summer song hunting.

Someone I know from Twitter posted this. It spoke to me, so
now it's speaking to you.

It's been brought to my attention my Spotify link doesn't work for everyone. Well, crap. Spotify isn't for everyone, that's for sure. So, if you are very very interested, here are some good tunes I think you need to download into your own player of whatever kind you have. Let's sync up! And listen to nice music. All Summer long.

Love Will Keep Us Together

Margaritaville

I'm Not in Love 

Summer Breeze

Got to Get You Into my Life

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Stayin' Alive

Boogie Wonderland

What You Won't Do For Love

Down in Mexico 

Hey You & Another Brick in the Wall 

(those two songs go together; you HAVE to listen to them...together)

Stir It Up 

(if this & Margaritaville doesn't sound like summer, I don't know what does)

A Change is Gonna Come

Come With Me Now

15 Minutes 

(from LOVE THE HARD WAY, a good movie by the way)

Walk Away Renee

Got to Be Real

Take Me to Church

Hot Stuff

My Sharona

When I'm 64

Moonlight Feels Right 

(live! at Chastain Park in Atlanta, GA!)

Summertime--

(one by Billy Stewart and one by the great, incomparable Billie Holiday)

Fool's Paradise

Love You Like a Love Song

Concrete Jungle

Le Freak

Uptown Funk 

(there's an amazingly funk-tastic Harry Potter version of this for you Potterheads, but I don't know if it's on any downloadable places.)

Suddenly Last Summer

I have others, but that's a sample. And you know what I've left off? My beloved Barry Manilow. Here--go add this and this to your summer songs list; I will. 

So I've been apartment hunting. It is daunting, looking at and for apartments. The first one I was super jazzed about--washer/dryer included?! Hells yeah! But then I walked into the actual apartment and--it was very nice and very clean. Lovely wooded view, nice big deck. But the rooms are teeny tiny. I am not used to teeny tiny. 

The problem with apartments is this: you can get a lot of square space footage. But you're going to have to pay. They gave teachers a big raise for next year (it's about time--I've had my pay frozen at 2008 levels since, oh...2008), so I have some more wiggle room, financially, but I will still need to be able to eat and buy gas for driving to work. ...and travel to Spain for flamenco and Italy for wine. And I can't do those things if I'm apartment poor. So I've been spending some reflective time asking myself things like: what can I live with? What can I live without? Can I live with a teeny tiny bedroom that I'm squeezed into, less closet space? But super nice big deck? There's a give-take aspect to this I didn't consider, is what I'm trying to communicate. I knew living in an apartment would be down-sizing, which I wanted; I just didn't really grasp what down-sizing would actually look and feel like.

Also, you know what else I learned about apartment hunting? Be careful where you go hunting. Here's a tip, renter kids: if you get the application back, and they demand proof that your salary is 3x what the rent is...and the way they want you to prove this is handing over not just 3 months' of pay stubs, but also: a 1099 income tax form, 2 years' of prior income taxes, faxed verification of employment from your company, 3 months of bank statements showing deposit amounts, 2 valid forms of ID one of which should be a Social Security card, valid rental history from previous homes, AND they want you to fill out a criminal background check (I'm actually NOT making this up--I just copied, verbatim, from the paper in front of me)? Run!! RUN!!! Fly like the wind. 

Besides the fact just thinking about trying to gather all of those items exhausts the sheer crap out of me, I absolutely don't care HOW nice it looks (this place looked super nice--seriously super nice, I really wanted to give them the deposit/application fee right then and there). NO. Run, run, run as fast as you can. So glad I took all of that back home with me and looked through it before I committed. I'm not living anywhere that people need to provide proof they aren't crackheads, because the apartment complex's desire to have proof the renters aren't crackheads immediately tells me they've rented to a lot of crackheads in the past. Nope. Nein. Nyet. No.

At any rate. I could also be just having a lot of emotions about it, which is why I'm sad in my heart. The grey, low barometric pressure day outside isn't helping. But mostly: my heart is just very very sad. This is simply not working, my marriage. But it's causing me to leave my lovely house. My quiet (when Miss M is gone or asleep), peaceful, lovely house. That I've lived in for almost 14 years, minus a 7 month separation stint back in 2007. More than that, this is the only home Miss M has ever known. And I'm taking her out of it to put her in a teeny tiny home. And right now she deeply misses her daddy (he's on a fishing trip), and she is quietly stealing my phone to leave him "I miss you SO much!" voice mails or texts that make my heart break, because I am aware (as she isn't) what's about to happen. This is going to be very hard for her. 

So I've been asking myself a lot of "Can I live with...?" and "Could I do without...?" questions, but also presenting a lot of scenarios to myself. Scenarios like: well, what if we HAD to down size to a teeny tiny place anyway, due to forces beyond my control? What if something very horrible happened to either me or C? This happens to many children--a mommy or a daddy is gone, forever; Miss M would be okay eventually, right? Divorce and separation are equal to death, but so much easier because the other parent is still around--we will live right around the corner, there will be equal, shared custody, Miss M will see her daddy all the time, whenever she wants. Some children in the world are spending 3/4 of their childhoods in bomb shelters, or running from crazed terrorists with machetes. My child is loved beyond words...she just has to be loved in two different homes now.

I think because it helps to remind myself that (a) other people go through this, and (b) sometimes stuff happens that you can't control and then you have no say so over what you have to do, you just...DO it. So when you're in a situation that is bad, but is also contained by factors within your control, you will survive it. You will be okay. We will be okay.

Because human beings are surivors; we've been doing it since the dawn of time, under far worse conditions. I'm reminding myself of my great fortune in being able to take my time in my decision-making, that I am separating from a really very GOOD human being who is mature and loving, that I have two college degrees and a wealth of life experience to fall back on, that I am surrounded by friends and family who are wrapping me in love and care. Not everyone has this. And this is a blessing. 

So. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to put in some ear buds and head to my favorite nature trail. I'm going to take a long hike through the woods on this dreary, grey day. Because Nature is good for that. And grey, dreary days are better when surrounded by chipmunks and squirrels and quiet spiders spinning webs in between green leaves of trees. Mother Nature is soul balm. 

Here's another tune you can add to your summer listening list.

My sweet friend Patresa Hartman is on Youtube & Spotify too. Go 

download her amazing songs. They're good for summer nights.

happy hour music.

I wasn't sure I'd have anything to write about, but I just thought of something to write about, and hopefully you won't finish reading this post and go: Man! That Amy: she needs to get a life. Here's what I'm going to write about tonight:

Applebee's.

you know--the chain restaurant. We ate there tonight. It took 30 minutes to get a server to come get our drink orders. Have you ever had to sit, for 30 minutes, with a hungry, peevish 6 year old? It is the opposite of fun.

However, it gave me an opportunity to do some really good people watching. I've long said airports, shopping malls, and subway trains are THE best locations for good people watching/character development ideas. Now? I'm going to add chain restaurants to the list.

It wasn't an easy mission. First off, Miss M called it  "Applebeets" for the first 5 minutes we were there. But then I laughed and told her when she did that, she was the cutest 6 year old ever. This made her mad. So! MAD! Because Mommy! Don't laugh at me! I told you I don't like it when you laugh at me! ...And also, she is NOT the cutest 6 year old, Sydney is! (So then we had to have a brief, side therapy session to build her fragile self-esteem.)

After 10 minutes of continued waiting for a waiter to say hello to us, I waved at a cute 4 year old sitting at the table next to ours, which pissed Miss M off further because HOW DARE I?! How dare I. ......How dare I (A) acknowledge another child's existence right in front of my own child, and (B) what?! am I saying THAT little girl is cuter than MY little girl?! (After several attempts to explain I actually did not find that little girl cuter than my little Miss M, I just waved at that little girl to be nice, M concluded: This is HORRIBLE! I RUINED THE WHOLE NIGHT!!!!! (So then we had to have another brief, side therapy session to build up her fragile self-esteem.) But then we ordered some sweet potato fries as an appetizer and she was fine.

.....are you getting yet that my child has, like, 90% of my DNA and 10% of her father's? She is all quirky, raging hormones of pure neurotic insecurity. I tend to bundle mine up so nobody looks at me askance or asks me to leave the mall before they call security. M, being six, isn't confined by those societal pressures quite yet, and so hers fly loose and proud and free. She's going to make an excellent Fortune 500 CEO someday. Or the despot of a small, impoverished country deep in the South Pacific. (I actually would be fine with either scenario...because I'd like to be her special advisor and thus earn special favors, like my own private beach and manservants who all look like Channing Tatum.)

Second of all, when we walked in, there was a strange haze of smoke in the air--I think it was sizzling fajitas, but you can never be sure after 6 PM on a Friday in a place like that. It appeared to be the happy hour location that all the OTP (it's an Atlanta thing--Google it) swingers come to exchange business cards. And they had some type of sound system that changed the ambient lighting as the songs switched. Classy. And its songs were loud and slightly inappropriate for small children's ears when we came in. The swingers at the bar might as well have just passed around the bong and been done with it.

Third of all, it was a motley assemblage of humanity: wannabe hip hop stars, creepy business guys, women in business suits in dire need of a shower, girls with arm sleeve tattoos, and a family of people I swear were part of Duck Dynasty. As soon as all the hip hop stars vacated, the Duck Dynasty family changed the music to twangy country.

Have I told you about my issues with rap/hip hop and twangy country? I'm generally quite electic when it comes to music. Right now, I've been listening to a lot of music by Damien Rice and Alison Sudol and Patresa Hartman and The Civil Wars (have you heard of The Civil Wars? I only recently discovered them--only to find out they've disbanded....that sounds about right for me: I'm a late bloomer, about everything). They calm and soothe my soul, and my soul needs a lot of calming and soothing right now. But I'm not opposed to Motown, Reggae, Latin, Jazz, Blues, Classical and Pop/Rock/Alternative music from the 1920s all the way through til today. And Broadway show tunes--there is nothing better than singing a Broadway show tune at the top of your lungs in the car. And, of course, there is my beloved Barry M., who Miss M is also quite in love with right now (but only because he sings to her briefly--briefly as in a 1 second mention of her name--in Could It Be Magic).

But hip hop? Too angry. And, yes, it's true I can have a bit of potty mouth at times, you can see evidence here occasionally. But I promise I only do it when I feel it adds to a thought or emotion I'm attempting to communicate...or you've cut me off in traffic and I really feel I must damage you, psychically, in some way. Rap and many hip hop music makers often feel, to me, as if they maybe could've used a different word in that one sentence, but nope. Because street cred. And possibly the swear was just easier to spell.

And country? Too twangy, too whiny. Sometimes I do feel like hearing country music...but only when I'm in a bar and want to pretend I'm John Travolta's girlfriend in URBAN COWBOY. Otherwise, country music just makes me nervous. Not the people who make country music, please know. Country music makers always seem very nice and sweet. Maybe in need of some therapy, but god knows I can totally empathize with that. No. It's their listeners who make me really nervous. I can't imagine anything more frightening than finding myself deep in Alabama, at a roadside bar, surrounded by people who are line dancing, hocking saliva into their spittoons. A grandpa whittling a piece of wood off to the side, under the Confederate flag. Humming DIXIE softly to himself, periodically muttering "South gone RISE agin!"

Which is why I always tell people I think that when country singers and hip hop/rap stars get together to make music, I think they're mocking me. It's very possible they don't care about me at all, don't even know who I am. But still. They're definitely mocking MLK, Ghandi, Jesus, Father Abraham, and the memory of Johnny Cash. Which is why when LL Cool J and Brad Paisley made that song together, I was SO annoyed. I'm certain Patsy Cline and Harriet Tubman were both annoyed, too.

And that brings me back to my Applebee's experience tonight: it was nothing but rappers and country boys in that place. I watched the rappers hit on the worn-out looking women in business suits and the worn-out looking women in business suits weakly try to engage...then turn right back to their girlfriends, which is who I think they actually wanted to be with. And I watched the country boys sullenly drink their $1.99 draft beers, refusing to interact with anyone in business suits, dread locks, or gold front teeth. The only people having ANY fun at this place tonight were people under age 10. Everyone else was just...papering their cracks.

Oh, and I got to listen to a drunk blond woman complain about her chicken to a waitress. (Why are drunk people always so LOUD?) As she complained about how bad the chicken was, she kept eating it. She'd say something about how nasty it tasted, take a bite, chew and swallow it, and then loudly insist to the waitress that it wasn't the waitress's fault the chicken was so disgusting. And then she'd take another bite and swallow. Eventually the waitress gave up; she may have comped their meal, which could have been the whole point of the production. Plus, the blond was with three other blondes...and they were all dressed alike, as if they were in a dance troupe. I bet they're restaurant performers who go from business to business drinking, ordering dishes, and then drunkenly complaining as loud as they can about the food. It's probably a cheap way to eat out on a Friday/Saturday night. Clever.

Okay. That's it for this entry. I am done. Grateful I have some story fodder for the weekend. And now? So do you! Feel free to borrow/share mine. Or better yet! Go to a chain restaurant (it doesn't have to be Applebee's; they aren't paying me to shame them here or anything) and sit at the bar. But go at happy hour on a Friday after a long, cold, grueling work week! That's when all the interesting characters come out.

It's better if you're in the American South, too. Our characters are 500 times crazier than any of yours, I promise.

yellow angel theatre queens

Normally, I'm a weekend warrior blogger. You get about two posts per weekend from me. But sometimes, on a Sunday evening, something magical happens and I have to post twice. Two times! In one day! That's better than a 10 mile garage sale (I think).

I went to the theater. Remember? I was worried, because I was having a bit of a problem with crowd rage from yesterday's festival and sometimes large crowds deplete me and I need to decompress for a day after being in them?

I will note that this evening's festivities got started on the wrong foot--I arrived two and a half hours before showtime (for dinner) and just as the afternoon matinee was letting out. It was a bit crazy. Have a I mentioned I have traffic jam rage, too? And that I think traffic cops make it far more complicated than it has to be?

So I decided to park about 3 blocks down from the theater. This was  Poor Decision #1. I wore the wrong kind of shoes for that type of thing: wedge heels. Four inch wedge heels. (I don't walk in heels very often--I feel gigantic and my bad left foot refuses to speak to me for about a week after.) But I did it, because I figured I'd be sitting for most of the evening after the high heeled hike.

But then my phone's GPS went all wonky on me and took me about 4 blocks AWAY from the restaurant. I was all: Where the hell am I, Midtown Atlanta? All I knew was I was in Georgia Tech territory, and all I also knew was Georgia Tech territory is notorious for muggings and rapings. And probably pillagings too, but the news only reports the beatings and rape.

So I'm lost, trying to figure out where I am by looking at my phone's map. This was Poor Decision #2. I once dated a guy from Hoboken/New York City and he told me that whenever you're lost in a big city, find a wall to lean up against all casually, and just sort of look down at the ground and think about where to go/what to do next. That way you look like you know where you're at; you're just loitering, hanging out.

I did not do this. I did not look casual or like I was hanging out. I was dressed up, in heels, with a bunch of money in my fanciest purse, with my phone out, looking around, going: Where AM I?? You know: basically, I was Red Riding Hood skipping along through the forest, all lost and shit.

Of course, a homeless man decided to try to ask me out. And when I kept ignoring him, he proceeded to follow me for about a block and a half, telling me how hot I was and he just wanted to talk to me. Normally, this would just be annoying and I'd be on Twitter doing that hashtag #YESALLWOMEN thing. But this was slightly terrifying, because I was all alone, and no one was around--the block was deserted save for me and the horny homeless homey.

Friends, it was the closest I've ever come to real violence, I was so scared. I know I said I imagined drop kicking the LL Bean lady at the food truck yesterday, but I just imagined that. From frustration. I wasn't actually going to drop kick anyone. Earlier tonight, I knew: I could drop kick another human being. If that man had run up to me, I was ready--I was formulating, in my brain, how I'd kick him in the nuts and smash his face with my phone. I was scared and I was angry and I was all "Dammit! The News wasn't kidding!! This area is RANK with violence! WTF, Atlanta?!"

But then I got up to Emory U Hospital and there were people around and he went away. And then I stuck to the main street and decided never ever EVER to walk by myself in Atlanta again. Stay in well-lit areas, with lots of other people around.

Did I ever tell you that I once went to a psychic named Marian who told me I have two guardian angels, a purple-aura'd older woman and a yellow-aura'd younger man? Apparently, I have a purple and a yellow angel and the yellow angel is very protective of me and won't let anything bad happen to me. Next time I come here, remind me, and I'll tell you the story about how I was almost gang raped at a pool hall in Mexico when I was 23. I've got loads of fun stories like this, stories that will make you go: How are you still alive, Amy?! (Because I've got a yellow angel, that's why. Duh.)

At any rate, I did have some absinthe and I will not be having absinthe again, thanks. Did it, got the shirt, don't need to do it again. It tastes like incredibly strong black licorice. Like, if you could take all of the black licorice in the entire Universe and pour it into one tiny glass? That's absinthe. I can totally see now why the Prohibitionists made it illegal. It's clearly a gateway drug to any alcohol that doesn't taste like licorice.

I will recommend Publik Draft House next to the Fox Theatre as a most excellent place to eat (and try absinthe for yourself). I had a very tasty falafel burger with sauteed mushrooms and tzatziki sauce and my friends both raved about their meaty burgers. The only complaint I had about this establishment was that, in their women's bathroom, they have gigantic mirrors covering the entire wall directly in front of the toilet. I bet people drunk on absinthe dig that, watching themselves on a toilet. I, however, was not drunk, or drunk on absinthe. I spent about 5 uncomfortable minutes in there with myself, awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact with me.

After dinner we went to the Fox Theatre to see MAMA MIA. Oh, how I love Broadway musicals! They are fun and wonderful to watch. I like to watch the background actors as much as the stars--I think: what fun, not to have to be worried about missing marks and cues and messing up lines and all that, BUT you get to be running around on stage and dress up and act silly and stuff. How much does THAT job pay??

MAMA MIA consists of a really silly plot line, and so you have to suspend belief for a bit, and the end comes up a little hokey and fast. But friends! It's all ABBA songs, the whole show! And that's like pure heaven for me. I laughed, I cried (at the song where the mom sings about the girl growing up too fast), and I got goose pimples. These are all good things--an English teacher in high school told me once that whenever you experience goose pimples from something (a painting, a song, a poem, a sunset, anything), you have experienced Art. And so whenever I'm at a movie or I hear a song or read a sentence in a book or I see a whole group of people dancing around live on stage and while I watch the audience all dances in their seats? And I realize I've got goose pimples? I go: Oh my god! This! This is ART.

I love it when that happens.

Oh, and! At the end, the whole cast comes on stage and sings ABBA songs. The audience gave them a standing ovation and we danced with them. I have Dancing Queen (you can dance, you can jive, having the time of your liiiiife) stuck in my head right now. I hope I dream about it tonight.

I bet I'll dream about the creepy homeless guy though. Maybe we'll dance to ABBA together? I don't know. (Don't walk the streets solo, girlfriends. Listen to your Aunt Amy.) (And stay out of pool halls in Mexico...but that's next weekend's chapter.)

worshiping at the house of barry

When I was 7, I was in love with Barry Manilow. In LOVE. With Barry Manilow. It was fairly intense. Absolutely serious. Had I been born in a different decade, I could totally have been Amy Manilow.

For Christmas 1979, at the top of my Wish List was Barry Manilow's new album THIS ONE'S FOR YOU. It's really all I wanted, actually. Oh, the Donny & Marie dolls were fine. The Farrah Fawcett glamour center was okay. The Speak and Spell was nice. 

But had I not unwrapped THIS ONE'S FOR YOU that Christmas morning, I would have been crushed, I tell you. Crushed! My whole Christmas would have been crap; my world ruined. I am certain I would have known then, for sure: Santa Claus does not exist. (Thank god he got me the album! I went on to be Santa's biggest PR person another 4 years.) (Also, I would sit and stare--for hours--at Barry Manilow's eyes. I may have sliiiight inability to refuse men with light-colored eyes.)

To this day, sometimes I will Youtube "Barry Manilow" and sit, for the next 2 or 3 or 8 hours just sighing very big sighs over him. I've become a Barry connoisseur, actually. For example: 2014 Barry Manilow is lovely. He's older and wiser, an attractive man with amazing talents. But 1975 Barry Manilow? Good heavens, where are my smelling smalts? Friends, there is simply nothing quite as magnificent as Barry Manilow, circa 1975. Barry Manilow, 1975, was a stunning, fine wine. I was only 3 and he was...however old he was in 1975. But no matter! This is when Barry was at his most complete god-like perfection. I submit the following as evidence:

Barry Manilow as a Human Deity.

I mean, seriously. How can you argue with that? The white polyester pants suit with the flare at the bottom. The shiny, feathered hair. His jewel-like green eyes, with that sleepy, bedroom-look to them. Perfect specimen of a man. 

Better yet, I've successfully convinced Miss M that Barry Manilow is a musical deity. I hooked her via the song COULD IT BE MAGIC, because at the start of this song, Barry sings: "Sweet MELISSA, angel of my lifetime, answer to all answers I can find..." (I do swear to you I did NOT name my child after a Barry Manilow song--this is sheer coincidence.)

Then, I further her addiction by introducing her to I CAN'T SMILE WITHOUT YOU. Because it's a catchy tune and also: did you know that in every concert up to a certain point (which I suspect is the point Barry felt maybe he couldn't overpower an overzealous fan), Barry would pick a female audience member, bring her on stage, and sing this song with her? Yes! And not only that, but he'd also walk along the stage with her while singing, her arm through his, then he'd jump up on the piano and (deep, calming breath here) stick her between his legs and wrap his arms around her while finishing the song?? (Oh my god. Excuse me while I collect myself. Deep, deep calming breaths.)

Had I seen the video below at age 7, I know I'd have had a completely different childhood. I wouldn't even be the "me" you see right now. I'd be, like, I don't know. I can't even. Here--just watch this video. Skip to 1:55. You'll see why.

If I had only KNOWN about this at age 7, if I had only been aware of the fact Barry Manilow regularly plucked willing girls from his audiences to go on (good lord, breathe, Amy!)...pretend dates with him at concerts? Holy shit. Holy shit! I can't even. I just can't. I'm certain my 7 year old brain would have exploded, because when my 41 year old brain discovered it, it just about had an aneurysm.

And even better than all THAT (if all THAT isn't enough), this summer Miss M and I have been enjoying All Barry Manilow, All The Time! time on car rides around town. Our favorite is this song:

                          Car Concerts With Barry Manilow

We're going to find a karaoke bar and sing that as a duet. Like Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis, but mother/daughter. And no conscious uncoupling. And more sequins.