I see you

My heartfelt battle cry to the women all over the world who fall in love with musicians.


I remember once when The Husband and I were freshly married and newly parenting and I toted over to my Grandma’s house The First Child for a social gathering of sorts and my Grandma asked me where The Husband was. I told her he had a show that night and she nodded in understanding, telling me about how when she was pregnant with my dad, my grandpa had to play on New Years Eve and she was so worried she would go into labor being so close to her due date, “But thank heavens it was the day before so he didn’t have to miss it and he could still drive me to the hospital.”

It was in that moment I realized that between 1962 and 2006 things hadn’t changed much. Even though my Grandfather played the upright bass in barns across rural Mid-Michigan and The Husband plays electric bass (crazy, huh? That is a story for another time) in a rock band in the darkest of dive bars, city to city we can all relate when it comes to our commitments to musicians.

I see you all: the fresh meat in the front row all starry-eyed and the tired seasoned veterans lounging behind the merch table. We all play our part out of love of our significant other and the music, of course.  Fourteen years ago I fell in love with a musician, that musician became 

my husband and then the father of our children. He is my partner, my best friend for life, but first and foremost, he is a musician and when you marry a musician there are things you need to be aware of.

Me and The Second Child watching our Rock Star in all his glory.



Music will always come first. Musicians are fickle, creative beings that will get so focused that everything, including you, will become background noise. They don’t mean to and it doesn’t mean they love you any less, they just become so passionate they can’t pull themselves away. Even at eleven o’clock when you turn in and they are still working on a song. Yep, they have no intention of coming to bed. You will eventually hear them quietly trying not to wake you at three in the morning when they finally finish or they will be so excited they will wake you up to listen. You need to know that music is going to come before your marriage, and I mean it. Does this mean he is going to miss the birth of his child for a show? Or ditch the ol’ nine to five to travel cross-country chasing his dream and letting you and your family fend for themselves? No (at least I hope not, because that means you married a child).  It means date nights might be at band practice or on the way to their show (I love when I can attend a show that’s farther away, that means a whole hour or two drive time with him to myself). It means late nights alone running the household and having him get home just in time to kiss the kid’s goodnight, turn on Netflix, and fall fast asleep. This passion is also a blessing, because they will also be that dedicated to his family, musicians love deeply, they love you deeply, they will love your children deeply and this is what will get you through those lonely nights, knowing that if he loves you half as much as he does his music you are one lucky woman.

Know that, I see you all, at the end of the night, all sitting exhausted in your booths as the light turns on as they’re tearing down for the night. Usually you are ready to go home but you will follow him where ever he needs to go (most likely to some sort of late night food joint), because we are a different breed, followers. Not a groupie, not a fan, but the wives. Painfully so, we follow to the end. To the end of the night, to the end of the show. Exhausted, too drunk from listening to too loud music too late in to the night. It’s not always glamorous, but we love the man playing. This is our anthem. Our part. Our love is the love that loves to entertain.

Relativity of Time

A Painful Step into the Past

One of the perks to living the band wife life is some of the really cool places you get to see. Some of the down falls are the real crummy places you end up. I can handle dive bars, I have experienced sticky floors, cringe worthy bathrooms, and sketchy neighborhoods. Most of those are my favorite places to be.

This past weekend though, unbeknownst to me, I found myself passing through the seventh gate of hell. I was at a college bar, and it was terrible. I am too old for this shit! The worst part, the thoughts going through my head as I was people watching (very young people watching), made me realized just how too old I really am for this shit.

It was like and awful look into my past, and I didn’t even go to college. Even their clothes were backed up, it was frightening, it was Hell.

Well, this looks promising. 

I became a seventy-year-old lady in one night. These girls must be so cold, their belly buttons are going to freeze in this Michigan weather sporting their bare mid drifts. It wasn’t the bellies that bothered me as much as them all steeling my tenth-grade style. I could hear my grandmother, bless her saintly soul, saying (back in 1995), “Why is she only wearing a bra, I think she forgot to button up her flannel?” “Oh, why are they all showing their mid drifts, that looks so cold” I have never understood her more than I do as a thirty-five-year-old woman sitting in a college bar.

Also, they all move way too much, they are like a room full of toddlers on booze. It was like a damn pinball machine in there. The jumping and hair flipping, the over exaggerate laughs, pouts, giggles, and flirts. They are so bouncy. Chasing after each other like we are still in eighth grade. It was making me nervous and a little jumpy, myself.

The dancing… Alright, alright, the dancing I was a little jealous of. I miss dancing all night. Really, though, have dance moves really not changed since the early 2000’s? I mean, all that bumping and grinding is getting old. Well, now I know I am old, I used to grind like no one’s business. Nowadays, all I can think of is how uncreative dancing is. It must be all those contemporary Sia videos I binge on The Youtubes. I have broadened my horizon in my mature age.

Maybe we could teach all the kids at the bars a little modern dancing, and we could get the boys to wear tights. It might make it a little more entertaining. 


The bathrooms were a nightmare, someone was crying, someone was puking, someone was crying and puking. I just needed to take a pee. I’ve had a couple kids, ladies, my bladder isn’t what it used to be. Moms should get a designated stall, we can’t hold it as well as the young. They can Judge all they want, at least we have learned to hold our liquor.

Then, I had to wait for ten minutes just to wash my hands because the hoard of girls at the mirror were applying lipstick. If anyone needs to know brands and how to apply, I am now an expert. I don’t wear lipstick, but I now know. I wasn’t about to say anything, though, there were hundreds of them. I was painfully outnumbered, so I waited patiently.

The merch table was also the slowest I have ever seen it. I am not sure these kids have their priorities in order. The cheap warm beer (that permeated the bar so bad it smelled like the Wal-Mart bottle return) tasted awful, but that didn’t stop them from charging an obscene amount for it.


At least it came in a huge cup, I have never seen such large solo cups, I didn’t know they made them that big now. None of them had money to buy any merch, but they all had enough to stumble around spilling half their booze (and monies) on the floor, now I know where the smell came from.

Me at the merch table, all night. People watching, and possibly judging. 

I am sticking to my expensive beer theory. The more logical explanation would be that the band may have been oddly booked and these young whipper snappers don’t know how to appreciate mature, talented music if it crept up behind them and started dry humping on the dance floor.

A couple of the “Bro’s” did come up to complement the band, then asked about the CD prices, nodded, then asked for a free poster instead. Priorities, Dudes, go buy yourself another fifteen-dollar Bud Light you can spill all over the floor as you bounce around.

They should segregate bars, I don’t want to be in a college bar. I don’t enjoy being around busy bodied, fresh faced, twenty-one-year old’s just as much as they probably don’t want to be around us or our old man music.  I swear I heard someone say, “Oh, I think my dad listens to this band”.

I did notice a lot of them standing around at first, and I was impressed that they were all listening. Until a realized they were just waiting for the bands to finish so the DJ could start spinning his tunes. If I thought they were moving fast all night, you should have seen them stampede the dance floor the opening beat of that first shitty song. And on that note, we were out of there.

It was dirty, smelly, and hard to watch, because I was there once. I wore those clothes, I spent what little money I had on booze, I bounced around thinking I was the coolest, I probably cried in the bathroom, have a million good puke stories, and couldn’t wait for the old dudes to finish up so we could just dance the night away… to the most crap music ever.


Your early twenties are kind of the worst, you think you are the coolest, you’re an adult now, and you can do you. Then looking back, you cringe at all the stupid mistakes you made.  But it was fun, friends were made, life was so new, and stories you will tell for years to come. I have loved every year of my life, but gladly will put my early twenties in the past. You win some, you lose some. On to the next venue, and hopefully the next decade.

Leave Your Extra At Home

How To Travel With The Band

A hot, steamy, echo-y, hell is where I spent last weekend. The mass confusion of children running, barely supervised, around large bodies of water, as the snow comes down outside. Indoor water parks are almost as bad as play lands (ball pits will be equipped in my personal hell when I die) The only thing that sets it a grade above is that everything is dripping with chlorine, but that didn’t stop us all from bringing home influenza. I am not going to get into my week of misery that followed my weekend of hell, or as some bat shit crazed lunatics known as my children call it… “fun”.

A rare picture of the crazed mammals enjoying the chaos they have created.

I am, however, going to discuss packing, because our over night trip apparently meant to my ten-year-old princess poopy pants that she needed to pack as only I could imagine a Queen would. Think I am exaggerating? Let’s go back to the night before we left.

We spent one night there, left Saturday morning, but the kids left Friday night to stay with my sister, and we met up with them the next day. I had to close Friday night, so I had the husband drop the kids off at my sister’s salon.

I sent a text (because it’s better to have it in writing when giving direction to the husbands, right Ladies?) to just have them change into something comfortable they can sleep in that night and wear on the way the next day, I will pack everything to go before we leave. I got out early and meet them at the salon, only to find them carrying a crate full of stuff.

The children apparently told dad that they had to take all the stuff, all the stuff in the world. Ah, no! I take the crate back home and not think of it until the morning, when I start to pack. This is when I discover how they had a whole crate heaped with bullshit. Or, when I say “they” I mostly mean, my daughter. Sweat pants, tights, Christmas dresses, jewelry, three stuffed animals, two purses, nightgowns, eight pairs of undies (this was the only logical thing packed, you gotta pack extra undies). It was ridiculous.

Then, I went to her room to grab her bathing suit and a pair of “soft clothes” to wear home the next day, because that was all they would need. But wait, there was more: in her room I noticed her prized tiara she got from Medieval Times was sitting on the edge of her bed. You and I both know damn well she was contemplating if she would need it on her excursion. She is so extra.

She is a queen, even the bearded eye candy wearing leggings on a horse… I mean, winning knight, could tell when he hand picked her out of the crowd of many. Definitely, her “best day ever!”

This got me thinking that I have written a lot about traveling with the guys, but I have never explained packing when you’re with a bunch of dudes. I have made it such a habit, I now do it for all trips. These are usually only over night trips or weekends away (as I have said before, my husband isn’t to full tour level yet).

Keep your luggage at home, Ladies, there’s no room for it and this isn’t a vacation.

The golden rule is to pack light, as light as possible. You will be on the go non-stop if you are traveling with the band and toting around luggage will suck. Also, they will have so much equipment packed on the RV, truck, trailer, van, whatever their mode of transportation is, and they ain’t got no time for your extra bullshit, so keep it as minimal as possible and then make it less.

In most cases, we travel on the day of the show, so I wear all my extra there, which for me the only thing extra ever are my earrings. Apply my make up at home, hair and nails. I will bring a sweatshirt for warmth just in case, and my flippy floppies for comfort, I will also bring a pair of pants soft enough to sleep in and wear on the ride home for tomorrow (my band shirt will work for sleep and travel). Then the basic toiletries: tooth brush, deo (always deo the B.O.), and phone charger. Why is the phone charger always part of toiletries? I don’t know but it is for me. The most important thing: My soft bra. I am sleeping usually very small quarters with band dudes, modesty is sometimes vital for us bigger girls. This is it, it’s all I bring for the over nighters, one small tote is all you’ll need. It might even all fit in your big purse if you pack it right.


I get a little fancy for the bigger trips, two nights playing out calls for a little bigger tote. The last two nighter we stayed in a hotel. Fancy! I made sure to pack some extras, makeup (still, only the minimum) straightener, an extra pair of earrings, and an outfit for the next day. I always use hotel toiletries, less to pack and if the hotel is decent they have some good products.

No matter how many days The Husband is on the road he can somehow fit all his stuff into his one trusty backpack, and his clothes are significantly bigger than mine. I haven’t figured out his trick, I think it has to do with not showering and wearing the same outfit for days on end (musicians, yuck).

His trusty travel bag, hanging in our dining room, empty for the time being, but taunting me for the next time he leaves.

I haven’t been on many trips, but I have watched him go and comeback worn out enough to understand that they are not always a party. Sleeping conditions are not glamorous, travelling can get a bit uncomfortable, but if you pack accordingly (and always bring food to share), it’s a great time.

This is what you look like after a weekend on a an RV with the band. Embrace the smells, half of them will be coming from you. 

Living Half the Dream

The life of a blue collared rockstar

It is no secret that the band wife life is difficult, you might know this now from my constant complaining and crying about it. Life is always a challenge, for sure, and this is just my point of view on the glorious paradise we are living. Also, as we all know, I am low key to the point where the slightest breeze of chaos makes me loose my cool. All in all, though, I know I am blessed with a simple, happy life.

My face when gig season starts, and my always cool husband, ready for anything thrown his way. He is the cool to my cucumber.

I just happen to be married to a busy man, a very busy man and it’s that time again. He’s in the studio again, playing more gigs to make the money for the studio, and this busy, bitter cold gig season is fully upon us. You see, when I started this blogging journey it was just a little after the husband joined a band, the right band, the band that took off, which means they must take off frequently. So, he joined a band, and I joined some support groups.

Unfortunately, I find myself in a group on my own, most musicians I have noticed are self-sufficient. It’s their full-time job. The Husband, on the other hand is not. A very unfortunate circumstance, it obviously is his greatest desire to make it his career and mine for him as well. The band just hasn’t made it big enough yet to supplement the income needed. Sadly, a little-known fact, my early childhood education job does not pay enough to support a family, either.

The silver lining to this, is that he doesn’t travel far, yet (but, like I said, this is the ultimate goal). I am relishing the time we do have before touring starts. The down side, is he doesn’t have a lot of that time. He is trying to juggle the rockstar dream with white picket fence normalcy. Just call him Hannah Montana, but he’s an adult, with adult bills and responsibilities, and many more stresses.

His life is busy. I know, I constantly complain about my life being busy, and even though this is our life together, he is the one on the go. I just try to keep track of him and keep the house hold in check. I thought I would give everyone a peek into the life of a working musician.

This image sums up The Husbands life, work boots drying after a cold hard day of work, next to a practice bass and amp, and a VIP pass left from a show.

The Husband’s day starts at around six in the morning. He gets up and gets himself and the kids ready. He is in charge of the kids in the morning because I am gone by five thirty for work. This works for now, because with all the band business in the evening, at least he still is consistent and has that time with them in the morning.

He drops them off at school and heads into work. We all know how work goes, it is supposed to be a nine to five, but usually goes until six or seven, depending on how busy he is. Texting me his frustrations as he goes. On top of the nine to ten hours he works a day, he also is on call one week out of the month, which has him going all hours of the day and night.

Then it’s home he goes… for a quick shower, maybe a bite to eat, and off he goes with a kiss good bye to the band room for practice, the studio for recording, or somewhere for a video shoot. There is loading and unloading the band trailer, before and after shows, set up time and drive time. Even when he’s home there is business, emails, networking, writing, practicing. He might crawl into bed around midnight, for a few hours of sleep and get up to do it all over again.

We are always grateful for his presence, though, the kids and I are grateful for that. Some people don’t get even that with fathers and husbands who are taken too early, some are sent thousands of miles away for months to years on end, to unsafe places. I know we are blessed beyond reason to have him home to sleep most nights.

No matter how long his day is he still takes time out for family!

These musicians work double time for their dream, they challenge themselves daily, I know his band mates are all the same. Juggling family and music is not easy. These musicians love their families, and support their homes, but the music will always drive them and be embedded in their hearts. We hope one day they will succeed in their dream, be able to focus on music and take the second job out of the equation.

Until then, we make it work. The husband has always been a responsible family man, and I am blessed to have him. Not only does he always support and love us unconditionally, but he is always working toward his dream. I admire him, I am proud to call him husband, and he is really a fun guy to hang out with.

Shop Local

The many benefits of supporting local music.

Back when I was in high school, many, many years ago before Wi-Fi and my beloved Netflix, I watched regular television. With, like, commercials and stuff. I had to wait a whole week to see what happened on the cliff hanger of Dark Angel (yes, this was my most favorite show, Jessica Alba kicked ass and Y2K was a legitimate fear, I don’t care who you were).

I also tuned in for every award show. I remember, specifically, one certain Latin award show they aired for the first time. I waited weeks to watch it, made sure my homework was all done (yeah, right, like I did my homework), and turned on my tiny little box television/VCR combo I got for my sixteenth birthday along with a stack of VHS’s.

A Latin performer I had not heard of came on stage in her pleather pants, ripped up t shirt, and bare feet. She had a chime-y little gypsy belt tied around her hips that didn’t lie, her belly dancing mesmerized me, and the song was even cooler. That was the day I fell in love with Shakira.

Sadly, Shakira and I are not on a BFF basis yet, so I do not have her permission to use her photos. Here is a generic picture I found online of belly dancing. 


That’s right, Shakira. I love her, don’t judge. After that I had to have all her CDs, even the ones before her American break through. I watched her Tour of the Mongoose video repeatedly until I knew her every move and I even had her Barbie doll (a glorious gift). She somehow “lerolelelole’d” her way right into the music strings of my heart and to this day I am her loyal fan.

Needless to say, I was a bit excited when my husband mentioned she was coming to The Detroit.

Unfortunately, I was a bit reluctant. Why would I be hesitant to get tickets to go see my great white buffalo? This is my bucket list, like, the whole thing. Why would I not want to go? because, I have been spoiled.

Unless you plan on missing a house payment to see your favorite big name artist, its not worth the trip to the arena these days. 

First off, I saw the prices: over a hundred dollars apiece for nose bleeds, are you kidding me, Shak? I love you and all, but do we need to spend two hundred-plus dollars to watch a big screen of you and maybe get a glimpse of your tiny ant body from the balcony seats? I can do that for free at home. I can watch at least five awesome bands in one-night front and center, actually get to see them, meet them, interact with them, for maybe ten bucks.

Also, let’s talk about beer prices. The Husband has played at some bigger venues and when I walk up to the bar and ask for their cheapest beer and get a Dixie cup of warm, light, beer for eight dollars, I am less than impressed. To be honest, I am aghast. Don’t do me like that! When I usually go to the tiny, dirty dive bars and ask, I at the least get a large solo cup, filled to the brim of room temp Pabst for a buck or two.

Then there is the merch. Granted, a local rock show won’t give a big variety, but I like the selection of black band tees for ten buck a pop and CD’s for the same or less. I like knowing that these guys have worked their tails off, around the clock. They bleed this music, so every time you walk up to their merch table you are supporting so much more. That money is going right back into their fund. Not a big production company’s pockets.

The crowds are the biggest turn off for me, hordes of people set my anxiety through the roof. I am usually always a pleasant and chill person, but if you want to see me cranky, irritable, and all around at my worst, put me in a building with thousands of people and tell me I have to find my seat. I am going to panic and start fights faster than you have time to point me in the right direction.

Oh, hell no! 

I may be biased but I prefer local shows, they are so much more personable and intimate. I am constantly discovering new and impressive, respectable talent. I know first hand how hard they all work and appreciate every person who walks through the door and up to their merch booth, stands in the front row to listen, and stays all night to get to know the people behind the magic.

Keep it local, unless you like enclosed spaces and body odor.

I understand that the prices are not always the artists fault, and I am sure Shakie wouldn’t do me like this intentionally, I will always stay loyal to her. I am cheap, though, and if free tickets were to magically fall into my lap I would probably suck it up and go, but until that day I will give her all the moral support, skip the big crowds and prices, and get my live music fix right here in my own back yard. Always support local music!

Frozen Rock

The Night I Risked Hypothermia for Schnitz and giggles.

It’s no secret Michigan winters are cold, I am writing this now with about eight layers on snuggled on the couch in front of a space heater (sorry about the quality, I write better at my dining room table but it’s just too damned cold for that).

The kids are nestled in bed still, school has been called off because of the frigid negative temps, and the husband is off to work in his layers and layers of thermals. When does it become too cold to expose adults to this weather, anyways? In all honestly, cold weather doesn’t really bother me, I just want a day off too.

The only being in our house that wants to travel out is our younger puppy, Willow, who begs at the door. She loves snow and cry’s relentlessly at the door when she is stuck in side, our old pup Thor has a different attitude. Hella nope!

My old man says, “It’s colder than a witches teat in a brass bra”
Then there is this your whipper snapper that wants to go play!

I do love winter, annoyingly so, I’ve been told. Its in my blood, a Michigander through and through. The older I get, though, the more I realize I like it from inside the warm comfortable confines of my home. Not standing on a street corner, on December 31st, when its zero out, loosing all feeling in my toes.

The intersection of my New Year’s.

This is where my story begins, where my New Year’s Eve started, a cute little town just south of Detroit on the river.

New Year’s is never my strong party day, it’s usually left in my soft pants at a family members house. By then, I feel like we are all broke, tired, feeling real fat and all social gathered out. Yet, when the husband told me he was playing a street party, months before hand I thought its usually not that cold yet the first of the year, that sounds like fun!

We thought we would take the kiddos but with the weather and not knowing what to expect we opted on it being safer not to. This is the first time we left the kids at home New Year’s Eve since our biggest was a baby. It felt weird, but I was up for a change.

As the date got closer and the winter got colder I started to dread the event. I was told they would be under a heated tent, but was still skeptical.

I layered, as in three layers of pants, three layers of shirts, three gloves, three socks under my boots, my warmest coat, and my big blanket scarf. It shouldn’t be too bad, I thought. We stepped out of the car and commented on how it wasn’t too cold. By the time we walked around the corner we were eating our words, at least that is what it sounded like through our chattering teeth. It was miserable already. We unloaded the gear and headed for the heated tent.

Which, by the way, was most definitely not part of the band, the band was on a stage in the middle of the street with a few space heaters on it. Needless to say, the boys were cold that night, as were we all. The heated tent was a toasty thirty degrees or so, but hey, that was thirty degrees warmer than outside.

They were troopers, even through the cold.

I would have drank through the pain but, like I said, New Years is for the broke and tired, we didn’t have the funds for drinking that night. So we shivered, and being the good wife I am I left the comfort of the laughingly warm tent to stand out side in a temperature of feels-like negative two to watch The Husbands band.

A wonderful band girlfriend (a brave soul, she is) and I were the only ones. When the beer and heat are in the tent on the other end of the street, ain’t no one going to see the band. Two songs in and my toes started to go numb, they ached and lost feeling all at the same time. I got wiggly, and started jumping around, which if you know me I am not a jumper at shows. I am a cool cucumber that bobs their head and throws up the occasional devil horns… but jumper I am not. This particularly frigid night, I was, but it didn’t help. It was then I remembered the hand warmers I packed

Like a good band wife I always come prepared, I had extra gloves, hand warmers, my first aid kit, water bottles, extra Chapstick, and even sandwiches packed for everyone (I cannot take credit for the sandos, those came from my mommy). The guitar player made comment on how he could tell I was a mom, jokes on him, I have always been a good boy scout!

Back to those hand warmers, I pulled them out and shook them up like it was my only way to survive, which, at this point, it possibly might have been. As soon as they were warm I threw them in my boots, but it was too damn cold and there was barely enough room to fit them with all the thermal I was sporting that night, they just didn’t work.

I toyed with the idea of line dancing with the sweet little old ladies behind us. I was excited to see someone else come out of the tent, the line dancing was an unusual sight, being that the husband plays in a rock band. They we so good with their fancy kicks, twists, and turns. So uniform, it was fun to watch them, and they looked like they were having fun and staying slightly warmer than I was.

With every song the band played (which sounded great through my frozen ear tubes) I dreaded the next. As soon as they finished I booked it back to the warmth of the tent.

Guys, it was so cold I saw a guy wearing a full-on bear suit, bear paws and feet attached. Not just a cheap Halloween costume but something possibly made from real bear or something close to it. He was a smart man.

We usually end our night out at the husbands show, watch all the bands and stay until the end, I was excited to see the ball drop and one of my favorite bands The Husband regularly plays with, but it was just too cold.

The ball that wasn’t worth frost bite to watch drop.

Side story: the last time they played with said band, it was miserably hot, like the hottest weekend of the year, and it was also outside. You can read a little about that experience and my lessons learnt on bringing extra deodorant on my New Year’s relations blog.

So, we packed up almost immediately and left, it was early, we planned on going home and partying a little, before the new year began. Then, we got stuck in traffic on the way home, an accident up ahead, and that was where I learn Detroit drivers have zero chill. We witnessed a man drive in reverse up an on ramp to get off the highway. Actually, everyone was making u-turns to get on the ON ramp to get off, instead of waiting the ten minutes it took to get through the wreckage. Who does that? And so many? insane, I say!

By the time we got home we were tired, worn out, and internally freezing. The husband and I called it a night, we went home, fried up some of those cheesy sandies my mommy sent with us, and made some bloody marys. It’s like grilled cheese and tomato soup for adults. We sat quietly, just the two of us and questioned the origins and words to Auld Lang Syne, until I finally Googled it and we watched the lyric video. By chance it was midnight, so we kissed, turned the heated blanket all the way up and tucked in for the night. It really couldn’t have been a more perfect new years eve. But damn, we are getting old!

Cold, tired, and hungry. 

Why We Resolute

New Year, New(ish) Band Wife

Happy New Year! Ok, its not the new year yet, but at the pace I go it might be well surpassed twenty eighteen by the time I get another blog out.

I am going over all my accomplishments through this year, as always it was a kick ass year. For me, my family, my job, and this little blog I have started.

Seriously, an amazing year!


This blog is the main thing I have achieved this year, surprisingly, it was not on my list going into the year but just a couple of weeks into seventeen and a spontaneous idea one morning turned into a physical entity by that evening. Jump in, two feet, somethings in life are just better done that way.

I know I have talked before about throwing out those old, stagnant resolutions, and how we are all enough. As a band wife, though, your physical and mental health are very important. It is with everyone, of course, but I was thinking about how those same, old, tired resolutions differ in meaning when it comes to keeping up with the busy life of our musicians.

I thought I would break it down. Especially after the busy holidays, its nice to settle down, get back into the groove and gain a little control and perspective over our chaotic lives.

Losing weight is the most popular and timeless resolution. I hate focusing on the weight part of this, being always aware of body positivity, I always focus on being healthy instead. If you are with a musician you may run into some long days and nights. A lot of running around, hot days at summer festivals, and cold wintery walks to bars far down the street. I learned the hard way to keep hydrated, get lots of sleep, and for the love: wear extra deodorant! A little extra green leafies and cardio will go a long way (but I may be writing this while eating a brick of fudge).

This was such a hot day, I really could have done with out a few pounds and sodium to help. There was more sweat dripping than I’d like to admit.

Finances. Oh man, if you are a band wife it is a true test of your bank account. I mean, you have to go out to eat before the show, surely you won’t have time to eat at home getting the kids, yourself, and everything else in order. Then you have to buy your ticket, band wives don’t get a free ride. Then drinks, and when you get done, The Husband is starving, so you need to go out for your second dinner at two in the morning. Let’s not forget how expensive music equipment and upkeep is. Budget, budget, budget. And sometimes you might just have to say no to a show, just because its not in the budget.

Quit drinking: This is my struggle bus, right here. Momma love her some cocktails, but after thirty, they aren’t loving her back so much. You are at a bar, and drinks are always flowing. I am not going to quit for good, but I have come up with a system. One drink per set, keeps a good cap on the morning after and the finances.

Then there is the ever elusive “me time”. Girls: this is so important yet the hardest. Last week I was laughing at the thought of getting some time to unwind by myself. I understand when you’re with someone where their hobby/profession takes over, along with your kids, jobs… you get lost. Squeeze it in, even if it’s a couple more minutes in the shower, binging on the ‘Flix until you have no thoughts at all, or having a good cry in the car. Take that time. You need it!

My “Me time” and hobby are one in the same, coffee and blog Fridays! I look forward to the quiet morning alone. 

Hobbies, all the hobbies! This goal is so hard to achieve, like the me time, when you feel buried under your family’s stuff. When you are the oil that keeps your family running smoothly, you tend to run dry before you get to yourself. Find something you love to do, and be proud of it!

Getting organized is a freaking nightmare in my house. I don’t know about you but following a band around, keeping your kids school and extracurricular activities a float, along with your nine to five, is a daunting task. Get a calendar, ask for help, and try your hardest to stay on top. It makes life so much easier when your ahead of the game. which, in reality, will never happen, so just except your perpetual confusion as your new state of mind.

If you haven’t noticed I have a hard time saying no to a good time, and though it is fun it can all leave me feeling a bit worn out by Sunday morning, add the saturation of my own dose of the good old Irish catholic guilt and you have one tapped out Momma.

Even though I cringe at them, resolutions aren’t a terrible concept. They are meant to help improve our lives, give us goals, and keep striving for our best. But also keep in mind, we are all enough and if we don’t have the give to give that day, let it be.


So, here’s to another year, crashing in, cocktail in hand, a few more wrinkles, and a few less mistakes. Sit back, enjoy the ride, and as always: Balls to the wall, Baby!


Chicken Noodle Soup of Disappointment

My Failed Attempt at Food Blogging

Well, here I sit on a Saturday night at seven o’clock in the evening, in the softest of soft pants. I should be in my “Betta’ Butt” jeans, bought today, just for tonight’s local gig that all the family and friends have been excited to be able to attend for weeks.

I was so pumped to go, and mere hours before, The Daughter took an odd day shower (very odd for her to take a shower voluntarily, let alone in the middle of the day), then went to bed. Obviously, I checked her head, and wouldn’t you know, a fever on top of complaints of a sore throat. So here I sit watching the third Barbie movie of the night (have I mentioned how delighted I am the The ‘Flix added four hundred and sixty two new Barbie movies) while The ‘Book keeps alerting me of the event going on that I now have to miss.

My poor sick baby! 

The band wife life comes with loads of disappointment, disappointment because The Husband can’t make it to your things, disappointment you can’t make to his things. It’s always challenging to not hold resentment. It’s frustrating having to stay home and he still gets to go. There rarely is an opportunity when the tables are turned, and you get to go and he stays home or you both stay home together. The show must go on, and just because I cannot go watch gives me no right to be upset with him.

The only way to appease The Son’s disappointment of not going to Grandpas was to let him make his own lemon bars, he is at it right now. The amount of trust in stepping back and letting him take over the kitchen is killing me.

Before I handed my kitchen over to the eleven-year-old, I did make my famous chicken noodle soup, though. Something about my babies being sick brings the nurse out in me. I know, its crazy how nurturing I can be at times. I get the sick bed all set up, and the “sick juice” as my kids always called it (Honey and lemon in hot water).

Then, as always, the chicken noodle soup. I make it every time someone gets sick, I even made it for my momma when she got real sick last year. I can’t just go to the store and get a can of that greasy chicken broth with a couple of mushy noodles in the bottom and weird grey cubes of chicken. It needs more oomph to pull you out of your virus. While making it I thought maybe it would be fun to blog about this. My night is pretty open now, the house is cleaned, and I am really sick of watching the Barbie movies, so why not!

Blankets and endless Barbie, what more could a girl ask for. 


Things you should know about my chicken noodle soup is that I like flavor, when you are all stuffed up and your taste buds are failing you, you need more flavor, more spice, more pepper, get those sinuses cleared. Another is that it is hearty, like, real hearty. Some would argue it is more of a chicken noodle stew. I like lots of big chunks of veggies, whole chicken, and fresh flavors.

But I never have any of that goodness on hand, because you don’t plan on when your kids are going to get sick (obviously). So dry spices, that have been sitting in the cabinet for years, and frozen chicken breasts work.

Something you should know about me: I am not a professional, I am not even a novice. I have, like, three dishes I can successfully make and if it wasn’t for the talented Alton Brown (love that guy) and The Husband (love that guy more), who have taught me all I know about a kitchen, I wouldn’t have even those. I am in no way liable for food you had to throw out because you followed one of my recipes.

Now that the legal jargon is out of the way, let’s get to cooking!

Enjoy my terrible handwriting and spelling errors, thank the Lord for modern technology and spell check. 

So, first you’re going to start with your locally grown, whole fresh, free range, organic kombucha fed, fryer chicken with cleansed chakras… Or like I said, four to five frozen chicken breasts from the nearest Aldi works just the same.

Go ahead and throw those in a half a stock pot of water, some salt and pepper, and four or five chicken bouillon cubes.

Boiled chicken, yummy! Note: Please excuse my stained stove and filthy kitchen pictures, I tried to church them up as much as I could but I am not food blogger, obviously. 

While those are boiling chop up (by chop up, I mean cut in big chunks because ain’t nobody got time for a bunch of little dicing). I am really cheap, so I like to utilize all parts of the veggies, go ahead and throw in the celery leaves in with it all, it gives it good flavor and more greens.

But, always peel your carrots. First you have to find the peeler, its like a game of Where’s Waldo. How the hell do I live my life?! How do I function as a human being? This drawer is a metaphor for my life, I swear. Shameful!


After all veggies are chopped, throw them in a pan (I had to use our Dutch oven because we aren’t messing around here, this is some serious soup) with a little olive oil and sauté for a little while. After you’ve gotten the veggie warmed up go ahead and throw in your seasonings I use the seasonings to taste, I would guesstimate around two full teaspoons (I will sometimes throw in some crushed red peppers also, depending on how compacted our sinus cavities are).

Fry those babies up until they are making sweet hot love in your pan, or until the onions are tender and opaque. While doing that cut up your chicken that should be about done cooking (it doesn’t need to be fully cooked yet) I like to use scissors because I am, again, too lazy to pull them out and chop with a knife when you can just as easily stick a pair of scissors into a pot of boiling water and blindly start cutting.

Always safety first (don’t try this at home). Notice the steam beading and glistening on my hairy arms. 

When your chicken is all chopped and veggies tenderized, add it all to the chicken water (don’t waste all that flavor and juices) and boil for about 10 minutes. When veggies are completely soft, add noodles (I like using egg noodles best, but all I had was penne) and boil until all cooked.

Voila, you have chicken noodle soup for days! Seriously, you will be eating this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next week. If you imagine this with a whole chicken and fresh herbs it probably would be excellent, but nobody real keeps those things on hand, so you will have to settle for a mediocre soup that still gets the job done, much like my parenting techniques.

Now that culinary artists around the world are cumulatively cringing at my amazing cheffing skills. I will leave you with this…

… Yeah, I got nothing, no profound inspirational tag lines today. Well, I guess I will leave you with the inspirational cost of this soup instead. Everything in our kitchen comes from Aldi, so this recipe will set you back about ten dollars and will feed a family of four three times over. Profound.

Seriously, ninety percent of my food comes from the greatest grocer in the world! 

Bon appetit!

Like I said, best your gonna get from me. Food blogger? More like failed blogger.