My Night with Springsteen

I swore I would never be one of those fans, but last night everything changed.

It's like my animalistic instincts kicked into high gear and I was on the hunt for my prey: Bruce Springsteen. And while this might sound crazy, let's just say I wasn't the only one on the prowl.

First, some backstory:

Chris, Jake Ryks and I had general admission tickets for the Bruce Springsteen concert at the Xcel Energy Center on Nov. 11. The Xcel was conducting a lottery system to allow 650 into "The Pit" — an enclosed area closest to the stage on the floor. And of course, we wanted to be part of that magnificent group of people who would be closest to The Boss.

As luck would have it though, we were not selected. So instead we remained in line to get as close to the pit barrier as humanly possible (each of us wore wristbands with a number on it and everyone had to stay in numerical order). During this process — which was pretty organized at first — some dimwitted security guard decided to just let everyone through the figurative gates to get inside. And just like that a ravenous mob was set loose.

Pushing, shoving, kicking and biting Chaos ensued as everyone clawed their way to get to door leading to our precious arena. Instead of acting like calm adults (and many of these people were in their 40s, 50s, 60s and even 80s), people began to act as if it was Black Friday and they were making their way to the discounted tupperware aisle (you'd be surprised how important tupperware is).

This is when we encountered the She-Beast — a roughly 45-year-old woman who was convinced that she "still has it." This cougar (going with the animal reference, not the fact that she is probably dating an 18-year-old boy) felt entitled to shove herself directly in front of me and Chris as everyone was forced to form some sort of line before entering the arena.

When we politely said, "Excuse me?" she responded, "Oh, you don't want to mess with me." I'm sorry, but does she really think that two young people are going to be frightened off by some middle-aged woman who's trying to re-live her Glory Days (pun intended)?

This ferocious being didn't stay in line long — she continued to make her way toward the front, destroying anyone in her path.

Fast forward to when we are finally in the arena. The show is about to start and we happened to be about four rows behind the pit barrier. The lights went down as the Bruce and the E Street Band finally arrived on stage. My jaw dropped and the night had only just begun.

About three songs into the set Bruce made his way into the crowd toward our barrier. It turns out that the "barrier" is a mini-walkway stage for him to stride across. As he climbed upon the walkway and started making his way toward us I snapped. Something in my brain was triggered and suddenly I wasn't myself. All I knew was: Me Want Bruce (yes, for some reason I became some sort of cave woman/animal).

I lurched forward grasping at his legs and finally his beautiful and sweaty hands. I reached for the star (pun intended again) and actually grasped one of the most legendary people on this planet. Of course I began hyperventilating after touching The Boss. As he moved on from our little group of people the fog   in my head began to clear. As I started to come back to reality I realized that I was right in front of the barrier. Apparently I don't remember shoving myself past the four rows of people who had been in front of me.

And from there the night only got better. Bruce returned to our walkway and the most magical moment happened: He kneeled down in front of me, made eye contact and pointed at me as he sang his heart out. In a nutshell: For one brief moment Bruce Springsteen actually sang to me and me alone.

For 63 years old, Springsteen's still got it. That man poured out more energy than that time I won charades.

That might have been the best night of my life — excluding, of course, my wedding night and the day I was born. I mean, how can you beat the day where you go from some dark, slimy womb to freedom and fresh air?



 

No, sir

I’m used to setting the facts straight.

Usually I have to remind people that “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” is one of the best shows of all TIME, “The Hangover” is overrated and Abraham Lincoln was not a vampire hunter. But yesterday I wasn't prepared to correct one of the most blatant facts ever: I am a woman.

Let me start from the beginning. I was merely trying to pay for my chicken fajita burrito at Chipotle when the cashier returned my debit card while uttering three words a woman never wants to hear: Thank you SIR. (OK, maybe it’s only one word we don’t want to hear.)

First of all, since when did this generation learn how to be polite? Second, was I really having that bad of a hair day for this “young man” to think I’m a guy?

I mean, I can understand why he was confused. Who wouldn’t think someone wearing heals and a pink (form-fitting) shirt was indeed a man? Looks like someone wasn’t paying attention during human anatomy in high school.

In his defense, I was wearing my hair in a ponytail…. and mascara.

As soon as the words left his adolescent mouth he actually looked up from his cash register and realized his lawsuit-inducing mistake. It was actually quite enjoyable (and yet horrifying) to watch him dig himself into a bigger hole as he made an unsuccessful attempt to redeem himself.

Cashier: Thank you sir.

Awkward pause

Cashier: Oh my gosh [insert squeaky tone]! I am SO sorry!!

Me/girl: It’s fine [insert awkward smile]

Cashier: I can’t believe I said that!

Me/girl: It’s really fine (Drop the subject before I drop you)

Cashier: I’ve done this before! But this is the first time today.

Me/girl: Ok. Really, it’s fine. (Shut up you fool!)

Instead of bolting to my car while pulling an imaginary hoodie sweatshirt over my head, I had to sit down to eat my food with a friend who was meeting me for dinner. Ironically enough, I decided to sit in a booth directly across from the cashier so he could wallow in shame, misery and sheer embarrassment for the next 45 minutes.

I may not be a lady, but I am most certainly a girl.

The best hot chocolate ever

It was just one of those days.

You know, a day where you’d rather watch paint dry [cliché alert] or gouge your eyeballs out with a fork than finish your workday.

I don’t remember what kicked off my bad morning. It could have been my mischievous cat waking me up at 4 a.m. because she desperately wanted to make me kick her across the room snuggle with Chris (seriously). Or it could have been that I chose to sleep longer, I mean…overslept a bit. Or it just could have been that I didn’t want to go into work and deal with evil politicians that morning during one of my (many) weekly meetings I cover.

In short, I was just plain cranky.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a B!#@% joy when I’m cranky, but even-keeled darlings can still have days where you just don’t care.

So I’ve established I was having a crummy day. However, one, small act turned the entire day around.

It was actually quite simple. I got out of my meeting early and thought a nice peppermint hot chocolate from (the best coffee shop ever) Starbucks would help put a skip in my step. Now I was already debating if the hot chocolate would be worth the (approximately) $3.73. I debated this in my head as any control-freak sensible person would do for about 10 minutes. Finally, my taste buds won “The Battle of the Buck” and I moseyed on over to Starbucks’ wonderfully convenient drive-thru.

As I was counting the change scattered in my purse I was sad to discover I did not have enough spare cents to cover the drink, which left me no choice but to use my debit card for such a measly purchase. There was just one car ahead of me, parked between my peppermint hot chocolate and me.

When I pulled up to the window the perky employee donned in green and white declined to take my debit card. The car ahead of me had just paid for my drink. I was flabbergasted. Sure, it was only about $4, but that small act of kindness seriously came at the best possible time (especially after I had that 10-minute debate if the expensive drink was worth it).

I asked if the angel of mercy car ahead of me gave any reason for paying for my drink, thinking there must have been a reason for this random kindness. Nope, the driver did not give a reason. They just paid for it.

I thought about spreading that same kindness to the car behind me. Then I drove away with my delightful, free, peppermint hot chocolate.

A nail-biting situation

I have a problem. It's not the kind of earth-shattering dilemma like deciding which kind of ice cream to buy, but it’s a close one. This monumental problem is notorious for spreading icky, invisible bacterial blobs like this and for causing Armageddon cute little arguments in your marriage.

No, this isn’t about leaving the toilet seat up or forgetting to brush your teeth. It’s the classic nail-biting habit, which, according to the guys in white coats, stems from fear, anxiety, boredom or stress.

This unbreakable habit has sort of become a contentious issue between me and … someone who shall not be named. For years, this person has commented (in the most loving ways) on what a disgusting habit it is and has pleaded with calmly asked me to quit biting my nails. As if it’s that easy.

Now I understand that this looks like an easy habit to break — if you don’t actually suffer from this affliction. Hmmf! Do you think us nail-biters enjoy having our fingers look like they just emerged from a Tim Burton movie? Do you think we don’t notice when people glare at us as we shrink and hide while we discreetly nibble on our nails’ edges? We can’t help it that there aren’t “treatment centers” for the likes of us (and if there are such facilities, please let me know!). In fact, have you ever thought that maybe your disgust for our torn apart unattractive fingers actually creates more fear, anxiety and stress that perpetuate the very habit you disdain? Well, sirs and madams, maybe you’re the problem. Or maybe we just need to clamp down (no pun intended…or was it?) and kick this dirty habit.

Still, I’ve decided that after approximately 23 years of biting my nails, it’s time to take control. I know I will never be a hand model for some kind of nail polish commercial, but I should at least try to remove my name from “The World’s Nastiest Fingernails” list. I want to stroll down Main Street (or wherever) and proudly display my fingernails to passersby who can’t help but gasp at my neatly trimmed cuticles instead of fleeing from my ghastly-ghoul hands.

After much research, I’ve discovered that it boils down to willpower. Well, I’ve definitely proven to have an immense amount of willpower, especially when it comes to food, Pokemon cards and Beanie Babies. “Experts” also recommend painting your nails (done) and coating your fingers in something that makes you want to vomit (I’ll put that on my next grocery list).

There is also a lot of talk about getting to the root of the problem. Why do you bite your nails? Is it because you had a traumatizing first day of school (Yes, it was terrifying waking up each morning knowing I had to face — eek, gasp — my brothers while my mother homeschooled us)? Or maybe you have some psychological issues (some might argue I do). In reality though, I do it because I’m bored, stressed or hungry (No, I don’t eat my nails). It’s that simple.

I just wish breaking the habit was as easy.

Thanks for the tip, mom

I could have died today. And yes no, I’m not being melodramatic.

Let me start from the beginning. I was driving into work this morning, daydreaming about what I would eat for lunch writing a really sophisticated story today, when suddenly I heard my cell phone ringing. It was nearly 8 a.m., so I was pretty sure I had won the lottery…or my mom was calling me for some reason.

It wasn’t the lottery (clearly, because you would have heard a cry of joy resound across the region). It was my mother, which still could be considered "winning the lottery" by having the best mom ever, right? [insert cheesy “Awww”]

As soon as I answered the phone I heard my mom’s excited voice exclaim, “Where are you? Do you want a tip for a juicy story?!?!?” Um, yes please.

Apparently there was an armed man suspected of robbery roaming the immediate area of my parents’ business [Gruber Pallets Inc, where all your pallet needs are met]. Several squad cars arrived at my parents’ business, jumped out of their vehicles donning bulletproof vests and rifle-like machinery in hand (according to an anonymous source) and surrounded the building. GPI had to go under lockdown while officers searched the area.

I arrived at the Gazette and briefed my editor on the situation. I figured I’d probably make some calls to find out more information, but nay, my editor instructed me to grab the camera and head over to the scene where a potential gun-toting madman was hiding out. Let’s just say I was pretty excited.

As I grabbed my camera and notepad I had visions of me speeding (yet safely) to the action scene. The wind was howling as I drove past empty fields and a Holiday gas station. I was mentally preparing myself to blend in with my surroundings (which would consist of woods and open fields). Then I was kicking myself for not ever taking any self-defense classes, but what can you do. I knew I was a scrappy fighter and would use the resources around me (e.g. my high-healed ruffley shoe).

I also began reviewing potential moves like rolling on the ground and climbing trees to outsmart the suspect. None of that was ever necessary, but it doesn’t hurt to mentally prepare yourself for any scenario.

All ended well, pretty much anyways. I interviewed the commander of the local Sheriff’s Office. The suspect is still on the loose, but I’ll leave that to the local authorities (until they call begging me for my stellar investigative skills). I also got to “interview” the owners of GPI (a.k.a. mom and dad) while they excitedly recounted probably their biggest “adventure” ever in the past 20 years.

And when it’s all said and done, you’ve got to feel like an accomplished reporter when you receive this sort of breaking news tip from your mother.

The rivalry

You could call it a friendly, family game night. Or you could call it the breeding ground for the greatest rivalry of all time.

Forget Rocky vs. Drago, Inigo Montoya vs. The Six-Fingered Man or Marty McFly vs. Biff. My rivalry runs much deeper, for it is blood against unrelated blood.

His alias is the Buzzinator (Yes, that is correct). Don’t be fooled by the fact that he is the volunteer coordinator for a non-profit and also a youth pastor at his local church. Below the surface is a sinister game-genius who must be defeated.

After all, Competition is not solely for geniuses, athletes like Tim Tebow or beauty pageant contestants like someone we’ve never heard of Alyssa Campanella. Competition is for man, woman and beast alike.

This rivalry began over a simple game of Buzzword. Essentially, there are two teams. Let's say the Buzzword is “ball”. You and your teammates have 45 seconds to solve 10 clues, and all the answers contain the word ball. There’s more to it than that, but you get the gist.

Now anyone who knows me knows that I am an incredibly awesome decent game player. I can hold my own, but for some reason I am 2-6 against the Buzzinator and his team.

After so many (lost) games I figured it was time for a new game. Plus, we really should give my pride the rest of the players a fighting chance. The Buzzinator agreed and that was his first mistake [insert evil gleeful laugh].

We pulled out the old classic game of Guesstures (a.k.a. charades). It’s always been a fan-favorite and frankly it was time we all shut our mouths and let our inner Nick Cage’s loose (he’s dramatic, right?).

Well, that did the trick. The Buzzinator was dethroned. Two games. 100 points. My team (Team Batman, thanks to my nephew agreeing to be our team mascot) smoked Team A by more than 20 points each game.

I’m not sure what gave my team the edge. It could be the fact that I can act like a buffoon (or for some, a monster) like no other. Or it could be that I have finally found my arch-nemesis’ weak point: charades. Regardless, Team Batman triumphed and I shall never forget it. Seriously, I won’t forget it because that’s how I spent my New Year’s Eve.

While that game night was the best way to end 2011, I know this isn’t the end. Until we meet again, Buzzinator.

p.s. I would like to thank Team Batman for making my 2012 dream come true.

Well happy birthday to you - not

Let this be a warning: If you do something stupid or insensitive, expect someone to ruthlessly write about it if it’s warranted. Trust me, it usually is.

Today I was working away like the steadfast employee that I am [insert sarcasm] when I glanced at my phone to see my brother Luke calling. In the five seconds it took for me to answer the phone I was trying to figure out why in the world he would be calling me on a Thursday afternoon (after all, band practice isn’t until Saturday).

I was immediately suspicious when the first word out of his mouth was an overly-friendly “Hey!” instead of his usual obnoxious greeting “Wazzzzzzzzz-uuuuuuuuuuup!” My suspicion turned into intrigue and a tinge of worry when he followed his “Hey!” greeting with, “I have a dilemma.”

First of all, since when does Luke call me with any dilemma? Second, when am I ever trusted to give wise or rational advice?

I couldn’t see Luke, but I could hear him fidgeting on the other end of the phone line. I could also hear his reluctance to explain his “dilemma.”

So, pray tell, what was this big dilemma? Problems in honeymoon la-la land? Of course not. Trouble with acing that big exam like his sis? Nope. Or is there trouble in paradise with his little brother/BFF? Sort of.

Luke’s dilemma did have something to do with Dale, but not in the way you might expect. They weren’t fighting over who's the greatest Halo champion of them all. Luke just wanted me to help pay for a birthday gift for Dale. Since our mother is hosting a birthday party for Dale tomorrow Luke wanted to get something spectacular for his special sibling — who apparently isn’t me by the way. Did I forget to mention that this birthday party for Dale is also for me, my sister-in-law and our dear grandmother?

So there's his dilemma. Luke just wanted my help in purchasing a gift for Dale’s birthday while readily admitting he wasn’t getting me, or anyone else, a gift. In addition, he needed my help to buy Dale this $60 gift. Wow.

Luke asked for my opinion. I’m sure the rational, selfless person would have responded with a hearty “yes.” I, on the other hand, gave Luke a verbal lashing for having the gall to ask for my help when I just had a birthday too. Realizing the absurdity of his request Luke immediately began giggling.

Now I don’t really care that Luke didn’t want to buy me a gift, but I do care that he blatantly showed favoritism. He must not remember the good ol’ days when we’d ditch Dale to play with the “cool” kids.

So unfortunately little Dale won’t be getting a gift from his beloved Luke, but then again, neither will the rest of us.