Money on the Grey

My Mom got into town at the end of last week for her annual escape to New England during the hottest part of a Georgia summer vacation. As you might imagine, seeing as I've lived here for ten years, she has visited me numerous times and we've done all the touristy to-do activities on multiple occasions.

So instead of trekking through Harvard Square again, or touring along the Freedom Trail again, or shopping our way down Newbury Street again, we decided to venture just slightly out of the city, to a place neither of us had ever been before.

Suffolk Downs, the nearest Thoroughbred race track.

If you've been playing along at home, you already know that the majority of my childhood years were spent around horses. Of course, I wasn't a jockey, but you could say I know a thing or two about thoroughbreds, considering I've owned two in my lifetime; both of whom were grey.

After watching a few races on the sidelines and experiencing the thrill of nine or ten horses thundering by at a lightening pace, Mom and I decided to up the stakes and put some money on the line. Big gamblers that we are, we each dolled out a whole $5 for our picks. Wild and crazy times!




Sadly, betting on Seabiscuit was not an option.

Now go ahead and guess who ended up being the big winner in her first betting experience, ever? Yes, that's right. My $11 win proved beginner's luck is not just an old wives tale.

All in all, we thoroughly enjoyed the day. After betting on a few more races, I did the math and realized I came out ahead - netting exaxctly $1.40 by the time we left the track. Movers and shakers look out!

I even had time to find the perfect man. He's quiet but solid - well built you might say - and loves horses to boot. So what if he's a little bit shorter than me?

Day #2 of Mom's visit also involved a new experience - this time just for her, certainly not me, the uber fan.

Yes, it was finally time for Mom to cash in on her Mother's Day present of two tickets to Fenway and get on over to America's most beloved ballpark.

I must say, for a woman who doesn't know too much about baseball, she sure has taken a liking to the Sox. Mom made me proud, cheering, singing Sweet Caroline, and chanting for the players with the best of them. In return, the Sox gave us a win and we witnessed a little magic coming from the mound Josh Beckett stood upon.

Big Papi has long been Mom's favorite Sox player. Me? Well, we all know I've kind of got a little thing for Jacoby. Judging by this photo, I'd say he might have a thing for me too, don't you agree? The verdict has been returned by many a friend, saying Mr. Ellsbury and I would make a damn fine couple. Note to self: must let Ellsbury know this.

I'd say Mom and I did a pretty thorough job of painting the town red these past few days. Perhaps I'll get her to become a New England convert after all.


Next up - getting my brother out to Fenway once he's back on US soil.

Until then, and no matter what, I can tell you my money is always on the grey. Count on it.

Do-Over.

I wish I’d stayed in the honors level history class my junior year of high school, instead of chickening out over the summer because of a heavy course load and dropping down to a “regular level two” history course.

I probably should have paid a tad more attention in the French classes I took and maybe I should have been a bit more diligent about my college application process.

Sometimes I think I should have interned at more offices while in college, just as it might have been beneficial to join more school clubs and organizations, making my enormous campus seem a tad less intimidating.

For some reason it really still kills me that I didn’t take that honors history class.

Youth. 'Tis wasted on the young.

All told though, not too many regrets. I did the living abroad, the backpacking thing. I’ve lived with roommates and alone, plopped myself down in a few different cities, worked enough jobs to know what I like just as I know what I hate.

It is a life in progress. I’m learning as I go.

And yet.

There is a One Thing - a take-back, a do-over, the first thing I’d change should a genie ever appear before me, granting me a “re-do.”

A few of my friends are dealing with serious relationship breakups right now; some of them are in the midst of divorcing. I wish I could give them a hug and tell them it’ll all just get better in time, that the pain of loosing someone you loved dulls, that one day you’ll look back and laugh. That time will pass and you’ll find you think of them less and less.

I can’t.

Maybe that’s the way it works for some people, in some relationships. Maybe, with time, people come to realize it was wrong from the very beginning, that things eventually ended the only way possible.

I don’t.

I want to turn back the clock, to be granted a change-up. I need the relief pitcher, the second string, the back-up. I want the hurt to be undone, the mistakes to be erased. I want to fix it, take it back, undo, rewind, start over, move forward, press onward. I will stamp my feet 1,000 times over in stubbornness, I will bend over backward like a yogi to make it right. I want to know then what I know now, to shake us both awake with the knowledge I’ve gained. I can’t watch it all unfold from the sidelines, I cannot stand back and let nature or fate or whoever monitors these things take its course. I want to go back and tell myself, at twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and twenty-nine to take a minute and breathe; to stop listening to the maddening voices getting louder and louder, all of whom claim to know exactly what you should be doing and have the best plan for your life. They are not you, I want to remind myself, and they do not know the ins, the outs, the whole story. They have not been there from the beginning.

I don’t want to fight anyone, anything, anywhere, anymore. I don't want second place. I don't want condolences. I want to know if I had, if I hadn’t, if I did, if I didn’t, if I could, would, said, or done this or gone there or changed this or sent that, my end result would be okay.

That the end result will be okay.

That I will be okay.

That he will be okay.

We will all be okay.

I want to trust myself, to get the do-over, to kick and scream until I get my way because it is worth the fight, to not sit and wait patiently or docilely, but instead to run screaming into this crazy thing called life, called love.

Because the minutes, they tick away at our lives, don’t they? They move so fast, then they move so slow and we’re left to stand and make sense of all of it, just as they speed up once again.

I want to choose the thing that matters.

I want to get it right.

Better than Oprah.

Tonight, book club is convening at my house.

We rotate every six weeks amongst ourselves, playing book picker, host, and discussion leader. I picked the very first read of this book club back in 2007. After more than two years – yes, two – my turn to pick has come ‘round once again.

Last night I dusted, I vacuumed, I made my place presentable.

Tonight, before the ladies arrive, I’ll chop vegetables, slice cheese, lay out snacks, drinks, and more snacks.

It’s funny; in a life is kinda crazy when you stop and think about it sense, to think back to that first book club, held in early 2007. We were a group of about fifteen women, some shy, some outspoken; except for yours truly, most hardly knew anyone else in the room. I met my first "online friend" that evening, a girl brave enough to leave a comment on my blog, asking if she too could join the group. Our meetings – and our members themselves – have grown and evolved these past two years. There was a time, at the end of last year, I thought about calling the whole book group thing off. Schedules were too hectic, we had too many members. I was inundated with emails about book choices, meet-up times, directions, and things that were sometimes (snow storms) completely out of my control. It was stressful and zero fun for me.

Luckily, thankfully, several women in the group talked me out of that this is the end! email. We reworked our group, our plan of attack, and well, version 2.0 of our book club has gone just swimmingly thus far. Fun level? High. Stress level? Minimal. Whew.

What began with nervous chatter two + years ago has morphed into good friends catching up every few months. New friendships have been made, new books, new authors, (and yes, it’s true, even new celebrity gossip) has been discussed – at times for hours on end. Regardless of how I feel about the book we’ve read, I have certainly always come to love our meet-ups. After each meeting, once we’ve disbanded, I’m always struck by what good fortune I have to know such a strong, smart, sassy, silly group of women.

As I type this, it’s pouring down rain. The girls will have to slog and schlep from various points in the city to make it to my apartment to talk books. Still, I know most of them will come, and I know for a night, all will be just perfect in my little literary world.

I’m serving sangria after all. And as we all know, sangria makes everything better, no matter the monsoon we’re dealing with outside.

Den of Sin.

A few years ago I briefly dated a guy. As with most relationships that go sour after a few months, we ended up not being a terribly compatible match. That and he was kind of, well, a word I best not print here.

One of the few good things that came out of that little window of dating though, was his ability to sort out the internet issues I'd been having at my new apartment. When he volunteered to deal with the hassle of setting up my wireless router, I jumped at the opportunity. As he tinkered away with my router and dealt with the elevator music on Comcast's help line, he said he was going to name my wireless/IP address "Kelli's Den of Sin." I rolled my eyes and protested slightly, but didn't put up too much of a fight. What did it matter anyway, I figured. I was the only one who would see the name and I knew it was just part of the boy's somewhat odd sense of humor. The important thing to me was I'd finally have internet without hassle!

Now I may not be the most tech savvy girl in the world, but one would think it might have dawned on me that in fact, everyone COULD see this infamous Kelli's Den of Sin address, but no. I went on my merry (unsinful) way, moving from apartment to apartment, all the while using this as my very own signal name for years.

Last night, I met a friend who was home from LA (hi, Matt!) for drinks at a local bar. As Matt and I sat swapping stories, a man walked over to our table, leaned down and asked if he knew where we could find Kelli's Den of Sin. It took me twenty seconds or so to recognize this man as my neighbor in my current apartment. I giggled and turned a lovely shade of crimson, while he teased me for a minute or two more before going back to the table he and his friends were gathered at, having a pint.

After he walked away, I got to thinking. If he picked up the address, so did my landlord, (whoops) so did the other tenants in my apartment building,(uh oh) so did the synagogue that's up my street,(shoot) so did (oh dear) the mosque that's a few blocks away, and so did all the rest of my neighbors! Yikes!

No wonder everyone was so friendly when I moved in here last summer.

The good news is that the cable guy came out to my house just a few weeks ago as I'd been dealing with serious internet issues night after night. This man was the most helpful cable guy on the planet. When he asked for the name of my internet, I cringed, and told him. He laughed and offered to change it for me if I wanted.

Whew. It seemed my reputation could be salvaged after all.

My new internet name?

GoRedSox.

Just a tad more appropriate, don't you think?

21.

I am staring down the barrel at 30. While I'm in no rush to get there, I'm not unaware of the fact that soon I'll bid a fond, final adieu to life in my twenties. Over the next few months I thought I'd reflect, recap, remember this decade I've been roaring through year by year...

You can find age 20 here.

****************************

I turn 21 on a Thursday. The count-down has been on for months, plans for my officially! an adult! birthday celebration hashed out weeks in advance, announcements made to friends left and right reminding them, “I’m turning 21 on the 21st!”

We head to a bar near campus; one I imagine is still in business, even though I haven’t been to that part of the city in years, called Our House. The bar is tiny, cramped, and probably more dingy than I’d like to remember. Still, it was a bar we loved and one I chose to be the first watering hole I ever walked into legally. Around 8 that night, I proudly hand the bouncer my (real) license, he wishes me a happy birthday. We commandeer a couch, my friend Michael turns to me and says “what can I get you?” He buys me my first legal drink, a gin & tonic. My friend Bear walks to the bar with him and purchases what would be my first legal shot (Jagermeister).

A few of my friends and I make plans to go camping at a music festival in upstate New York the weekend following my birthday celebration. A group of us wearily pile into my friend’s old grey Volvo, a car affectionately known as The Grey Goose, on Friday morning. We make the long trek out of the city and up to the Adirondacks, ready to pitch our tents that night. Saturday evening, a group of our friends who are in a band named JIM…are headlining. One of my best girlfriends and I dance and sing the night away, giddy with delight. Someone snaps a photo of us in that grinning, silly, youthful, joyous moment. She and I are both still tan from our summer adventures, just as we’re both a little grimy from day one of camping with no showers or hot water. Despite the camping, outdoor grit, our smiles are a mile wide. She and I would remark, years later when looking at that photo again how ready to conquer the world we felt.

Half-way through my senior year I begin to panic. Where would I work? What would I do with my life? How would I survive in the real world? Where would I get money? I was studying film, but had no desire to move to Los Angeles. I begin to pour myself into my English literature classes, devouring all of my required reading with a fierce intensity, desperate to soak up as much as I could in my final semester at school. I walk down to the Coolidge Corner movie theater with my friends, often. We see film after film, discussing them on our walk back to campus, usually late at night. More often than not, during those walks home, I find myself wondering where we will all be in a year’s time. I work quickly to push those future thoughts out of my head, not wanting to imagine life beyond my safe haven of Boston University.

I am single both semesters. I don’t feel bothered by this as I spend the majority of my days with a group I lovingly refer to as my “film fest boys.” There are five of us total, four seniors, and one sophomore, all men except for myself. Together we make up the founding members of the Running Start Film Festival. Student films are submitted, we secure judges, prizes. The five of us MC the night, packing the auditorium to capacity. It is a highlight of that winter.

On Valentine’s Day, one of the film fest boys comes to my apartment and gives me a rose. He and I have never dated, nor will we ever in the future. Still, his gesture, of a single rose and a note attached saying he’d be my valentine, becomes one of the sweetest, nicest memories of our friendship.

In early May, my college graduation looms, mere days away. I skip out on Senior Week activities and fly down to Atlanta. My mother, in an act of sheer, amazing, generosity is going to help me get my very own first car as a graduation present. On day one of the car hunt, I state that I want a four wheel drive, navy blue Jeep Cherokee. Mom suggests I test drive other cars beyond the Jeep. I do. I remain firm on my Jeep decision. Two days before I need to head back to Boston, we find and purchase a navy blue Jeep with four wheel drive. I am ecstatic. Eight years and 90,000 miles later, I am more in love with my Jeep than I was the day I drove it off the lot. This purchase becomes a reminder that every once in awhile I have been known to make excellent decisions.

On May 20, 2001 I officially become a college graduate. The night before graduation, I stay up late, writing “The Journey is Here” on the top of my mortar board. Because of this message, my family is able to spot me on the jumbo-tron when one of the cameramen walking through the crowd of graduates zooms in on my cap. After a day of graduation festivities, my family takes me to dinner at The Capital Grill on Newbury Street. Mom tells me to order whatever my heart desires. I order a surf and turf combo - steak and lobster. My diploma sits at my feet, next to my purse. Throughout the night I keep glancing to my left, staring at the large white cardboard envelope, thinking repeatedly: “I did it, I did it, I did it.” My parents, brother, and grandmother all leave Boston the next morning. My Mom gives me a hug and says, “Now you have something no one can ever take away from you. No matter what happens you will always have a college degree.”

Free, free, free from the confines of being a student I decide I’d like to prolong my ascent into the “real world” for as long as possible. I spend my summer in Lake Placid, New York waiting tables, hiking mountains, swimming in lakes, eating ice cream and cheesecake and in general, “hanging out.” During that summer I date a man who lives in town. He is a perfectly nice person, but someone who is such a poor match for my personality it makes me laugh to think we actually went out on more than one date. All too soon, September rolls in. It is the first September of my life that I am not heading to any sort of educational institution. This breaks my heart more than I expected and I am suddenly homesick for schooling, for friends, for teachers, pencils, and books. Still, after Labor Day weekend I pack up my sparsely furnished one bedroom apartment, say goodbye to the man I was dating, the friends I made, the waitressing job, and to the town of Lake Placid. I drive back to New Jersey, ready to start the job I’d lined up in the spring at the local YMCA camp I’d worked at for many summers past.

I move into a one bedroom cabin called “The Hilton” on camp property. The acreage that makes up camp property is gorgeous. There are nice people who work there; I’m close to my Dad’s house, back in my hometown. I’m given the title of Assistant Director immediately. I know I should be excited, be making the best of this opportunity.

Instead, I am miserable. I miss my friends from college. I miss having my own apartment with roommates, I miss having a “job” that required I spend my days thinking, writing, discussing. I miss the city and urban life more than I ever knew possible. I miss exploring.

I wallow. Adjusting to a post-college existence is frustrating. I investigate graduate school, I send long, dramatic emails to my BU friends, I constantly wonder what I should be doing with the rest of my life.

My cabin needs some plumbing issue fixed, so I spend the night of September 10th, a Monday, at my Dad’s house. I roll over to my alarm on the 11th, hitting snooze. I stare out my bedroom window, impressed by what a gorgeous morning it is shaping up to be. As is my custom those days, I immediately think of college and how I long to be back on campus. I think of crowded streets, people everywhere pounding the pavement. I think of New York City. I crawl out of bed, thinking to myself, if only I didn’t have work today, I’d take the train into Manhattan for the day – just to roam around, to try and scratch that incessant urban itch. As I’m getting dressed, I rip off my page-a-day calendar. My thoughts run exactly like this; “10 more days until I turn 22. September 11th is such a boring day. It’s too late for Labor Day, not quite time for birthday celebrations. Nothing ever happens on 9/11.”

I head downstairs, ready for work. I jump in my Jeep, the radio on. There are reports that a plane has hit one of the World Trade Towers. My father is in the driveway, pulling trashcans back from the curb. As I’m backing out of the driveway, I roll down my window.
“Dad, a plane just hit the World Trade Towers.”
“No kidding. You know, that happened several years ago – a plane crashed into the Empire State Building.”

I shake my head. Dad shrugs. I shrug.

I drive the five minutes to camp; I pull into the parking lot near headquarters. A co-worker leans out over the 2nd floor porch railing and calls hello. I look up; ask him if he heard about the plane hitting the towers. “Another one just hit the 2nd tower,” he tells me. I stare in disbelief.

When that long, horrible day comes to an end, I walk to my car with a co-worker. She tells me they think Osama Bin Laden is behind this. It is the first time I have ever heard his name.

My father and I stay up late that night watching the news coverage. We don’t say much, as there don’t seem to be any adequate words. I pull my journal off my nightstand and write one sentence: “The world has changed forever.”

Later that evening, unable to sleep, I turn on my father’s computer and begin web-searching graduate degree programs at NYU. It has been one of, if not the worst, days in the history of our country. And yet, something is stirring inside me. I know in my heart of hearts I have to find a way to get to, to live and work in New York City.

Block.

There's a lot I'd like to say, a lot that's floating 'round my old brain, but not enough time as of late to jot it all down.

So, in the meantime a few bits and bites at random:

--- After my brief flirtation with bangs, I'm back to trying to grow them out. They're hip, cute, and trendy, but just a tad too high maintenance for this lady. Always with the bang trims! Never with the cute bed-head look anymore, instead with the smushed, flattened bangs. Always with the necessary hair clip, stashed in one's purse. Enough!

--- It feels like it's been raining non-stop for the entire month of June. While I certainly would not turn my nose up at a few sunshiny, warm days I can't really say the rain has been bothering me that much. Sure, it's a tad redundant, sure I'd like a tan, yes I'm a little tired of wearing my Wellies constantly. Still, when I feel myself getting ready to whine, I think of my brother - who is stuck day in and day out in very hot, desert dry temperatures. I imagine he would love a rainy day here or there. If he can't get them, I'll take 'em for him.

--- With all of my chatter about bands, catching shows every time I blink, crushes on band members, and live music, I doubt the fact that I become song obsessed will come as much of a surprise to any of you. It happens though, yes sir. I hit weeks where I can't stop listening to the same song over and over and okay just one more time. Of course, my head knows better than to indulge. I'm well aware of the over-played phenomenon and how a song that was once my absolute favorite can finds its way to the bottom of the song pile-up because I just couldn't get enough of a good thing...until I went and got sick of it. Still. Despite that. When did I start listening to my head over my heart?
Just, well, here:



Alexi Murdoch is not a new kid in town, nor was this song a recent new discovery. It was certainly a pleasant rediscovery though. If you've had the chance to catch Sam Mendes's newest, perfectly imperfect film Away We Go, you'll know it, and if you haven't? This is just a guess but I imagine you might find yourself song obsessed after a listen or two as well.

--- Finally. I spent the past weekend with an awesome, hilarious group of people in honor of a lovely couple tying the knot. I also got it in my head to pretend I was a rock star for a portion of the evening. Always a good time, that.


More soon.
Promise.

American Pastime

I realize I've been talking a lot about the Red Sox as of late.

I hope you're not bored by all this baseball chatter - though I figure by now, if you're a (cough, SWEEP, cough) Yanks fan you've long since stopped visiting. I just can't help myself though, especially because I had the chance to attend another two (!) games last weekend.

Last year I took my Dad on his first visit to Fenway and later this summer I'm taking my Mom. The way I see it, everyone needs to get to Fenway Park at least once in their lives. It's truly an experience unlike any other and one I simply don't tire of, not one second of it.


It starts with the frustratingly crowded green line trains that run in Kenmore station. There are the crowds that descend upon Kenmore Square, the masses that strut across the bridge that runs over the Mass Pike, the fans that spill onto Landsdowne Street.

Italian sausage eaten, tickets checked, we take our seats - thankful that part of Fenway's charm is there isn't a bad seat in the house.

Personally, I've always liked night games best because I have the opportunity to catch those boys in red on the field during the magic hour of dusk, my favorite hour of the day.

And then we get to (ahem) spend the night together.

We all sit in Fenway under the cover of night, the bright lights glowing over you in the way only massive lights on a sports field can.


I can see the lights of Fenway from my bedroom window. And on those nights when I'm not lucky enough to be at the park in the flesh, I like knowing the ballpark is still just a glance away from my house.

Comforting, that.


You do the cheering, the YOOOOOOOUUUUUKKKK cry when Kevin Youkilis steps up to bat, the Papi chant when David Ortiz is swinging, the swoon when the dashingly handsome Jacoby Ellsbury is near, the holler for Pedroia the Destroia, the dance to the DropKick Murphy's I'm Shipping up to Boston when Papelbon steps in as closer.

You yell, you chant, you do the wave. You laugh with your friends, you sip your beer, you shell your peanuts. And you think, really? Does it get any better than this?

Of course it does.

Because they win.

20.

I am staring down the barrel at 30. While I'm in no rush to get there, I'm not unaware of the fact that soon I'll bid a fond, final adieu to life in my twenties. Over the next few months I thought I'd reflect, recap, remember this decade I've been roaring through year by year...

****************************

My birthday was on a weekday, possibly a Thursday. I gathered a handful of friends to come out to dinner with me, I’m almost positive we ended up at The Cheesecake Factory in Cambridge. There was a surprise cheesecake, singing waiters, singing friends. My Mom called my dorm room late that evening to see how my day had gone, to welcome me one more time into a whole new decade, to usher me into my twenties with good wishes, happy plans, bundles of hope, and a pinch of motherly foresight, mentioning that my twenties may be the decade I find myself changing the most.

I lived in a single room that year, in a suite with four other girls. I changed my major exactly three times – from film to public relations and back again to film. I never once rethought the English minor bit. My dorm was in a new location on campus, away from where I’d spent my previous years. I was a bit closer to downtown, I felt I could touch city life more than I had when I lived in a high rise on the other side of campus. The lights from Fenway park lit up my room at night, and the famous Citgo sign stood mounted just a few buildings beyond my own.

I had starting dating a guy earlier in the year, a fella I met at the summer camp I worked at in New Jersey. Looking back, I think about how sweet, how kind he was, and how doting – driving all the way up to Boston to spend one day together before heading back to New Jersey that night. I adored him when we met and still think of him fondly, to this day I wonder how he’s doing, where he’s living. We lasted until late Fall that year, just a few months after my birthday. I was a big city girl, doing my own thing up in Boston. I had no patience for dealing with a relationship that went from cute and doting in the beginning to stifling and smothering near the end. Plus, there was a guy that lived down the hall who seemed to have suddenly taken a liking to me. I called it quits without a backwards glance. The moment guy down the hall found out I was single? He stopped acknowledging me completely, walking past me toward the elevators without so much as a hello.

During the 2nd semester of the school year, the majority of my friends left campus to study abroad. I stayed, never even applying to study abroad because I was always worried I’d miss out on some adventure with my classmates in Boston. With my original group of friends gone, I met a new crew of people, most of them film majors. We’d stay up late, drinking coffee at a now defunct 24 hour diner, discussing movies, art, literature, and music like we were the first and last group of twenty-somethings brilliant enough to wile away our evenings in this fashion. I spent many of my days and evenings with one particular film student, a man whose girlfriend was living in London for a semester. We flirted a bit, but I stood on my own moral ground. I would not be the girl he cheated on his girlfriend with, nor would I be the reason for their break-up. The gossip mill wanted to hear otherwise of course, but I never swayed, just as he did not break up with his girlfriend. We sure had some adventures though, running about the city and we remained close for many more years.

I’m not sure exactly when, but at some point I got it in my head that I’d like to get a tattoo. Late that spring, my friend and I went into a parlor one Saturday morning, me clutching the design in my hand. As evidenced above I’d always been, in fact I still am, the good girl who plays by the rules even during moments when she’d probably be wiser to break them. I wanted that tattoo to be my way of telling people that they wouldn’t always get exactly what they expected from me - that even I, Miss organized, planning, goody two-shoes had a few tricks up her sleeve.

And, just like a good girl, I got it tattooed on my back, in a spot easily hidden. Even at the start of my wild and crazy twenties I had enough sense to know a tattoo wouldn’t be appropriate for every occasion in my life.

Back it up, Back it in.

Last week, something terrible occurred. I’m still not even sure how the whole thing happened, but the short end of the story is this: all of my music, all of my 4,000+ songs, all of that rock, that jazz, that funk, that bluegrass, that folk, that reggae, that top 40, that independent hipster stuff, and those jams were completely erased from ITunes and my hard drive in one fell swoop.

As you might imagine when I initially made this discovery, I stared at my computer in disbelief. Surely my music wasn’t lost. Music just doesn’t up and disappear, right? Right. Until it does. When I realized what happened I could have easily fallen into a tailspin of emotions and panicked myself into an early grave. Do you know, instead though? I let myself stress out for 5-4-3-2-1. Then I said to myself, “Self. It will do no good to get upset. The music is either hiding somewhere on your computer where you haven’t yet checked and the Apple Geniuses will find it. Or. Worse case, your music is already gone and you’re going to have to rebuild the library you’ve worked on for years step by step. Which will suck. But you’ll also get the chance to build the best music library ever.”

The next day I scurried off to the Genius Bar at (fun fact!) the largest Apple store in the United States. Do you think those geniuses were able to recover my music? No. Do you think I stressed? No.

Okay. I did. Quite a bit more than I had the night before, to tell you the truth.

Luckily, my genius might not have been able to find my music but he came through in another way. First he reminded me how important having an external hard drive is. (Which, um, thanks. That’s kind of like reminding someone not to put their wallet on the roof of their car after they’ve already lost the thing on the highway.) Then he recommended I download an amazing, phenomenal software program that I’m now head over heels in love with and telling everyone about, called Senuti. Thankfully, all of my music was still living on my IPod and thanks to the Senuti Gods I was able to pull all of that music back onto my ITunes in one $18 wham-bam-thank you ma’m move.

Whew.

I don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch, as I’m not quite finished with my Senuti work. There are still playlists and album covers to be pulled over, but at this point I’d think things are on the up and up in the world of computer music.

The moral of my story? Panic solves nothing. But we already know that don't we, even as we sit wringing our hands.

Oh, and. You should always, always, always back things up on that infamous external hard drive. Kinda gives a whole new meaning to something 'having my back.'

Mistaken for Strangers

Throughout most of my life it has always been difficult for me to pick a favorite band. When I was in middle school, New Kids on the Block reined supreme. In high school, I usually cited REM or U2, depending on my mood. In college, I was busy following a local group of band mates I had befriended. By now, years out of college, and with more shows than I can remember under my belt, my musical tastes pretty much run the gamut. (Never say no to a live show, that’s my motto.)

Yes, I’ll admit I’ve done my fair share of flirting through various ohmygod they are – no, wait, they are - my favorite through my 29 years. By now, I’ve got a pretty hearty top 10 list I like to site time and again if I get into musical chatter with friends. Still, if pressed? The National. They’re the default favorite, the band I come back to again and again and again. Ups and downs of musical love (and my infamous band crushes) aside they are the group I can never seem to get enough of. I finally got the chance to see them Saturday night.

My friends and I arrived at the new House of Blues before the opening act had stepped upon the stage for the evening. We quickly staked out an excellent spot on the 2nd level of the venue with our general admission tickets. And gang, I will tell you the truth. I can think of a handful of shows I’ve been this enraptured with. I spent the two hours the band graced us with their presence unwilling to move from my coveted space along the railing. I imagine the gleam in my eye explained away my selfish behavior to my friends, and a round of applause to them for putting up with my obsession for the evening.

The National have a song called Slow Show. There are lyrics at the end of this song that melt my heart every single time I hear it.

You know I dreamed about you
for twenty-nine years before I saw you
You know I dreamed about you
I missed you for
for twenty-nine years

For the longest time I’ve thought only of romantic relationships when I hear that song. In fact, on Saturday, the lead singer, Matt Berninger, introduced the tune by explaining that a man named Mitch had emailed the group, asking if he could propose before they played Slow Show that night. When Matt wrote Mitch the morning of the show to make sure the proposal was still a go, Mitch wrote back and said, “No. She broke up with me and she’ll be at the show with a different guy.” After the audience expressed a collective sigh, Matt spoke into the microphone and said “We’ll still play it. This is for you, Mitch. Her loss, man.” As I stood on the railing, mouthing the lyrics to Slow Show and so many of their other songs throughout the night, I suddenly didn’t think about who I was looking for. I thought about who might be looking for, dreaming about me. Quite refreshing, that.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a concert experience if I didn’t develop a crush on one of the band members while they played. Saturday night, it was the guitarist, despite the fact that I imagine I’m taller than him in ‘real life.’

Oh I know, I know. You don’t believe me, my crushes are too fickle.

With The National though, I’m playing for keeps.