Frozen Rock

The Night I Risked Hypothermia for Schnitz and giggles.

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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!

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My old man says, “It’s colder than a witches teat in a brass bra”
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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).

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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

Bon appetit!

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

 

Battle of the Sexes

The complicated puzzle that is a relationship

What a shit storm this past week has been, the week before school starts for our fifth grader, last year for us in the elementary, sad. The sixth grader has his first year in the high school, so bittersweet.

I have been to open houses, and registration nights, and oh, dance class started also. There has been welcome back picnics, and hair appointments, and back to school shopping, which I like to wait until the day before to scrounge around in a panic to try and get everything ready. It keeps us all on our toes.

Of course, as with most big, strung out weeks, cram packed with all the crap I cannot avoid as a parent, The Husband’s was just as packed with band adventures (it’s like he plans it that way). The latest being a gargantuan of a mobile they planned on cruising around in that weekend, that had a list twice as long as mine to fix before they could get it on the road.

So, on my free nights (because I get a lot of those, right?) my only choice was to help out or be left behind and I didn’t want to spend another evening alone. Which meant, the only night or so I had available was with a paint brush and tape. Trying not to lose my damn mind with my two precious pre-teen and pre-angst angels that were trying their hardest to “help”.

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One part of my bickering angsty clan that was trying their best to drive me absolutely insane while the guys were practicing. I was putting myself in some compromising positions, there is a lot of nooks and cranny’s to a campers interior.

I was exhausted, frustrated, over worked, stressed out and wanted to blow up. I was tired of having to do it all alone, I was sick of being put second, and I wanted to send the worst shit text to The Husband, but I stopped and remembered that this was my choice.  I chose to be with a musician, and that comes with its share of carrying the load so he can travel, play, and record.

Is this fair? No, hell no, and you feel it. The pressure of knowing you’re doing it alone. It was a choice I made when we started dating, a choice consciously made when we got married, and a choice that I knew full well what I was getting into when we had children.

It was a choice we made together, and as much as I wanted to scream and yell, I knew it wouldn’t do any good, they already planned the weekend gig, they were already packing to go. It was pointless, so I took a deep breath and I texted him. I told him I loved him and missed him a lot.

And you know what? He missed me too, he was feeling it too. We live together and barley see each other during these times. It doesn’t just affect me, he is in this too, but this is his life. He could walk away, but neither of us want that for him. For us.

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Sometimes we do get to spend time together. I love watching him do his thing and that makes it all worth it.

The main thing that softened the blow and warmed my heart this past week also, was throughout the chaos of it all was that he was adamant about making sure he was there to take our son to pick out his first instrument for sixth grade band. He wanted to share that moment with him, and I understood that he can’t do all of it, but he tries his hardest to be there for the moments that most count.

In our many years of all our trials I have observed that most men want support, and most women want reassurance. And that there isn’t too much of a difference in these two marital securities. Men want to know that at the end of the day, they have someone cheering them on. When I first approached this theory, I thought it literally meant be his cheerleader.

Ok, I cheered in high school, I can do this. And I texted him throughout the day with “I am so proud of you” and “I appreciate everything you do” until he asked me to stop. That wasn’t what he wanted and let’s be honest it can make the best attention whore feel uncomfortable.

After stepping back and reevaluating I realized one thing in all the books I have read and seminars I have taking about the male/female brain (my work in early childhood education has given me a lot of time to study brain development, and I totally nerd out on it), is that men are doers, they don’t need to be showered with words and affection. They need a foot rub, or joining in on their most favorite activity. In our case, going to see them play, helping set up the merch table, understanding that what they do is hard on them also.

Women need words, we like to talk, talk about our day, talk about our feelings, talk about every aspect of our lives and how they work and who is where and why we are mad and so on and so on and so on…  we like to listen too, we want to understand and be understood. That is what makes a relationship tick for us.

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Let’s face it, males and females don’t necessarily fit, that is why it takes work, support, and dedication.

What we all want is companion, and what we get is confusion. You see, the battle of the sexes is real. Misunderstanding of what each other needs is the struggle, but if we remember to work together, our love becomes easier when we remember we are on the same team.

 

 

 

Pubs, Taverns, and Dives

My most memorable bar stories.

It’s no secret I am a dive connoisseur. I have been to many, many, many bars, venues, art studios, restaurants, pubs, taverns, and many, many, many others by other names but they all remain the same: dives. Though I may mock them often, I love them very much, they are my home away from home, my stomping grounds, where my heart and soul will always preside. I am always willing to sacrifice a clean bathroom to get my rock on (seriously, you should see some of these toilets they expect you to pee in). I have decided to make a compilation of the most interesting experiences I have had as a band wife, because it is always at the very least an interesting time.

 

  • The Frozen Pizza Pub: That one time when I went to order a beer at the bar and I saw the bartender pull out a frozen pizza out of the freezer and hand over to the waitress. Not even the good stuff, but the real cheap brand, they could have done better with Aldi brand (jokes aside, I love me some Aldi anything, that place is my jam). They even served it on the card board it came with, geniuses! The kicker: They were selling them for seven bucks a pop! Now you and I both know they went to Kroger and stocked up on a ten for ten deal!
  • The Hipster Paradise: There is really nothing I enjoy loathing more than a damn hipster, so when we walked into a venue that had an all vegan menu, smelled of essential oils, and served their beer in mason jars I was in gripe heaven! Seriously, mason jars are so hard to manage, they are too big to hold while you are rocking, unless you got some big old meat mitts, and then as you hit your third, fourth, or fifth it gets real tricky. They are just not practical for beers.
  • The coffee Shop Amateurs: Once The Husband played at an acoustic night at an art studio that supposedly seconded as a coffee shop, they had some very interesting art but their coffee was more interesting, a small, un-busy night I asked ordered a coffee which the guy behind the makeshift counter used the Sunbeam twelve cup coffee pot that was teetering on the side of the counter to brew a pot of the most generic cuppa I have ever tasted. This did not bother me that much because I am not a coffee snob, give me whatever you got, as long as it’s dark and strong. I take it like a pill, its only purpose is to give me life, I am not concerned with the quality. What bothered me was that it took him forty-five minutes to brew a pot of coffee, in a coffee shop…. Dude, you have one job.
  • The Anti-Social Bar: The Husband was playing at a venue that did not have food, and we were starving, so he sent me to the next-door hole in the wall to get some food. This was possibly the smallest, darkest hole in the wall I’ve been to. The door was an actual hole in the wall, I felt like I stepped back into 1978 and there were only three lonely old men sitting on either corner of the bar, and two old ladies running the joint that were not too pleased to see they had customers. Their menu consisted of hot dogs and your basic fried bar foods. A few of their unusual items were cheese and crackers or sardines and crackers, which I know for a fact The Husband loves sardines so I was planning on getting him a side of that but when we got up to order the little ol’ bitty bypassed me. Once I piped up, after she fried up the others’ orders, I ordered a pizza, she huffed loudly and said in a tone only an eighty-year-old woman who’s worked behind a bar for way too long could get away with using, said, “You know that is going to take me twenty minutes?” at that point I knew I pissed her off and was scarred, so I nervously mumbled something like: “Uh… I guess I can get a basket of chicken strips” Then she hobbled over to the fryer whilst lecturing me on how she could have made the strips with everyone else’s. I was so afraid of the lady that I bypassed the canned fish all together, grabbed my food, and booked it outta there. Nothing is scarier than an eighty-year-old bar tender. You know that woman has seen some shit
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None of these pictures are of bars I have been to. I would never disclose the names and locations of these stories because I love my bars. 
  • Ok, so maybe I only have a top four memorable bar moments. I had more but they were all slightly too offensive, even for this blog. So enjoy my stories and maybe if I can think of more I will post a second half to this, or maybe I will forget again, because I am pretty sure most of my brain is made up of mashed potatoes (mmm.. potatoes) at this point in the game.

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Obtaining Credence

Because Not All Stereotypes are True

Once again, I had this whole cutesy opening paragraph written up for this blog, all about how family bike trips relate to trust. It was, quite frankly, shit. Sorry, but it was. Once again, I had to scrap the whole thing and start fresh. I need to get real, there is really no other way to get around the most important strand of a relationship but to get real. Or maybe it’s because I am binge watching Girlboss now and I totally love her honest, crude attitude. Either way, trust is the hardest and shittiest part of a relationship. It is terrifying on every level to think that you are handing over the most protected and important part of your being to someone and expecting them to keep it in mint condition. Does this freak anyone else out? Obviously after 15 years together I wholeheartedly trust my husband but trusting someone enough to let your guard down is one wall that is very hard to break through. Add the whole sexy musician image and the immense time you spend away from each other and you can understand why they get a bad rap.

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A picture of our bikes, because my original post was about our family bike rides but then I went and made it all super intense again. Our Babies are as follows (L to R): My 1995 Schwinn Predator, The Daughters 1989 Dyno Detour, The Husband’s 1990 Haro Invert, and The Son’s 1984 Diamond Back Super Streak. All rebuilt by The Husband (he is a jack of all trades, lucky gal I am) 

 

The whole trust thing really sucks, I am not going to lie when I say I am a jealous person. If you think after a decade and a half I don’t get the urge every so often to ask if he is cheating or make him promise that he will always stay faithful, if you think that I am confident enough not think about what could happen, you are very wrong.  Like I said I trust my husband but I am very territorial of what is mine and truthfully, any jealousy I have is created in my own insecurities. I know this, The Husband understands this, and I am sure I can speak for a lot of women out there. I know it’s not healthy, and I deal with it as maturely as I possibly can, but I can’t always help my brain going to crazy places (remember, you’re talking to the hot ass mess here). The Husband is away a lot, late nights, and in my opinion he is a very attractive and talented musician and an all-around cool dude, this can only add to my crazy brain cocktail. I have spent many a night awake at three o’clock in the morning, pacing the floors and imagining where he was. It’s like a bad Lifetime Network for Women movie:  Poor, sweet, frumpy wife sitting at home with the babies eating Ho Ho’s to fill the empty void and pain she feels, longing for her sexy husband. Who’s away in a hotel room, deprived of a woman’s touch. Then beautiful, tall, exotic gazelle fan girl knocks on his door wearing a trench coat (yes, it’s the old trench coat nightmare). Underneath? Only her lacy, matching lingerie and heels more expensive than the wife could afford, look good in, or have the energy to wear. She saw him at the bar and just had to have him and as a strong, successful woman, who is probably way cooler than the frump sitting at home, she will stop at nothing. Sure, Sexy Husband would try to resist but he is not strong enough, he is already so weak from all the rocking out. This particular made for television drama could only end in two ways, the Gazelle would wind up pregnant and Frumpy’s blind faith finds her the strength to forgive her husband and raise the baby as a happy family or she will divorce him, take all his money and live happily ever after in a one room apartment above the small shop she owns happily ever after. God, I hate that I love that channel.

Seriously, The Husband has never once given me a reason to question his fidelity, our relationship is very strong, yet the stresses still haunt me from time to time. My brain always goes to the worst-case scenario, the most unbelievable situations. It just happens, we all have our insecurities, we all let our imaginations go there, and that is OK. As long as you know when to tell yourself you are being crazy, and to chill. You know deep down you can trust your loved one, and you must have complete trust of a musician if you want to be in a relationship with them. You will not be there every step of the way, they will go to bars and be there LATE, they won’t be able to return phone calls all night because it is too loud, they will be gone for days on end, living the rock star life and you need to trust that not only they are going to stay faithful but that they will come back and that they will still support you and put you first (you know, right after their music. For further explanation on this read my first blog, I See You). This gig isn’t for the seriously jealous type, the untrustworthy or the untrusters. If you cannot have faith in them to come home to you, you shouldn’t be in this game. If you cannot go all night without texting, calling, and guilting when they get back home, you will eventually, single handedly destroy your relationship (and TRUST me when I say, I have been there, I have done that, and it gets stupid petty).  At the end of the day, when you are digging a ditch in your dining room with all your pacing, with your phone in hand, thinking of all the reasons to try to call them for the hundredth time that night; when you’re trying to justify the next text because you are sure he is with someone way better than you or dead in the gutter, you need to put the phone down, go lay in bed, turn on the TV and find something to distract yourself, preferable NOT on Lifetime, and sleep it off. Because when he crawls into bed in the early hours of the morning he is going to tell you all about his night at another gig, the fans he gained, and how he missed you. His arms will be around you once again and life will be the same, and you will always know deep down he will always be there with you.

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After fifteen years, I am still putting my whole faith and trust in this dude. Note: No amount of filters will hide the fact that we were having a really good time that night. 

 

 

Balls To The Wall, Baby!

The Evolution of The Band Wife Life Blog, part 2

Last week I came clean about how to set your bar at an extreme low and now that you know me a little better and have read all my blogs (right?!?!) you know I am not the mommy blog type, I do not now nor have ever done “play dates”, no I will not pencil you in (unless there is booze involved) and I damn well will not EVER drive a minivan. I am not the good friend that will let you cry on my shoulder, seriously, that is just awkward. I am the friend that you call if you want to get really drunk, forget all your problems, and make real bad decisions that night. I am a certified hot mess, I am a bona fide train wreck, and I am completely OK with that. More than that, I am proud! I fail to remember important dates for the kids’ activities, I don’t pin ideas for their birthday parties, nor do they really get birthday parties, and I do way more “fend for yourself” dinner plans than a mother should with her children, yet they are still here and CPS has not been called on me. I get cranky and impatient with my husband, I don’t cook and clean, like ever, I am by no means a proverbs 31 woman (please, guys, it’s the twenty first century, get with it) and yet my husband still is around and I like to think he enjoys my company or at the least mildly tolerates it. I talk too much, drink too much, eat too much, and curse too much, yet I am still surrounded by amazing people, loving positive family and friends who support and uplift me every day, even though I have not a whole lot to offer them. To be honest I like to think I am a delight to be around and I think we as a society have set this proverbial life bar ridiculously high and need to all chill the squash out.

Alright, back to The Band Wife Life Blog evolution. I was asked the other day what my blog name meant, which I think is self-explanatory, but it occurred to me I have never really explained to anyone, nor to myself, why I started this blog. What started with sharing advice with newer band girlfriends, and concluded in a funny conversation with The Husband about how I could write a book on the last fifteen years of experience, evolved into the crazy idea of making a blog. I have always enjoyed writing and have even flirted with the crazy idea of doing it for a living. I jumped in to blogging with two feet. I just made the decision one day, it was a morning after complaining to one of my sisters about gig season starting and a brain storm occurred. I texted The Husband right after to ask if he honestly thought it was a good idea (Hey, I may be a twenty first century woman but we still work as a team) and then texted my “panel”, which is the group text with my sisters and mother (these ladies are seriously my life line, if you have sisters you probably understand) and I created The Band Wife Life Blog that very day. What started as a fun hashtag I used when posting pictures behind the merch table, or complaints about the husband being away turned into my blog name. I started this blog to attempt at making a habit out of a hobby of mine but as it has evolved I have to start to wonder what’s its purpose. What is my purpose here? I started this blog to entertain people, to have somewhere for people to relate, and because I love to write and have a lot of very important things to say (well, maybe more the former than the latter, but I think I do). One of the reasons I love my mother so much, why we have such a great relationship, and one of my favorite traits of her is whenever I go to her to cry about my life, the mistakes I  have made and how much I am failing at life, her mantra is “oh, honey, I have been there” she never lectures me, she never gives me the shoulda-coulda-wouldas, only complete understanding and knowing I am not alone, I am normal and we are all relatable. This is my goal in this blog, my mother is my inspiration, in blogging and in life. Obviously, I am here to tell my story, personally I love my story, I love telling it. Probably because I love to hear myself talk, but I guess if there is anyone I can help, even a few people then I would be happy. I hope my stories and lessons can be relatable, even if you are not with a musician I think most busy spouses and parents can feel me. Instead of focusing on all the greatness I am (which is a whole lot, I swear) I am here to show you the ugly side of being a human, also.

I am a terrible mother, wife, daughter, sister, and friend. I am sure you have all felt like this. In all our terribleness, all those bad decisions we make that keep us up at night, remember we are all beautiful. You never have to strive to be anyone else. Stop with the expectations, the goals, and read how we all fail daily. Social networking can be toxic, but no matter what a blog, Facebook friend, or Pinterest tells you, you are beautiful. We are all a hot mess of beauty. Live your life chaotically, terribly, happily, apologetically, and as always: Balls to the wall, Baby!