I’m just a wild & crazy gal
I was going to write this reflective post about my solo roadtrip but I stopped. Sure I was adding some amusing tidbits like: DON’T EVER STOP IN REDLANDS, CA WHEN YOU HAVE TO PEE… but, I wasn’t in the mood.
I’m really anxious to the point even wine isn’t helping. And Lord knows, when wine isn’t calming me down, I really have no choice but to do a meme. 5 wild crazy things about yours truly. Tagged by Corey.
1. I told this story to Mia a while back and she finds it hilarious. She’s been wanting me to post it but I haven’t had the chance. Well, here’s The Chance.
The first concert I ever went to was Bon Jovi, back when I was 17. Back then (way back then), lycra dresses were all the rage. I sound so damn old typing “all the rage”. ALL THE RAGE! How old am I?
My mom and I dress shopped for weeks before and I couldn’t find a dress exactly how I wanted it (black, off the shoulders, short capped sleeves, tight, few inches above the knee. You know the dress, Mariah Carey). My mom decided to take 2 different patterns and sew the dress herself.
My mom actually was quite a good seamstress as she had sewn my sister’s wedding dress back when I was a wee bairn - but lycra was a hard fabric to work with, not that I would know as I was of little help. So much teenage angst, so little time to help your mom sew.
My mom kept getting pissed at the dress slipping all over the sewing machine and had to restart the dress more than a few times. She had quite a few meltdowns not unlike the meltdowns I’ve inherited from her - so my dad took over the dressmaking.
Yes. My dad sewed my lycra slut dress so I could go to the Bon Jovi concert. Not only that, since my mom had such trouble with it, my dad had to rip out a couple of seams and re-sew the whole thing.
You know what that means, don’t you? The fucking thing was tight. Real tight. I have a couple of pictures somewhere but I’m lazy and don’t have a scanner. Just picture it. Picture it real good.
The day of the concert comes and I’m nervous as all hell. At the time, we lived in Alaska and my dad worked for AT&T. Part of my dad’s job entailed flying on little planes to tiny little Alaskan cities to work on their phone systems.
Problem? My dad hated flying. I’m not sure if my dad hated flying as a whole, or if he just hated flying in tiny little Cessnas over frozen tundra. I should ask him.
Since my dad had such anxiety over these trips, his doctor prescribed him Valium. First let me preface this with the disclaimer that my dad is far from a pill popper. It’s not his thing. I think I got my “I don’t need Advil, it’ll go away on it’s own” attitude from him.
But for some reason, I think I must have been really nervous, my dad gave me a half of a valium before I left for the concert. Little did my dad know, those nice boys I went to the concert with, we didn’t go right to the concert.
We went back to one of their parents house (parents that were out of town) to pre-drink. Ah, my first experience with the pre-drink. Of course, back then it was a necessity considering our age but now IT JUST SAVES MONEY.
I didn’t throw up, or freak out, or get too faded. I was just niiiiiiiiiiiiice. Real niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice. So niiiiiiiiiiiiiice that I can’t keep myself from typing the multiple’s iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii’s.
Tristan (R finds the name amusing so I had to share it), Joe, Mike, Jim, a girl or two and I finally head out to the concert. I had my Poison liberally sprayed, my fabuslut dress on, my bangs teased towards the heavens, a Bacardi Breezer or two on top of that 1/2 a valium and I was feeling good. To ever be that thin again!
Fun was had by all. We were close as hell to the stage, close enough that when Richie Sambora threw his guitar picks, I totally could have caught one. You know, if I had been so inclined.
At one point, I lost one of my shoes. One of the guys I was with moved people out of the way, mid-concert, and looked for it. I was amazed when he did locate my long lost shoe and even more amazed when he stuck it down his shirt for sake keeping. So I wouldn’t lose it again, you see.
Jim B., you’re my hero. How wondrous that a boy my age would understand the need for a girl NOT to lose her shoe? Bless his heart, all these years later. I bet he made a girl a real nice husband.
I danced the rest of the night away with my one shoe and my tight as hell lycra dress. It was quite easily one of the best nights of my life. Top 5, at least. Up there with childbirth and discovering The Big O.
What is really odd about this story, other than my dad sewing my dress and giving me Valium, was the fact my mom wasn’t even mad when I came home late. Okay, 3 a.m. late. My brother J and I chuckle that our older brothers and sisters think that my mom had mellowed out by the time we were born. NOT TRUE. She knew all the tips, tricks and shenanigans inside-out after raising their asses.
I was so scared walking up the stairs, in the dark, trying to be quiet, when I look up from the landing and stare directly into my mom’s eyes peering down at me. The top of the stairs was my mom’s perch when she’d wait for us kids to come home. I looked up at her and knew I was in trouble, but I somehow wasn’t.
I came up the stairs happy on my lycra, Breezer, lost-but-found shoe, Valium, Bon Jovi high and gave her a hug. I told her how much fun I had, I must have been bouncing off the walls. My mom had to know something was up. Had to. She knew, I knew. I knew that she knew. We all knew.
My mom hugged me back, told me she was glad I made it home safe, turned on her heel in her prim nighty - and went back to bed. I always wondered why she didn’t get mad.
I know I have 4 more to go but this one was long as hell, I’m tired and my memory is for shit. I’ll stop now and tag…
And… anyone else that wants to do it!
The Rules:
1. Link to your tagger, and post these rules.
2. Share 5 wild crazy facts about yourself.
3. Tag 5 people at the end of your post, and list their names, linking to them.
4. Let them know they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment at their blogs.
I’ll leave you with this: