Short-eared Owl, Pied-billed Greeb, Short-billed Dowitcher, Sanderling, Red Knot, Ruddy Turnstone, Hudsonian Godwit, Whimbrel, Willet, American Oystercatcher, Black-crowned Night Heron, and Snowy Egret.

If you want to go on the Cape Cod South Beach diet you have to eat marine worms, insects (fly larvae and beetles), crustaceans, mollusks, fish, frogs, seeds, berries, leaves, pigeons, and songbirds.

Which just figures.

I may not know what birds can be found in our IBAs, but I do know that local, native New Englanders do not mess around. They are a hardy, no-nonsense, un-mess-withable lot. They know how to do everything, can fix anything, and will do it themselves, dammit.

People here see your pile of watercress and acai berries and throw a squid and some bear sausage on it. Note: we did have a bear wander over the bridge once – probably in search of ice cream and fried food.

Totally unrelated, did you know that there’s a fish called a Sarcastic Fringehead? Do not look up images of it or you will never sleep again – unless you’re a New Englander in which case you probably eat them with scrambled eggs.

As I have mentioned, I am not from here. I am therefore skipping the diet and going straight to reading Bob’s book instead. I’ll let you know if he includes recipes for marine worms and sand shrimp.

The Outer Beach by Robert Finch

 

I'm told my face looks like this

Writing guitar face

It has come to my attention that my face is talking behind my back.

When I write, my face makes all the expressions of the words in my head, as if I am speaking them. Sometimes I feel this happening, but I hadn’t realized it was noticeable until my teenager pointed it out. Teenagers notice things and then share what they find fascinating. Like what your face is doing when you are lost in thought, for instance.

Unfortunately, odds are good that this is happening all the time. I write for work, I write for play, and I write for my mental health. I write reminder notes and grocery lists. I am writing right now. Before I sat down to write I made coffee and tried some of these words on in my head to see how they sounded together. In other words, I was writing while I made the coffee.

I have thought about setting up a video camera and training it on my face to capture what is happening, but that way madness lies. That’s probably what happened to Greta Garbo, J.D. Salinger, and Richard Simmons. I suspect I have Guitar Solo face when I write, but I’d prefer not to have that confirmed. Rowan Atkinson had the same problem:

The only thing to do is to write about puppies, and subjects that don’t make me ponder deeply. I have an uncanny ability to ponder deeply about things – like why no one has ever called their band Desmond’s Tutu, or what should go on my hospitality rider when I start that band.

To be clear, I am not an open book. I am really good at stuffing my emotional response out of sight in actual conversations. But if I am having a conversation in my head in addition to the one we’re having? All bets are off. I need some kind of alert when I start sorting words in my head publicly. It would work like a posture corrector for my face.

Maybe that’s what meditation is about. Today I’m going to have one conversation at a time and Be Here Now. When I revisit arguments I never had in the first place, I will shift my focus and envision what it feels like to be a leaf in the spring. Today will be stunning and my face will not collapse from exhaustion promptly at 3 p.m.

I’ll let you know how it goes – but it will probably be obvious. It’s written all over my face.

(Illustration is from The expression of the emotions in man and animals, by Charles Darwin, 1872)

makeup lesson

How my makeup lesson went

I was asked for a new headshot. One where you can see more than my eyes over the edge of a coffee cup. One not taken in the ’90s.

And so I set to work fretting about it, which is a long process. Pictures are the reason I drive with an expired license.

In the midst of the fretting process I remembered that I had taken Sugarplum for a makeup lesson and had promised her I would have one done, too. This is why the fretting process is so helpful and important. It brings to light things you wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. Without the fretting process I would have gone barging into a photo session with my own face, and now I don’t have to.

When Sugarplum had her makeup done I had to look twice to establish that she had makeup on. She looked like the inside of a seashell – all glowy and smooth. I want to look like the inside of a seashell, too, so I scheduled an appointment with the same consultant.

It turns out I am the outside of a seashell.

My makeover starts with extra moisturizer because the foundation is falling into my pores. I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good. She applies foundation over the moisturizer, bronzer to replace the color taken out by the foundation, and then blush to lift my face. “See how lovely and dewy it is?” she says, handing me the mirror.

Where she sees dewy, I see damp. Dewy is my lawn in the morning. Damp is my face after I’ve had a hot flash, or run up the stairs, or covered it with wet makeup that is still…wet. I am at a place in my life where I’m more likely to opt for a jar of cornstarch and a poof. But I go with it. At this point there is so much moisturizer on my face it’s only a matter of time before something hydroplanes.

And then it’s the eyes. She puts highlighter and concealer under my eyes to get rid of my dark circles. We both pretend it worked.

She has to remove a little leftover eyeliner before continuing. I don’t tell her it’s yesterday’s mascara, doubling handily as today’s eyeliner. I have time management and economy down to a science and I don’t want her stealing my moves.

Next she gives me eyebrows. I have eyebrows of my own, but they’re the same color as my skin. She fixes that with a $42 pencil, which I buy in a drunken moment of having eyebrows. I also buy the lipstick she swears by because she puts hers on in the morning and it stays put until she eats. In my case that means about an hour of wear, but I vow to eat gently and without using my lips.

I accidentally wipe half my face off on my sleeve in the car on the way home and now I have to change my shirt, which sets me back because I really like this shirt and wanted it in my headshot. Maybe I’ll hold it.

I need to take the photo fast before I lose the other half of my face. Based on her recommendations, it will run me $342 plus tax to replicate this look at home. Tonight I will sleep flat on my back like after face painting at a fair, in hopes I can wear it again tomorrow.

J. Geils, Peter Wolf, and a rock nymph

I love J. Geils, don’t get me wrong. Specifically, I loved (and wore out) Love Stinks and Freezeframe. But it was Peter Wolf’s face I cut out of the cover of Rolling Stone magazine with manicure scissors, gluing him to my bedroom wall. I dreamt of the day when my high power music industry career would give me the chance to meet and mingle with the likes of Peter Wolf. I would be a smart, savvy, rock nymph. There would be affairs.

When I at last had the opportunity to meet Peter Wolf it was exactly like I had never imagined. I did not, for instance, imagine myself middle aged and 7 months pregnant. We were having our second child, so I looked like I was overdue with triplets.

Chris mentioned it so nonchalantly: Peter Wolf was making a guest appearance at a music festival he was doing sound for. He said it like “there will be lobster fritters, Peter Wolf, and free parking.”

I actually stopped what I was doing and made him back up. “The Peter Wolf?” I asked.

“And a line array,” he most likely answered. It was awhile ago, but chances are good that’s how it went down.

It was my big chance. Most people Chris does sound for end up hanging out with him at least a little and there I would be. I tried on my entire maternity wardrobe to find the perfect look, rejecting stretch pants with belly panels, empire-waist tunics, and a sundress made of two circus tents. Try as I might, it was impossible to create the illusion of 17, so I settled on something that didn’t bind, itch, or ride up when I sat down.

I bought a string of food tickets long enough to circumnavigate my belly and Sugarplum and I set to work festivaling while the first bands played. We downed fish tacos, fried oysters, onion rings, funnel cakes, and maybe some nachos. We stayed outside near the food trucks until Sugarplum couldn’t take it anymore and made me go inside to see the bands.

Sugarplum has been a dancer since she was in utero. Wherever Chris was working, we’d go. She heard a lot of bands through amniotic fluid and would faithfully start to shake it when the music started. Once she reached terra firma, she danced whenever there was music – from a cell phone ringing to a New Jersey rest stop.

She danced while I sat and watched, too slow, cumbersome, and self-conscious to join her. When she got tired we sat in the front row watching more bands until she fell asleep in my arms. It was 9 p.m. and there was no sign of Peter Wolf. I couldn’t believe how close I was, and how much I wanted my pajamas. We said goodnight to Chris.

I carried my sleeping rock nymph to the car, past the tour busses and the parties, and home to bed.

For the record, love does not stink. Rest in peace, J. Geils. And thank you.

Pages from Sugarplum’s autograph book:

David Lowery (Cracker), Colin Hay (Men at Work), Evan Dando (The Lemonheads)
Juliana Hatfield, Frank Black (The Pixies), Peter Wolf (J. Geils Band)