I'll Make Someone a Really Great Husband

Sometimes in the pursuit of not being someone else, you become something far more difficult to explain and, sometimes, even impossible to stop.

I say the above because it has become clear to me...both over the holiday weekend excursion to Virginia with WR and these last two days since my return at The Home Depot®, of all places...that perhaps I've taken the definition of 'tomboy' to a new level. Quite unintentionally, mind you, but that probably doesn't matter. It's the current path that's the most enlightening...and perhaps the most damning, too.

For years, I have had very good friends who were male buddies, too...WR is the first openly gay one, but I could care less of his preference. We're not friends because of or in spite of that, but instead because he's a rare breed of gentle and patient human in these oh-so-vapid times. He's exasperatingly smart at times, too, which I admit gets the better of me sometimes (we're both wannabe 'know it all' types, but he's the far more accomplished). I've been lucky to know/have known a few men of this great nature. And all of these (mostly) fine men regard/have regarded me 'as one of their own' as a result. I'm like the kid sister they can talk their women problems over with; or I'm the girl they 'grew up' with enough right before they met their eventual marriage partners; or I'm the very dependable one they will call in case of childcare or medical emergency. And I'm also one of the few (if any others they've met) who can do this and much more while helping stain a barrister, or unload roof shingles, or dig fence posts, or argue about what is a 'true muscle car'...with some legitimacy in all. I do have the typical female moments of weakness: Jane Austen book-inspired movies, bubble baths, carefully matched bedroom linens in a decor of sage green and mauve, for instance. However, as WR pointed out again this weekend, perhaps he and I were born to the wrong gender sets: he clearly has a more reserved, absurdly gracious and mannered side, whereas I'm still trying to remember to not talk with my mouth full and remember there are other foods that require utensils to enjoy. And distinguish that Jimmy Choo is a name of a famous shoe maker, and not some potential pitching up-and-comer through the New York Yankees franchise. These are not new failings, and unfortunately WR is not the first to notice them. (Sigh.)

So, maybe WR, and Timmy, and Tommy, and Jeff, and Dwayne, and David, and a few others stretching to my cosmic 'infinity and beyond' are right: perhaps I'm going about 'finding someone' all the wrong way. Instead of trying to be 'good wife material' to a manly man kind of guy, I should be trying to be a bit more me...which is not, generally, of anything 'typical'. Unfortunately, the real me is more along the lines of a good can-do, 'honey do' list material. And that, dear friends, will scare away (I'm guessing almost) all potentially-available straight men.

I'll give you an example: over the weekend, under the super courteous yet all-knowing eye of WR's Mama and WR, I found myself watching several college football games of some import. Now football is not a particularly alien game to me...I actively played it for years until I was asked forced to quit in my tween days because I was a girl (and, more honestly, because I played dirty against the boys...I admit it). I played defense, even, and frankly loved every minute of it. I couldn't play baseball like my beloved Dad did (or at least not to a level where he was not embarrassed to see me play in front of strangers), but I could play football. And I tried to play basketball for a bit, but just had to settle for being a devout fan instead (especially for my Larry Bird-era Boston Celtics). But football, for me, had all been so fun, so amusing, so joyful...until that gender thing entered the scene. (Back then, as politically correct as the Midwest is famous for, one simply did not challenge such 'gender expectations'. As ungrateful as this may sound, I actually was damn lucky that I could even play as long as I did...especially when I had been a very disgruntled 'cheerleader' for the Pee Wee League back at maybe age 8. Somewhere, to my horror, my Mama still has that cheerleader pic of red jersey with white fringe over a body-length white leotard...if not the demon seed uniform itself...just waiting to embarrass the living hell out of me someday.) Sports is a passion for me, in a way that expensive clothes or smelly candles or diamond jewelry never, ever will be.

So on Saturday...surrounded by WR's bubbly, quick-witted, and gregarious family...I had to catch myself from being 'me' a few times, for fear that 'rah rah tomboy' would come out in some unexpected fashion and be exposed in some horrific manner. (Which I think it did briefly, but I can't remember if it was during the Virginia/Virginia Tech game in the afternoon, or the Missouri/Kansas headliner that night.) In all honestly, though, I hated it when I did self-censor. Not wanting to embarrass WR was one thing, surely, but not wanting to be socially or culturally out of step (especially in comparison to his sweet sister-in-law, forever now dubbed Ms Liner as she does the most incredible lip liner application I have ever seen) was the more woeful dilemma for me. So, Saturday, I had all the defensive lines plays for Missouri rattling around in my brain, but I dare not utter them for fear I'd look even more 'full on' (to borrow yet another description handed to me from an Aussie 'brother') than usual. Enter the curse of pretending to be what it means to be a woman: know something, but say nothing or less.

Arrrgh. If I could just make myself love scrapbooking, or manicures, or preventing laugh lines and wrinkles. Or could listen to my friends' worries about diaper rash care while keeping a straight face. But, noooo, I sat there, watching the colour telly, and had to theorize how many times Kansas' quarterback Todd Ressing would be sacked that night...and why.

The last two nights have further reinforced things, as I've been inseparable from the major home hardware stores in prep for the apartment move (which thankfully commences this weekend). No matter what the project...the perfect replacement ceiling fan for the living room, some crown moulding trim piece for my TV cabinet, a few understated fabric vertical blinds, varied trellis supports for the flowers I can't even plant for months...I am in 'the zone', as of late, of My Abundant Tomboy. Just like the excitement I had when watching and understanding the college football games, I felt the same surge of joy when I rounded the corner tonight and found both area rugs and carpet tile squares (with 'easy installation' perks, too) are on sale through Christmas. Some women go a bit misty eyed at the prospects of buying lotions at Victoria's Secret®, but I practically salivate at the hope I can re-tile my kitchen table in a mosaic design once this move is complete. Italian mosaics with a rounded bull nose trim, to be exactly precise even.

Tonight, though, I came face-to-face with the 'need' for treatment. Another customer at The Home Depot® thought I was an employee there and came over asking for advice. A sweet-looking woman, probably a mom to a soccer child or two I reasoned. And, as we women are shown how to do practically since our first imaginary tea parties, she came up to me apologizing profusely for not knowing what item to ask for, where to find it, even what it really is supposed to do...poor, poor dumb me...that sort of thing. After explaining I wasn't an employee, but would help as much as I could (the place seemed exceptionally short-staffed considering it wasn't terribly busy) to help, she was relieved. Within 20 minutes and with the use of some well-intended college-student muscle of another shopper, Ms Timid was the proud hunter of 2 small topiary trees, 2 matching self-watering urns, some stainable chair rail trim for her formal dining room, and some motion sensor lights for her back deck...and she also now knows the basics of how to install and/or use each properly. Furthermore, she'll be back to one of the clinics this weekend to learn basic tiling. I was proud: another DIY sister had found her calling.

And then she said it.

"You're one of those independent type of ladies, aren't you?" Ms. Timid asked. "Not one to wait for a man to do things for you, or hire people out, right?"

Half walking away, I barely heard her question. But, after having her repeat it again, I nodded silently. I have to admit, though, I was worried what I was actually nodding my approval to, exactly.

She smiled as she headed for the check out station. Her Timidness thanked me again and touched my arm. "It's okay, hun, either way. Having a man around isn't that great of a thing sometimes, believe me. And, after all, you're going to make some guy a really great husband some day." [my emphasis] Followed by giggles and more smiles.

Shortly afterward, she left as I waited to be helped at the returns desk. She gave me a big smile again, mouthed 'bye', and left, newly motivated.

And then, perhaps much later than it should have, My Inner Tomboy realized she may not have been really paying me a compliment. A husband, eh? Yikes.

One Last Holiday Blowout

...before the big move, that is.

I'm gone to Virginia for a few days, and will be back on Mondayish. For those that celebrate Thanksgiving Day, enjoy yourselves and remember Christmas isn't all about shopping...take some time to be with the family and friends instead. For those of you don't celebrate this caloric blastoff of a holiday...enjoy yourselves anyway.

Will check in back soon, and will finally finish my half dozen blog entries or so that have been patiently waiting some final edits and completion.

"Green Acres is the Place for Me..."

Sorry for the temporary delay in dropping out there last week, but I do have a valid reason: I've been looking for a new apartment.

Let's backtrack a little. While I love my current digs (where I've been at for a couple plus years now) and have worked steadily to make the apartment here more a 'home' with my various art and photographic experiments, it's not necessarily a cheap place to live. When I first moved in, the monthly setup was a good deal: some new amenities, and it included internet and basic cable TV in the cost of the rent. Not to mention very close to work. However, what I didn't know then and found out up later, the major wallet-eaters like the air conditioning and the heating were not replaced and management were/are still quite resistant to do so. Not to mention, I seem to be the unofficial 'adult' in my section of the apartments as everyone else here is under 25 and likes to get drunk and/or have loud sports TV parties on the weekends...which was good when I was 25 or thereabouts. Now, after working a 50 to 60 work week and doing various other errands, not so much, or at least not so much every weekend. But in the first year or so, the rental price made all the extracurriculars tolerable. I was getting a good value and I knew it, so I stayed.

Then the first lease renewal went up $100 a month. At that time, all renovations throughout had been completed...and that had not included the ancient HVAC systems. All inquiries about changing those out were met with an icy reception and essentially a 'we don't care what it costs you in utilities to run them, we're not replacing them until they are completely inoperable' response from management. After looking at the numbers and other options again, I begrudgingly signed on again for another term but at least did it for an extended time so as to not be hit with another increase so soon. What had been an exceptional deal at one point was going in reverse, a situation that got highlighted even more when that winter's heating bills came out.

I've tried in vain to get the circa 1970s heating and porous windows changed out...or at least an investigation as to where all my energy money was going...this last term (the A/C did eventually when it gave away some time last year, but it took three days and a call from a lawyer friend of mine to get it fixed within a week), but nothing has been achieved. Electric rates have raised steadily, and the performance of the apartment, utilities-wise, has decreased alarmingly. Last winter, I upgraded all the curtains (now at about three levels thick), weatherstripped to an insane degree, and even bought a space heater to cut back on costs. On the coldest nights, I even took to wearing double-layered flannel...and I hate flannel...and even after all of these measures, I still was getting bills equivalent to those of a much bigger dwelling. Just two weeks ago, I tried again for resolution when it became apparent our long Indian summer had finally vacated the region. In return, I got a new front door sweep and a weatherstripping job worse than my own...and a review of my electric bills showing I'm paying about 35% more than what I did when I first moved in. When I first moved in just over two years ago. I understand that the electric rates have went up, but they haven't went up nowhere near that much and I'm actually at home less (and with the air conditioning and/or heat off when I am away) since then.

Then last week I came home to find a new renewal agreement on my door for the upcoming term: a raise in rent of almost another $100 a month (well actually it was, but then they indicated I'd get a discount for being a multi-year tenant of about $25/month). So, as I stewed contemplating an increase in rent of $175/month in just over two years' time and the raise in electricity costs, (not to mention the college social club here on the weekends), I started looking for alternate homesteads. Nothing like being forced into action, I guess.

So last week I found one, and one that's much more 'me'. Rural but still close to work, surrounded by woods and a working nursery and farm. Built into a hillside, in the bottom part of the house (must be a 'me' thing, as I've also lived in 2 basements before), with a screened-in porch overlooking said woods for about a quarter mile. A lot more 'home' vibe than what I currently have, with some recent upgrades in the bedrooms and the bath. A lot more space in the kitchen and the living room, too. While I'll have to get a washer and dryer (compared to using the ones provided currently here), that's a minor and temporary inconvenience. Supremely quiet, and the landlords don't even mind if I plant a garden. There will be a few changes...getting DSL and satellite TV out there as Time Warner Cable hasn't extended that far yet...but I practically jumped up and down when I got the tour. Even when adding up the laundromat, DSL, and other expenses, I still come out ahead. More space, less money...less hassle, more 'me'. Hallelujah.

And Friday, after much hand-wringing and worry I'd miss out somehow, I got it. And despite everything that is going on with me, I'm very very happy right now. I'm even packing boxes right now.

Recovering from Sensory Overload

Wow. What a weekend. My ears are in withdrawal, and my feet still ache from the dancing. But I do it again in a heartbeat, even less than that.

While a full review will follow tomorrow (complete with pics, hopefully, after I can do some editing of them for clarity), I'm including a brief 'video guide' of what you've missed. (Video clips from YouTube, as per my usual.) Except live it was like these videos times a factor of, oh, like, a hundred.

WARNING FOR THOSE YOU DON'T LIKE CUSSIN': STRONG LANGUAGE ON SOME OF THESE, OKAY?

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Friday night, Southern Culture on the Skids:


SCOTS doing "69 El Camino"...Friday night it was one of the opening songs in their set and it only got cranked up more even after that. They finished with their very participatory "Eight Piece Box" song, complete with flying chicken pieces thrown out into the crowd. Earlier, we'd had real banana puddin' passed around.

Saturday night, the opening act was Nashville Pussy:


Honest to God, this four piece blew everyone away at the beginning and damn near stole the whole damn night, especially with this rendition of the old Tina Turner "Nutbush City Limits" classic. The female lead guitarist (foreground in this video) reminds me of a young Lita Ford mixed with Joan Jett from their Runaways days. Smoked the house, period.

Then, we moved on to Hank III, otherwise known as Hank Williams, Sr.'s grandson. Truly a style and voice all of his own. He had me with his modified country with attitude songs, but damn near lost me when he morphed into the way-too-much, way-too-angry hard rock meets punk Assjack portion of the show. I admit it, I was starting to feel really old during the Assjack portion.


Hank III doing "7 Months, 39 Days"...before Assjack and the bottom of the rest of his set went completely buck wild.

And, finally...once I got my bearings back after the Assjack assault, out came the heroes (and headliners) of the night: The Reverend Horton Heat. The Rev and the Boys seemed especially appreciative of the crowd, and it was good to know a friend 'who had a friend in Jimbo'. Jimbo, the upright bass player, seemed to definitely be on his game that night. I swear he only gets better each time I see him, too.


The Reverend Horton Heat cranking away at one of their must-do crowd faves: "The Baddest of the Bad". The drummer has changed since this video, but the sound is as tight and thumping as ever. Easily one of the hardest-working bands out there, and always worth the price of admission.

Hopefully I can get some pics and a full review on here sometime tomorrow. Highly recommended.

It's Party Time at The Lincoln Theatre!

You can easily file this under the 'better late than never' concert announcements category. This damn work thing, interrupting my blogging...

The Lincoln Theatre in downtown Raleigh is bringing out the big guns this weekend, especially for those of us who adore a little twang in our guitar and a little drawl in our song. Not just one, but two, of my fave trio bands (and masters in this particular musical art form) blow in there tonight and Saturday.

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The SCOTS 'Family Album' pic: Dave Hartman, Rick Miller, and Miss Mary Huff. © Southern Culture on the Skids
First up, tonight, November 9, is our good Chapel Hill-based heroes, Southern Culture on the Skids (SCOTS). Always a good time to be had, complete with bouffant hairdos, flat straw hats, and enough dancing to meet your exercise quotient for the week. I'm sure it will include a good set from their latest release, "Countrypolitan Favorites", as well as some of their classics, including "Camel Walk" and "Eight Piece Box", among many, many more.

(And for those that read my review of their Wilmington show from earlier this year, yes, I am taking precautions tonight with the glasses...no need to tempt fate twice.)

Wear comfortable clothes and even more comfortable shoes...you're gonna need them. The show starts at 9pm, the doors open at 8pm, parking in and around the area is in constant 'flux' due to construction downtown so get there early. A few tickets are still available and cost $14.

And come prepared to make friends with all of the fellow dancers, fans, and fried chicken and grits lovers in attendance.

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Tomorrow, Saturday, November 10, should be an additional corker. In what will assuredly be a marathon of guitar-playing heroes and a crowd worthy enough to wear "Vamp Red" lipstick, the Lincoln pulls out Texas-based touring gods Reverend Horton Heat. If you have not seen these guys in person, or even heard of them, it's a 'must see' if you can make it. Comprised of 'Reverend' Jim Heath on lead vocals and lead guitar, master upright bass master Jimbo Wallace, and drummer Paul Simmons, this is the best damn psychobilly band period in my all of my years of listening and attending shows...and, arguably, also one of the best live shows I've ever seen, too.

The fact that The Rev & Company are masters of their chosen instruments is a massive understatement. The Rev is simply the guitar god all of us wanted to be when we were younger, and still the god that so many musicians want to be even now. And the very expressive Jimbo on upright bass...it's a powerful combo up front, and a show that has been honed down through the years with relentless touring and 'anything can happen and maybe even does' kind of shows. The licks, the lyrics, the interaction can be fast and furious, the style an explosive attack of electric guitar war mixed with good-timin' Texas twang and humour. Again, a 'must' see, if you can can still get a ticket.


The Reverend Jim Heath with Jimbo Wallace on stage. © The Reverend Horton Heat
While I'll miss the opening act I saw with The Rev last year at Jester's Pub in Fayetteville (the punk-inspired yet vaudeville show of The Horror Pops), the two opening acts tomorrow should be dandies in their own right. (And, no, I am not making up the bands' names.) First up, is Nashville Pussy. Don't know too much about them, but I didn't either about The Horror Pops and was left blown away...the Rev generally has some great opening acts as support, so I'm far from worried. And, then following, an act I've wanted to see (but keep missing somehow) for some time: Hank Williams III and Assjack (and, yes, this is who you think it is, country music fans...he is the son of Hank Williams, Jr., and the grandson of Hank Williams, Sr.).

Yes, it will be a night of dancing, drinking, hollering, cussing, and comparing tattoos (if you've got 'em). And if there is any fighting at all, my money's always on Jimbo. Always, always, always. Never underestimate the skills of an upright bass player...they will always surprise you.

The RHH show and Friends show starts at 8:30pm, the doors open at 7:30pm. Tickets are $22.50 in advance, and $25 tomorrow. (Act EARLY...don't even know how many are still available.)

Hibernian Hercs Celebration

Quick post this morning, as I'm still a bit sore from doing too much recycling this weekend and then got a tad bit too much anesthetic yesterday from receiving new fillings at the dentist. So, I'm a bit cranky because my shoulder muscles are still sore, and I'm starvin' because I couldn't eat anything last night because I couldn't feel my face...let alone control the whole eating, chewing, and non-slobbering processes. And this was from standard dentistry nerve-numbers, I can't even fathom what Botox® must be like afterward the injections...

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My favourite Irish bluegrass instrumentally gifted faves, Hercules Mulligan, will be back on stage tonight for their fortnightly set at The Hibernian in Cary. The show starts at 8pm. Get there a bit earlier to enjoy the beer and the food, as both are good (and the menu has been slightly updated...and also unfortunately that includes a bit more in the price area, but only minor changes...recently).

Additionally, in what I hope will be a developing trend, the Hercs will be playing this weekend in downtown Raleigh at Tir Na Nog. (Yes, in case you haven't guessed it, there aren't a lot of paying venues in the area...yet...for Irish bluegrass instrumentally gifted musicians. My other Celtic-related faves, Albannach, blew threw Tir Na Nog on October 24...same night as the Hercs show in Cary...damn it, need better scheduling for these guys...arghh. This 'not being able to be at two places at once' thing sucks.)

The Hercs did a very well-received show there on October 27 (complete with a birthday and engagement shout-outs to the crowd, some of whom came dressed in their best Halloween attire), so it's fabulous to see them back there for a weekend gig. (It's tough to truly appreciate the beauty of Irish drinking songs if you have to limit your consumption of the drink because you have to work in the morning...weekend gigs for Irish music are fabulous.) The Tir Na Nog show (I'm guessing) will start at around 7pm this Saturday, November 10. Get there early, if you can, for the show due to possible increased parking considerations...I know of at least 3 live shows (including this one) that will be bringing in fellow party-revelers all around the area that night.

And remember to tip your bartender/wait staff!

Fall Coming Onto Summerfield

I'm a bit rushed today (have a huge moving project of sorts tomorrow for work, in addition to having the truck reviewed for its electrical taillight schizophrenia), but I did get a chance to work on some photo images I will be uploading soon (complete with new Slide show). One of the most striking ones I took from the recent trip to Martinsville, VA, was one I took quite by accident. (It must be me, because that's generally how the best ones come about.)

It was totally an accident because I frankly am not a morning person (and God help me if I should ever become that way), and Martinsville is about a two hour plus drive from here (and that's before the regular race day traffic). So when it was strongly encouraged that all race fans try and be at the race about 9am (for an approximate 1pm start time), I took them serious and drove up there on some unhappy equivalent of three hours' sleep (couldn't really get to sleep the night before, don't you know). Unfortunately, that meant leaving here before dawn and before 6am. Thank God some disgruntled disk jockey on the radio was having an AC/DC party thrall and so song after song of great Aussie metal thunder roared through the little truck, as I rolled through countless sleeping rural neighbourhoods in and around the Greensboro area and further north. Angus Young does wonders to stave off sleepiness, let me tell ya.

Despite having atrocious service at the Maccas in Burlington (complete with an incredibly weak cup of 'regular' coffee), I sped on but was still hungry and desperately needing caffeine and some hot food when I rolled along US 220 North up to the Virginia line. So I stopped in for some standard gas station breakfast 'fare': OJ, milk, and overpriced sweets. Unfortunately, I also decided to undo my orange juice as dawn was breaking on the horizon, carefully driving with one pinky on the wheel and using my knees for balance.

Bad, bad idea.

Damn near took out a Mama Duck and her Feathered Offspring waddling across the road for a morning dip. I luckily saved the duck population, but lost the orange juice, chocolate milk, and some of the precious powdered doughnuts in the process to the quite dirty floorboard. There went the second attempt at breakfast on the road.

By the time I crossed over a bridge to the nearest road where I could attempt a cleanup, the sun had risen and was gently shaking all to life on such a glorious but dewy Sunday morning. It was still chilly...to my deep chagrin, Fall's been comin' on here in a hurry...so the cold orange juice splattered everywhere didn't set me in the best of moods at that moment. I bothered to stop cussing myself to stop mopping up the truck's bench seat, though, at some point to listen to the birds chirping away overhead. I stopped long enough take it all in and appreciate the beauty before me in all of its splendour...the birds spreading the news, the pine trees swaying in a light breeze, the nip in the air that made me thankful I'd brought along the heavier, quilted jacket.

And suddenly I turned around and looked to my left, back to the road and from whence I came before the Duck family appeared. I was immediately enraptured with Mother Nature all over again, especially as the new day's sun hit the water...and was quite thankful that Mama Duck & Company were enjoying this sight, too.


Fall dawn at Summerfield, North Carolina