Back 2 Good

We parted last as I embarked, post-freak snowstorm, on a questionable two-hour car ride to Uncasville, CT to see the best band of all time perform at Mohegan Sun.

A short one hour and fifty-five minutes later (just long enough to listen to both North and my "Matchbox Twenty Rules the World" albums in their entirety), Andrew and I pulled into the parking lot of the scenic Microtel Inn and Suites by Wyndham. At 7pm, we were pushing the limits of our time frame (the concert started at 7:30, and I wasn't sure if there was an opening act or not), but I managed to check in, shimmy into better jeans, spritz and smear (perfume and lipstick, respectively), forcibly yank Andrew off of the bed and get back out to the lobby to meet the next shuttle at 7:20.

It took us about seven minutes to get to the casino, during which I glanced at my cell phone's clock no less than 42 times. Thirty seconds after pulling up to the door, I had bounded out of the back seat, sprinted to the entrance and was huffing impatiently at Andrew as he jogged to catch up. As I navigated the crowd with my ninja-like skills (and by that I mean, "politely tried to push people who looked like they could handle it out of my way while avoiding the urge to frantically shout, 'IT'S 7:32 AND I WILL CUT YOU!'"), I caught a whisper of music floating out of the concert venue. Upon realizing that it was not, in fact, coming from my beloved boys, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, released my death-grip on Andrew's upper arm and followed him to the concessions area before proceeding up to the seats I'd purchased on StubHub 48-hours before.

A quick word about our seats: if you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen this:

The tix that I paid $50 each for @matchboxtwenty @mohegansun after mine fell through Wednesday are now going for $19 each. Someone hold me.
— Caitlin (@CaitieXperiment) March 8, 2013

Obviously, when Andrew informed me on Friday afternoon that the seats I had purchased for $50 apiece on Wednesday were going for $19 due to Winter Storm Saturn, I was a little bit, shall we say, peeved. Upon emerging from the staircase leading into the arena, however, every bit of that animosity faded into distant memory when I saw this:

Actual seats, sans zoom. These seats were like a rear-view mirror: closer than they appear

I've made the decision to buy "possibly obstructed view" seats for concerts in the past, particularly those that are located in the sections directly next to/slightly above the stage. Of probably eight concerts, I'd say only one or two of them has disappointed; this one, of course, did not. In fact, we were closer to the band and had a better view than at least half of the arena, which is, admittedly, larger than I expected it to be for a casino in the middle of Connecticut.

Matt Hires, whom I am sorry to say I had never heard of before, was the opening act. Despite my Twitter snark, I actually managed to put my urge to start a, "WE WANT ROB" chant aside and took the time to really listen to Mr. Hires' set. He's very talented, and even Andrew commented after he was done that he "would pay that guy five bucks if he handed me his cd on the street in NYC" (Matt Hires, if you're reading this, don't get a big head over that; Andrew is also the proud owner of a $5 EP by a wannabe rapper named Mustafa, so...).

I have to give it to the production people -- they really knew their audience, and spent the twenty-five minutes between sets playing a blend of Rob Thomas' solo works and Top 40 hits from MB20's early '00 heyday (my personal favorite being "Flavor of the Week," because what Millenial Girl did not, at one time, blast this song alone in the car and dedicate it to that poor friend who had no idea that her boyfriend was a raging dbag sending inappropriate IMs to other girls? I know I certainly did).

Because our seats were above stage right, we had the opportunity to watch all of the behind-the-scenes activity as MB20 prepared to take the stage. Once Paul Doucette (henceforth known as Charlie Day, because that's how Andrew keeps referring to him) finished tuning his guitar, it was pretty evident that the headliners were about to start. At 8:30 on the dot, the lights went down and the opening chords of "Parade" rang through the arena.

Too much awesome to handle.

And then I went nucking futs.

For the next 130 minutes, I was in a state of euphoria that is probably only achievable via drugs or seeing your favorite high school band live again after twelve years. You could have told me that I was dying of some terminal illness and I would have looked at you with a stupid zombie grin on my face and said, "THAT'S GREAT! LOOK, IT'S ROB THOMAS! ISN'T KYLE COOK AWESOME? DID YOU KNOW PAUL USED TO BE THE DRUMMER? EEEEEE!"

I'm aware that this is not normal.

I do not care.

The set list was exactly what I would have put together if I were in charge of such tasks. In fact, the only song that I didn't see coming was the Encore cover of David Bowie's "Changes" which, despite what the MassLive review I read said, was awesome. All of the old classics were intermingled with songs from North, which provided an interesting audience dynamic in that you could tell exactly which faction each member of the crowd was from: old fan, new fan or diehard. The woman to our left, for example, was old-school, enthusiastically singing every lyric to, "Bent" and "Bright Lights" but sitting contemplatively during the newer songs from North. The two mid-20s guys very enthusiastically trying to catch Rob's attention and bopping along to "She's So Mean" and "How Far We've Come" were a little quieter during "Disease" and "Back 2 Good". And the middle-aged man in a mock-neck zipup who spent the entire concert screaming along with everything from "3am" to "English Town" and regaling us with some of the sickest aisle dance moves I've seen outside of tv? Well, let's just say that I witnessed my future and leave it at that.

A little more than halfway through the concert, I had a mini-moment in which I was just completely, utterly overtaken by emotion. As the band transitioned from "I Will" (a pretty little number that is one of my favorites from North) into "Unwell," I took a second to just close my eyes and take it in. Then I burst into tears.

But really though.

I always say that "Bed of Lies" is my all-time favorite MB20 song, but the one that means the most to me is, without a semblance of a doubt, "Unwell." Throughout the past twelve years, through break-ups, make-ups, crises both professional and personal, this one short, 3-minute-something long song has reminded me that no matter how unhinged I feel, no matter how off-the-rails circumstances seem to be headed, I will be ok and come out of it alright on the other side. When I was unraveling in college, when I realized a few years later that I had to put myself first and that doing so would mean losing a lot of my friends, when I felt like my very grasp on reality was slipping through my fingers, I put "Unwell" on repeat and cried until I didn't have a single tear left to cry.

So when those first few recognizable notes resounded throughout the arena, all of those emotions that I associate with MB20, from the teenage angst that led to that first concert to the unbearable heartbreak of a dissolved long-term relationship to the utter helplessness and anxiety while falling into a quarter-life crisis, they all came to a spiritual crescendo of sorts. After almost thirteen years of identifying with this music, these words, these feelings, I closed my eyes to experience it all over again, and opened them to see thousands of people like myself who were similarly, but not identically, moved. I looked around at them, then at the band and then finally at Andrew, sitting there observing and pretending to know the words while singing along, holding my hand and then trying not to laugh as he leaned over and shouted, "are you CRYING?"

And in that moment, I just felt thankful. 

RT killing it on the piano

I know it seems silly to place such importance on a song, a band, a brief series of events in one's life. At the end of the concert, though, I was reminded again of why I love not just Matchbox Twenty, but music from the late 90s-early 00s  in general. As a teenager and early 20-something, we're all a little bit lost, whether we choose to admit it or not. It's that weird time in our lives when it feels like everything will last forever, but there is also an underlying awareness that we are all, in fact, speeding towards the end of... something. It's a time of simultaneous exhilaration and terror which forces us not only to wonder what our futures hold, but also daring us to do something about it. It's sink or swim at its finest.

Most of us, in one way or another, find a way to stay afloat. At 16...18...22...I had no idea who I was, what I wanted or in which direction my life was headed. The countless hours of TRL, the painstaking precision of hitting "record" on a dual-cassette player to create the perfect mix tape, the destinationless drives with the windows down and the Weekly Top 40 blaring loud for all to hear -- at times, these were the life rafts tethering me to reality. Now at 28, an age when I expected to have everything together, the husband, the house, the 2.5 kids and the fantastic job, it's ironic that I have none of those things but find myself perfectly, for the most part, content. I have a loving and generous boyfriend, an apartment that feels like home, a gaggle of nieces and nephews to spoil and a career that allows me to do something I enjoy while still pursuing the activities, hobbies and travel that leave me truly inspired. Despite all of those moments where I felt like I had fallen apart and would never get put back together, I did. I do.

So when the lights came up and Andrew grabbed my hand, and the two of us left the arena to grab some food at Bobby's Burger Palace and lose all our money playing slots, I continued to grin like an idiot. In fact, as I sit here typing, I still am. 

Because I have come so far, and I am happy.

And Matchbox Twenty reminds me of that.

PS - Thank you. Andrew, you dear, sweet man, for putting up with me. I promise that the next time we go see Kelly Clarkson you can comment on how hot she is and pontificate the perfect fit of her jeans for a full 48 hours afterward. I am nothing if not fair.

Friday Confessional: I Go Back to Spring Cocktail

This morning, as I surveyed my desk and muttered under my breath about how I really can't handle the little house imps that must come in here and mess up my stuff at night, my eyes lit upon a forgotten relic of the past: a cd book.

If you're old enough to remember when Zack Morris coined the phrase, "tv time-out", you know what I'm talking about: the soft-covered Case Logic case, usually black, which, when unzipped, reveals a treasure trove of 80-minute windows into the Millenial's teenaged soul.

Yes, that would be Bewitched and DMB. No shame in my game.

My coworkers have been disturbingly not disturbed as they wander in here to find me, head bent over a manuscript with pink pen in hand, lip syncing and chair dancing to such classics as India.Ari's "Not Your Average Girl" and Missy Elliot's "Get Ur Freak On". My reaction has typically been just to look up mid-lip-synced-lyric ("That'cho chiiiiiiick?"), find out what they want as quickly as possible and then send them on their way.

I'm just now getting to the cds with no labels, so I'll be sure to take note of what songs are on them so that I can report back in a later post. In the meantime, one cd that WAS labeled was my Kappa Delta Bids Day Mix compilation from the semester I joined my sorority, which includes the following sweet jams:

1. The Cheers Theme
2. Baby One More Time
3. Baby Got Back
4. I Wanna Be a Supermodel
5. In the Club
6. Stacey's Mom
7. Like a Virgin
8. Barbie Girl
9. Sugar, Sugar
10. Give A Little Bit
11. Breakaway
12. That's What Friends Are For
13. To Make You Feel My Love
14. The Rose

Obviously, this cd brought back a ton of memories, particularly of my pledge period. My pledge class was sort of unique, in that the semester I went through recruitment ("rush" in Sweet Valley-speak), my sorority was almost at total -- which is a PC way of saying that they were so popular that they only had room to take a few new members. Total is like a salary cap on a sports team's budget; Greek Life comes up with a finite number of girls allowed in each sorority, so that the houses are all on even footing and have a fair shot at attracting new members.

As it happened, I completely ignored the advice they give you at Recruitment Orientation and went into the entire process knowing exactly which house I wanted to join (note to any collegiate readers out there: do as I say, not as I do. I later became a Rho Psi who wasn't allowed to walk out the front door non-biased recruitment group leader and really, it's best to keep an open mind when going through the first round of house tours). I also knew they only had five slots, and that as a second semester sophomore, it was kind of do-or-die as far as my Greek life aspirations went. Thankfully, after two weeks of meticulously planned outfits, heat-styled hair and incessant self-promotion, I received my coveted white rose along with an embossed green and white bid card. I was in!

How they let me in with that hair is another question....YIKES!

Because my pledge class was so small, we were nicknamed the "Fab Five" by our VP of New Member Ed ("Pledgemaster" via Animal House). Over our six week pledge period of fun group activities and social events, we went from being five virtual strangers to pretty good friends. This bonding experience culminated, of course, in our pledge retreat, during which we were charged with writing a "Pledge Song" to be performed at the Spring Cocktail. On our Bids Day (a big party they throw for you after you get your bid), all the older classes had performed their songs, many of which were featured on today's mix cd -- Stacey's Mom (aptly retitled, "KD Girls have got it goin' on...."), Like a Virgin ("Like a KD... pledged for the very first time!") and Barbie Girl ("I'm a KD girl, in a KD world...).

With creativity like that, we obviously had a lot to live up to.

Riffing on our rep as the "Fab 5", we initially wrote an EPICALLY horrible version of the Jackson 5's "ABC" -- we knew it was terrible, but we wanted to get down to the business of watching "My Best Friend's Wedding," so we said the heck with it and performed it at breakfast the next morning anyway. The look on the ten sisters' faces when we did the "big reveal" at the end of our retreat was priceless. Horror mixed with revulsion mixed with "omg wtf did we do?!" is a pretty accurate description.

Because we're mean, the five of us decided to let the girls who had been present at the retreat continue to think that we were super proud of our song and couldn't wait to perform it at cocktail. Looking from the inside out, I can only imagine what they told the rest of the house when we got back to school -- probably that they had made the worst mistake in KD history and the entire sisterhood was doomed. Meanwhile, we met a few times in the dorms and completely re-wrote the entire thing, from scratch.

And so, it was to everyone's great surprise and delight that, mid-way through our inaugural Spring Fling cocktail, my four newly-initiated sisters and I clutched our microphones, giggled incessantly,  hit the lights, cued the dj, and busted out THIS sweet jam:

"If you wanna be a KD

You gotta start as a pledge

Wear that pin forever

The fun it never ends!

If you wanna be a KD

Your time you'll have to give

Meetings go forever but that's the way it is."

Glammed up and ready for my debut

Obviously, the highlight was the finale, which included us screaming, "CHEER IT OUT LOUD, WE'RE KAPPA DELTA PROUD" as we jumped up and down like chihuahuas on speed, high-fiving each other and hyping the crowd.

Obviously, we were a huge hit. Because if you know any sorority girls? You know one thing.

They LOVE to cheer.

Have a good weekend, everyone! And a special shout out to my East Coasters -- stay safe!

Friday Confessional: Raindrops on Roses...

Fun fact: as a child, I had something of a dream of being an actress when I grew up. I sang, I danced, I recited dramatic interpretations of monologues and might or might not have been in a really embarrassing ad campaign. This was, of course, before I had the good sense to become insecure about my looks, my weight, my deviated septum and the fact that I looked like the spitting image of Punky Brewster (though I still maintain that the latter was a blessing -- those mismatched socks were haute couture, damn it!).

Picture this, only 15 years younger...

As it happened, my mother was also into theater, and because of blatant nepotism our superb acting skillz, my sister and I were often cast in any role that required a kid. It is important to note here that I didn't say "girl"; because I was average-to-tall in height for my age, I routinely ended up playing roles meant for boys (I played a mean Tom Sawyer during a figure skating show, and bonding over the sequined knickers actually led to a great friendship with a fellow tall girl-who-played-boy in junior high!). While this could have lead to a lucrative career as a cross-dresser, I unfortunately stopped growing at age 16 at the perfectly average female height of 5'5, and there are already more than enough short, short men to fill that demographic.

It was during my second stint playing Kurt in The Sound of Music (huh... I wonder if Kurt from Glee got his name from that icon? Things to ponder...) that I realized that a certain scene made me... uncomfortable. Not the one where I box-stepped to a dog whistle (I'm Kurt. I'm incorrigible!), or even the one where I had to  dance with my fake older sister/good friend Liesl --- but the one where, despite my best efforts, I could never COMPLETELY pull off lying to the audience, no matter how hard I tried.

Because let's be honest here...

Ain't NO amount of whiskers on kittens or warm woolen mittens going to keep me from cringing, shrieking, covering my ears and convulsing during a thunderstorm.

No way.

[Source]

No how.

A lot of people assume I'm kidding when I put "thunderstorms and assorted other loud, startling noises" at the very top of my list of things of which I am petrified. At the very least, they think I'm exaggerating -- what 26 year old is terrified of balloons/fireworks/pyrotechnics/nature's greatest display of electricity?

This one, that's who.

If you want to take your life in your hands, I invite you to join my in a car that I'm driving at the first (or any, really) flash of lightning -- because I unconsciously get so tense that I accidentally jerk the wheel and close my eyes. I also BLAST the stereo because thunder scares the bejeesus out of me, and if I can't hear it, so much the better. Or perhaps you'd like to join me in my little apartment thunderstorm cave? I wish I was kidding (though sadly, I am not):

Yes, that's some tunes, a very bright light, a temperpedic ass cushion, sustenance, a book and booze. Because Lord help me, I can't be expected to endure some of the worst thunderstorms in MA history without a good, strong helping of liquid courage. You know what's NOT pictured? Windows. And you know why? Because even the flash of lightning gets to me and makes me all kinds of crazy. Spastic, like a dog hiding under the bed, crazy.

You can imagine what it's like to work with me on the top floor of a high-rise that is encased entirely in glass, can't you?

Stop laughing.

In all seriousness, I'm well aware of how stupid a fear this is. Believe me, I've tried everything from immersion therapy (hello, omni theater at the science museum), to books, to learning anything and everything about thunderstorms, lightning and odds (I got a 107% on my Elements of Weather final in college, thankyouverymuch).

None of it has helped. I've kind of accepted it, because as my shrink in college pointed out, though it's an irrational fear, it's a deep-seated one. I've been terrified of loud, startling noises since I was 2, when some little asshole at the zoo popped a balloon in my ear. My first memories of fireworks are of sitting on my Dad's shoulders with my fingers in my ears, and later of my sister sitting behind me and covering them for me. I spent many a boyband hip, cool concert being teased by my friends as I tried to duck and cover every time a pyro effect went off.

[Source]

Compound that with the time my sister and I watched out the window as our dad and brothers ran to the house from the car, only to have a bright flash, giant bang and HUGE hole blasted through our driveway a split-second later, along with the time lightning struck a tree that then fell on our car WITH ALL OF US INSIDE OF IT (and my head a mere 3 inches from the roof since, as the oldest, I got "trunk duty"), and it's no wonder I'm such a wuss when it comes to explosions of any kind.

I just feel bad for the people sitting next to me on the bus when lightning strikes. 

So... Can someone please reassure me that I'm not the only one with a ridiculous, shameful fear of something completely innocuous!?!?

(FTR, my other irrational phobia is arachnophobia, and yes, I would totally be that chick in the iPhone commercial who freaks out and causes the picture of the spider on the table to be smashed. I'm very proud of myself each and every time I manage to squish one without having to call Andrew in tears. Progress, I say!)

Friday Confessional: I Go Back to Being F**ing Perfect

Wow, it's been awhile since my last "I Go Back..." post. I originally started writing this as a memory-related post, but as I wrote, it took on a tone of a Friday Confessional, so I decided that this week, I would change the format up a little bit and combine the two.

So, this week, I do hereby solemly confess:

If I'm being 100% honest, the reason there haven't been any "I Go Back" posts lately is because I've been way too guarded lately to let anything -- even music -- really get to me, because I was afraid that if it did, I would simply fall apart.

That simple.

Fall.

Apart.

Shattered, like the wine glasses that inevitably slip from my fingers as I wash dishes.

And then, I was driving home from dropping Andrew off at work about a week or two ago (we're a one-car family at the moment... they don't tell you this, but it ain't easy bein' green!). I don't even know what I was thinking about. Maybe I was worried about the rain clouds glowering at me as I crested each hill of Rt. 9, thinking about how amazing it must feel to have a similar view at the halfway point of the Boston Marathon, and how I've really been slacking on my running lately.

Perhaps I was going over my ever-growing "Weekend To-Do Wish List", thinking that there was no way I would ever accomplish everything I wanted to get done, and beating myself up for wanting to get home, do Ripped in 30, go for a run, shower, get dressed, run to Target, get my nails done, take a GRE practice test, make a nice, healthy lunch, read some of my book, clean the bathroom and finally tackle the (I can't believe I'm about to type this, because it's seriously f--ing disgusting) two months' worth of laundry that is currently hiding in my walk-in closet.

All before 7pm.

It might have been the feeling of time slipping away, as I creep closer to 30 and now knowing what I want to do, both professionally and on the side, but not yet finding the motivation to actually go out there and do it.  That feeling of treading water, of not being present or in control of my career, my weight, my relationships, my family, my life.

I suppose I could have been agonizing over the impending reunion with my own mother, with whom I haven't had the best relationship this past decade, and who I've actually only seen 4 (yes, 4) times in the past 7 years, for a maximum of 4 days at a time each visit.

Maybe it was all of it.

Maybe it was none of it.

Who knows.

I sure as hell don't.

All I know is that as I hit the Shaw's on Rt. 9 in Brookline, P!nk's "F--ing Perfect" came on the radio and I found myself in a super market parking lot, sobbing in the manner that gives you a tension headache and basset-hound eyes for days afterward. You know what I'm talking about.

The ugly cry.

And what was worse, I just. couldn't. stop.

In high school, my friend TBB#1 and I used to drive around in her car (was it a Subaru? God, I'm old), code-naming crushes, devouring pints of Ben&Jerry's with wooden, tongue depressor-style sticks and washing them down with Snapple, and belting our lungs out to P!nk. No, it wasn't cool, even back then.

But, much like Matchbox 20, I connected with the lyrics of her songs in a way that made them applicable to my life. They spoke to me and said, "it's ok that your family is nuts". "It's ok that you aren't willing to give it up for free just to get a boyfriend." "It's totally ok that you have no idea who you are yet, and that you're scared that you might be someone different than you think you are."

That sentence makes no sense, I know.

But neither does life, really.

It's 10 years later, and I'm still scared of being someone different than I think I am, especially since every time I start to think I might have figured it out, I go and change on myself. It's like Jekyll and Hyde; I'm Caitie and Caitlin. But even Hyde had some value, because without his darkness, we never would have come to know Jekyll's light. Without the deep, questioning voice of Caitlin, I wouldn't appreciate the lilting laughter of Caitie half as much. They're I'm the same, but different. Two sides of the same coin, both equally valuable in worth. 

And I find myself asking, "Is this normal, or is this schizophrenia?" Because, you know, WebMD is the best thing ever invented for over-thinking hypochondriacs.

As I wrestled with... well, with whatever "it" was -- that phantom ache in my heart that would start to bubble up, only to have me shove it as far back as I possibly could -- there was something in these words:

You're so mean when you talk about yourself; you were wrong.

Change the voices in your head; make them like you instead.

So complicated, look happy, you'll make it

Filled with so much hatred, such a tired game.

It's enough; I've done all I can think of,

Chased down all my demons, I've seen you do the same

that didn't just break the dam -- they released the entire f--ing ocean of emotion.

Over the past few years of my life, I've been creeping, ever-so-slowly, towards self-acceptance, but it's never as easy as they make it sound in chick lit novels or in the 90-minutes of a RomCom. There are too many facets of any single person to be everything, to everyone, or even to themselves. But I'm trying. And I think from now on, there will be a note stuck on my bathroom mirror that simply states the following:

"You're F--ing Perfect to Me"

So thanks, P!nk, for not only getting me through high school, but for reminding me that I don't have to know exactly who I am yet. More importantly, thank you for writing songs that manage to speak to me, saying the exact right thing at the exact right time. That's pretty f--in' perfect if you ask me.

Plus, those Boston stereotypes aren't entirely made up --- I try not to curse a lot on the blog, but IRL I swear like a sailor and truly love me a well-placed F-bomb! Also, you know I slightly teared up when Kirstie came out with it queued up on the finale of DWTS. I couldn't help it!

Time to Face the Music

Thanks, ladies, for letting me know that I am not alone in both being intrigued and slightly repulsed with my recent case of The Twitter. All I know is that I'm still there, my cell phone battery is rapidly depleting, and I felt slightly dirty and mildly ashamed as I tucked myself in to bed last night.

But I digress. For today, my friends, it is time to face the music with respect to my totally bizarre iTunes library.

Obviously, I think music is important and plays a bigger role in our lives than we sometimes give it credit for; I have an entire section of this blog dedicated to those songs that evoke strong emotions/identifications for me, for crying out loud!

To me, music is like scent -- a certain song or genre can transport me from wherever I am, whatever I am doing, and put me into a completely different scenario. A few well-placed notes, and suddenly I'm 16 again and watching, horrified, as my very own Regina George goes in for the kill, right in front of my face. A bass hums, and I'm 13, left aching for the day that I'll finally be one of the Chosen Ones, those girls to whom boys flock like Canada geese on the Common. Or, on spring days when the sun is shining through the window just right, and the hint of summer is caught in the air, a few loud guitar riffs and I'm happy, figuring out who I really am, and who I am going to be.

I'll never be that girl who quietly takes a photo, that's for damn sure.

Earlier today, Melissa over at MelissaNibbles posted her latest playlist for her workouts. One of the things that I noticed, and loved so much about it, was how totally and utterly random it seemed to me -- but that it's totally what floats her boat at the moment. I have a pretty varied taste in music, so I think that playlists are a HUGE advantage when it comes to, well, anything. I have workout playlists, running playlists, house cleaning playlists, solely Britney playlists, holiday playlists, Disney playlists, driving playlists... and it goes onnn and onnn and onnnn (Yes, there's some Queen in there, too). I have a playlist for everything, it seems -- which is what got me thinking about something I haven't done in awhile: random iPod shuffle on All Music.

So, I took my iPod and, without filtering anything, set it to "Songs" and then wrote down the first 20 songs (out of 1333) that came on. I found it amusing, so thought I'd share [Edit: I should note that I SHUFFLED them first; apparently SOMEONE, (and we shan't name names, Andrew), is feeling picky today and missed the implication of shuffle above]:

"Scar Tissue" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers
"My New Philosophy" from You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown!
"Break Stuff" by Limp Bizkit
"From a Distance" by Bette Midler
"Winter" from Vivaldi's Four Seasons
"Don't Be Stupid" by Shania Twain
"Hey Ya" by Outkast
"Thank God I'm a Country Boy" by John Denver
"I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John
"Satellite" by Dave Matthews Band
"There You Go" by Pink
"5gether" by 2ge+her
"Beat It" by MJ
"Stand by Me" by Marvin Gaye
"Girl on TV" by LFO
"Like a Virgin" by Madonna
"Magic Stick" by 50Cent
"Just the Two of Us" by Will Smith
"I Do Not Hook Up" by Kelly Clarkson
"Over and Over Again" by Nelly

I know, I know. I'm amazed that not a single Britney, Backstreet Boy, Destiny's Child, Matchbox 20, Kenny Chesney or Justin Timberlake song made it in there, too.

But I want extra credit for the 2Gether track... don't pretend you're not jealous.

[Source]

And now I must go point at people at the gym and awkwardly cross my arms in a plus sign, pretending that I'm the lost 5th member of 5gether (since poor QT died. Sad face.). Because what is Zumba for, really, if we're not going to embrace our inner pop star?!

Play Somethin' Country!

Whenever I'm having a horrible day, whether it seems that the sky is spitting on my head, I've apparently gone on an expedition to the Arctic but no one bothered to tell me, I somehow manage to forget to shave on the day I choose to wear a sleeveless tank and crops to yoga or various other WGPs, there is one cure that I turn to, time and again.

Country music.

Brad Paisley. Yum.

I don't want to get too into specifics, because I have plenty of "I Go Back" moments with specific songs (Kenny will FOREVER be associated with springtime on my sorority lawn, for example), but as a whole, I think country as a genre hearkens back to good times. Judging from my post this morning, I could use some good times right about now.... and have thus broken out the Chesney Channel on Pandora!

Let me be the first to admit, I didn't always like country -- in fact, I downright hated it during my mom's "country phase" when I was an early teen. She was big into Reba and Garth; I was obsessed with Brian Littrell and Britney Spears. My friend and coworker, Ratmaster Rachel, used to take a verbal onslaught from me for her love of country ... but she was from the sticks of New Hampshire (yes, we have subdivisions of stickiness up there), so it was always understood that I was just teasing and she had earned the right to rock out with Two Pina Coladas (one for each hand). Secretly, though, I was kind of into Shania, and Faith Hill didn't piss me off so much, especially since "This Kiss" was my unofficial song with the boy that I tried to win back. Girl power, indeed.

It was college, really, that got my boots a'scootin'. More specifically, it was my sorority sisters (I promise the affiliation-outing post is coming; it's the most-asked question I get via email and comments!). On Bids Day, cruisin' around campus in what would become my Big's convertible, she blasted, "Mrs. Steven Rudy", and I couldn't stop laughing because it was easily the most ridiculous song I'd heard to that point. A few semesters later, I owned a legitimate cowboy hat, a jean skirt and a bunch of plaid button-downs, and while I still preferred Eminem and Journey for raids (socials), I routinely engaged in shower sing-a-longs with Brad and Toby, Carrie and Shania (this was pre-Taylor, and now I am dating myself... oh wait, you all know exactly how old I am anyway). Somehow, no matter what the trouble du jour was, those crazy hicks always managed to make me smile.

Darius Rucker at CountryFest last summer

Some things, thankfully, never change. As I sit here, writing about these ridiculous times, lyrics and overall fluffliness of the music (no sad songs need apply on a day like today... as I listen to "Home" by Blake Shelton. Do as I say, not as I do), my mood has definitely lifted. I no longer want to scream, cry and just punch a wall until it surrenders.

I do, however, want a Slurpee. And maybe a hamburger. And possibly some of these babies:

Love it.

So, tell me: Country -- love it, or hate it? What's your favorite genre of music? Do you prefer specific ones over another, or are you a rebel, like me, who likes a little of everything? 


For the record: I hate Rascal Flatts. Hate. Especially "These Days," which has it's very own IGB story (it's a doozy, involving being a pseudo-stalker during The Rebound and maybe listening to it on repeat while browsing Facebook. Then I boiled a rabbit). And don't get me started on the "Life is a Highway" remake for Cars. Even Lightning McQueen couldn't save that one.

I Wish the Real World...

A few weeks ago, I chronicled the unusually vivid memories that a certain song brings back for me. Almost immediately after I hit, "Publish," on that entry, I had another "I Go Back" moment  (Holla atcha boy Kenny!) -- and decided right then and there that since I had so much fun writing that first post and re-living my awkward past, I wanted to make the chronicles of these tunes a recurring (but not regular) series on TCE. What better way to get to know someone than through her own recollections of her formative years, in all their awkward, angsty, horrifying glory, all set to a kick-ass nerdy an eclectic soundtrack?

Yet again, as I was wandering back into the building from collecting my lunch (cajun bowl, brown rice and white meat chicken, from Bolocco -- if you've not had one, get thine ass there NOW. Trust me; just do it.), the coffee cart downstairs was playing its usual easy listening, adult contemporary mix, and as I pressed the elevator button to mosey back upstairs, the words hit me like a ton of bricks:

I think I've already lost you; I think you're already gone...

Now, I don't know about you, but in high school, I was pretty damn sure that I was, in fact, living out a Matchbox 20 song. I would saunter down the hallways, randomly whipping my head around to make sure that Rob Thomas, in all of his broody, hot, shaggy-before-Bieber glory, was not literally following me around and penning his inspirational lyrics based upon my mediocre existence. I never actually caught him, but I'm still pretty sure he was there. I mean, he's pretty skinny. I bet he could fit behind a locker or something.

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Holy. Yum.


Ok, now that I have quit drooling long enough to type, I can admit: I first became a fan while I was glued to my tv, obsessively voting for the BSB on TRL (THAT'S another blog post for another day). And then Rob came about, leading a camel around a bowling alley and singing words that went straight to my 14-year old heart. Yes, I DID always wonder what it was like to be the Rainmaker, and what it would be like to know that I made the rain (side note: I am thoroughly saddened by the fact that an entire generation will think this line has something to do with dolla dolla bills, ya'll). Most importantly, I wished the real world would just stop hasslin' me. In that moment, I became an MB20 lifer.

Just shy of my 16th birthday, I got my very first real boyfriend. This was good for 2 reasons: 1) I was beginning to wonder if I would EVER get my first kiss, and 2) I was dating a guy that all of my friends had had crushes on in the months leading up to our coupledom, and they were all insanely jealous. Score one for me. I felt like sort of a scumbag at first, because he had dated another friend of mine before me, but I was honest and up front, told her I had the hots for him post-their-breakup, and she gave us her blessing. She'd moved on to greener pastures by that point, anyway.

A blissful high school eternity Three months and 26 days later, my heart was crushed when, as we carried on our nightly tradition of tying up our families' phone lines on both AIM and the cordless at the same time, he said something about how he just didn't like me much anymore and we were now broken up. Sobbing hysterically, I ran right to my room and did what any normal 16 year old does: blasted angsty music, ate an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos and began the laborious endeavor of making sad mix tapes -- which, at the time, entailed sitting next to your duel-cassette tape deck with the radio on, waiting patiently for Joey McIntyre's "Stay the Same" the song of your choice to come on and painstakingly hitting "Record" at just the right moment. As I sat there, cheetos falling like tears all around me, the song I'd been waiting for finally hit the airwaves.



"Can you help me? I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never, get put back together..." 

Right after "Bent" ended, safely embedded upon my cassette tape, I heard the DJ mentioning something about how MB20 was coming to a local arena in two weeks... "along with special guests, Lifehouse and Everclear!" At the mention of that, I nearly choked on my fifty-fourth Oreo. No, not because MB20 and Rob Thomas himself would soon my in my vicinity, but because the object of my defeated affections happened to be a HUGE Everclear fan. YES! THIS WAS IT! I KNEW HOW TO GET HIM BACK!

Aided and abetted by my crazy mother, along with a six-month sentence of increased indentured servitude, I managed to procure a set of four tickets to the upcoming concert. Ever so casually, I happened to mention it to the ex one day, which went as follows:

Oh, yeah, I'm going to Matchbox Twenty... did you know Everclear is opening? Wow, you're a fan? No way; I had no idea! Would you believe I have two extra tickets that I can't seem to get rid of? Yeah! Nuts, right? Oh, you would take them? Well, I mean, I have to think about it; I kind of have my toe in a few waters right now, you know... Hmm, on second thought, sure. Oh, did I mention Leah and Kat got tickets, too, and we rented a limo?"

The Bachelor is damn lucky I happened to be taken by the time I ever really got into watching it, because those other broads never would have stood a chance. Smooth like buttah; that's me.

Armed with nothing but some sweet butterfly hair clips, a few friends and a driver named Adam Geoffrey (at least that's what we called him, despite his insistence that it was not, in fact, his name), I set about my task. Of course, we missed basically all of Lifehouse, because we got stuck in traffic, but we were there for Everclear. Ex kept going onnn and onnn about how awesome it was to be there. I smiled and laughed, acted cool (because nothing is more lame and less attractive than a desperate girl clinging to her thwarted love interest, right?), and went NUTS when MB20 came on.

In fact, I might have managed to find the one time the entire arena went quiet to loudly declare, "ROB THOMAS I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!"

Awkward.

[I'm the one in the black, with the sweet purse and butterfly hair clips, third from the right. Please note Geoffrey.]

Still totally amped about the awesome concert we'd just attended (and our brand-spankin' new black, rainbow-lettered Matchbox Twenty baby tees), we hopped into the limo and decided to play that old teenage standby, Truth or Dare. Finally! This was it! My friends knew of my ulterior motives for this little trip, and I was sure they would hook me up (no pun intended). Needless to say, you can imagine my expression when, after my friend picked "Dare," she ended up making out with MY ex-boyfriend right there in front of me. If you CAN'T imagine my expression, just watch Mean Girls and study LiLo when Regina starts making out with Aaron at the Halloween party. (Yes, 2 song recaps, 2 Mean Girls refs. Swish!).

And then they dated.

Cue "Leave".

 You know, I wish I could say that I had some kind of huge "EFF YOU" moment that came out of this, where the heroine is vindicated and wins a recording contract or book deal or something after furiously pouring her heart out onto the page. Unfortunately, AIM statuses (stati?) weren't exactly fodder for 6-figure book advances, so I really don't. In fact, I'm still good friends with that guy, to the point that we both usually forget the fact that we ever dated, unless it's brought up in conversation because we are standing in a circle of his ex-girlfriends (he was one of those guys who had a problem with dating "in the circle," if you will) and laughing about the hilarity of our misspent youth.

As for the friend who made out with him, I held a grudge for a few years, but by the time we got to college, it really wasn't worth it. She IMed me one day, coincidentally after another bad breakup on my end, and asked me to accompany her on a visit to Martha's Vineyard for the day. I did, we talked, we laughed, we cried -- and now we've had tons of drinks, crazy experiences and belly laughs over the whole teenage debacle. She's one of my besties, and affectionately known as my "boyfriend," since when we were both single and all our friends were obsessed with trolling the bars like trollops, we were content sitting at home, making pizzas and watching Rosemary's Baby, confident that we would find quality men one day, who were worthy of our awesomeness.  And then we did.

And I owe it all to Rob Thomas.

Swoon.

Truly, Madly, Deeply Dooo

Have you ever gone YEARS without hearing a song, only to have it pop up out of nowhere one day and then proceed to follow you around, its little earworm hooks creeping and crawling into you brain and bringing up all kinds of long-forgotten associations?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Savage Garden's Truly, Madly, Deeply. It's stalking me.

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Remember when, sometime around the time that scrunchies were on their way out, this song seemed like the absolute most romantic thing you had ever heard? I mean, come on -- "I want to stand with you on a mountain. I want to bathe with you in the sea?" That is poetic, lyrical GENIUS, people! Elton John himself couldn't write that shiz. I will forever associate it's bass-y, lilting chorus with wide-leg jeans, passing notes in the hallways and dancing awkwardly with the kid from the next homeroom over, at 3 in the afternoon, on a dirty gymnasium floor.

And my friend Sara's Bat Mitzvah, at which I realized that I was not living in a John Hughes movie and, if I were, I would be less like Molly Ringwald and more like Ally Sheedy.

First of all, I was kind of an awkward middle schooler. One day, if you're lucky, I will post my 7th grade photo. Though I have destroyed all copies of it, my best friends are bound to have one, as my yearbook that year was filled with comments about how they would save it until I became famous and then leak it to the National Enquirer. And yes, it IS that bad... Four words: Velour. Scrunchie. Side Pony. My mother also forced me to wear skinny ankle jeans which, though tres cool now, were about as hip as garbage at the time, prompting the secret object of my affection to ask me one day in math class why I "wore such ridiculous pants." Good question, D, good question.

Despite my closet full of wardrobe malfunctions, I wasn't particularly popular or unpopular; I kind of like to think I ran in the middle of the clique pack. I had a solid group of friends, and we paraded around the hallways like we owned them, arms linked in a miniature display of solidarity with our other socially-stunted brethren. So, when my friend Sara invited me to her Bat Mitzvah, I was super pumped and assumed everyone else in my little group would be in attendance, too. Um, no.

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Now, being raised Catholic, I had no idea what to expect. My understanding of Jewish tradition extended to my Uncle wearing that funny hat during his wedding, the lesson on the Maccabees that my 5th grade teacher gave during the obligatory "Multi-Cultural Holiday Celebration" phase and the fact that while my friend Nicole got 8 crazy nights of Tiffanys, I got three hours of Church and a second-hand bicycle. So, I wasn't prepared for the fact that no, my entire social circle wasn't invited. Or that, in absence of said friends, it was not polite to invite along my best friend and assume that there would be a pot luck buffet like my family had at our First Communions. I was 13, for heaven's sake; how was I supposed to know the magnitude of the cost of a single un-RSVP'ed plated dinner?! So, as I entered the Temple in my black velour Liz Claiborne dress (apparently, velour is the new black. Or was, back when the Fresh Prince ruled the fashion scene), Things Remembered jewelry box engraved with "Mazel Tov!" and gate crasher best friend in tow, you can imagine what I was thinking as I saw all of the girls up front in their pastel semi-formal dresses, giggling at one another and making intricate hand gestures to the boys they knew from Hebrew School on the other side of the room, the basket of yarmulkes for the men and Sara, looking like a movie star sitting solemnly with her parents.

Oh. Shit.

The ceremony itself was very interesting. I love learning about other cultures and religions (and have the $180 text book to prove it), so I thought it was so cool to discover that they do their readings backwards. And that Sarah could speak another language. And that after all the traditional, ceremonial stuff was over, we got to go to a bitchin' party complete with glow-in-the-dark masks, a dance troupe and more shiny beads than Mardi Gras. Sure, I didn't know anyone except for a small handful of school chums and my gate crasher best friend, but that didn't stop me from tearin' up the dance floor during the Hava Nagila or taking second place in the "Chubby Bunny" contest.

And then, with a single resonating beat of bass, Savage Garden and their ode to everlasting teen angst ruined my night.

Normally, I had a group of guy friends who would have asked me to dance -- whether out of true desure or the fact that they couldn't find anyone else who would tolerate their clumsy big feet, I'll never know -- but this was uncharted territory. I didn't know ANY of these guys, save for the very few I knew from school. Most of these guys went to the junior high across the river, and they had no interest in doing the hands-on-shoulders sidestep with someone they'd never met.

So, while literally every other girl there was out on the dance floor, swaying in sync with the magical tempo of T,M,D and imagining the arms of whichever hunk they were dancing to helping to bathe them in the sea (which, by the way, I always pictured as more of a waterfall), I sat at my table, staring wistfully and waiting for the picture-perfect Andrew McCarthy or, at the very least, Jon Cryer lookalike, to come sweep me from my solitude and twirl me around the dance floor, declaring his undying love for me and that we would, of course, be together forever.

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My Pretty in Pink moment never happened, but a hot guy from the other school DID trip over his own two feet and spill the red punch that smelled vaguely of vodka all over my precious velour ensemble. And that is why I will forever wrinkle my nose and try not to let the chubby, forlorn teenager inside of me tear up whenever I hear Truly, Madly, Deeply in an elevator or blaring softly from the soda cart downstairs.

Damn you, Savage Garden, for building me up and then tearing me down. Millions of little girls had their hopes and dreams of romance dashed because of the high bar that you set. For the briefest of moments, we believed that perhaps we were the Chosen Ones, and that one day, a dreamy Australian man with spiky hair and highlights would find us and sweep us off to our destinies.


And then Titanic came along, and Leo and Kate and Celine made us forget allll about those crazy Aussies.

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Swoon.