The Ring

When I got ready for work last night, I did everything I usually do. I showered, did my hair, slathered on moisturizer, got dressed, spritzed perfume, put on my necklace. But I left one thing sitting on the bathroom vanity counter. I went to work without my wedding ring.

This was the first time in 14 years that I had intentionally not slipped the ring on. And my hand felt pretty naked without it. But this is also the first time that I've heard the words, "I don't love you like a wife. I don't want to be married anymore." Those words, while not really surprising, came as a shock nonetheless. And even though deep down inside, I understand and feel kind of the same way, the tears came. He kept apologizing. That only made me cry harder, even as I tried to say I understand.

Later, alone in bed, trying to catch a few hours sleep before having to wake up for work at 1am, his words came back to me over and over again. And I started wondering what happened to turn him away. Was it because I gained so much weight when I was pregnant and never lost it? Was it because I worked nights for so long that we didn't have much time together? Was it because I switched to the overnight shift and was too exhausted to do anything when I got home? Was I too selfish? Did I neglect him? Did he meet someone else? I asked him if there was anyone else and he said no. But don't people always say that? I don't know. I know that I could never have an affair, but that's me. But then again, I don't think anyone would give me a second look. And now, I face a future alone. As I wrote those words, the tears came again, hot and heavy. I'm afraid of that future. I'm not young. I'm not attractive. And boy, do I have a lot of baggage. No one will want to take that on.

So I brace myself. I have traveled this road alone before. I can do it again. Of course, I'm not truly alone. I have my son, who will split his time equally with both of us. For that, I'm grateful. I'm grateful that I don't face a long, bitter fight. We're not enemies. We're just not lovers. We're more like roommates who care about each other very much. I was willing to live with it. It wasn't bad. In fact, it was comfortable. But he can not live with it. And so he must go.

He says he's not in a hurry. In fact, he wants us to stay in the same house until the end of the year, at least. Maybe even longer. He doesn't want us to change our Facebook relationship status. The only sign that this marriage is over - the lack of jewelry on the third finger of our left hands. He says he lost his wedding band a couple of months ago. I believe him because he's never lied. I know exactly where my wedding ring is. It's sitting on the bathroom vanity, the diamond glittering in the silver setting. Icy, like my heart.

"Steel Goddesses": A novel about 80's heavy metal... and groupies

Last month, I saw a lifelong dream come true when I became a published author. The road to publication was not as traditional as most authors', but the result turned out the same way. "Steel Goddesses" is available for sale on Amazon.com and I'm working to get it into bookshops around the Seattle area.

"Steel Goddesses" focuses primarily on three women and the paths they took to achieve their dreams during the early 80's, when heavy metal was in full swing and L'Amour was THE preeminent rock club for up and coming metal bands to play in the New York City area, and possibly, the US. White Lion was a fixture on the stage at the time. So was a little band called Metallica. Raven, Anthrax, TALAS (Billy Sheehan's first band), Exciter, Anvil, Yngwie Malmsteen, Loudness, Blue Oyster Cult (as "Soft White Underbelly"), Stryper. The list goes on and on. Bands that were big at the time (Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Motley Crue) didn't play at L'Amour, but bandmembers sure hung out there.

I was lucky to be part of the scene during that time and took in my share of bands, some more than others (I've seen Metallica so many times, I've lost count). I also met my fair share of "interesting" people, including some of the most hardcore groupies I've ever seen. I've taken all of those experiences and rolled them into a novel that is aimed at being both nostalgic and entertaining.

"Toni" is kind of like a Queen of the Groupies. I introduce a pimp-like character called Marius Man, who runs a sort of "heavy metal harem". As their leader, Toni pretty much gets her choice of any guy who plays at L'Amour. Business being what it is, Marius orders Toni to recruit more groupies, in order to spend one night with a man who has been out of her reach - a hunky guitarist named "Don". This is where the fun begins.

Toni begins grooming "Rusty", whose sole dream is to land a rich rock star as a boyfriend. Naive and extremely stacked, Rusty makes it a point to follow Toni's every instruction to a "T", with bittersweet results. Toni also tries to groom "Kris", a legal secretary trying to pursue a dream to be a rock journalist. But Kris has no intention of becoming a groupie, even as she harbors a secret crush on "Marty", singer for one of the biggest metal bands around.

Toni schemes desperately to get both girls on board, but seems to hit obstacles everywhere and each girl ends up taking a life-changing detour.

If you want to read more, here is the link to "Steel Goddesses" on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Steel-Goddesses-Ann-Brandt/dp/1434858553/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_2

Enjoy.
Su

Supermarket Karaoke - A New Game Show!

I've found myself doing something a little strange lately, and I must admit, it's improving the quality of my grocery shopping. I park in the parking lot, hit the Starbucks next door and arm myself with a latte containing lots of caffeine, grab a cart, buckle my purse in, and away I go!

It happens as soon as I aim my cart toward the produce aisle. The music piping in from the overhead speakers permeates my brain, which blurts out, "Hey, I know this song!" Brain communicates with mouth and soon I am singing along. By the time I hit the cereal aisle, I've crooned 2 and a half songs. The other half of a song was ruined by announcements about fresh bread and a deli special. On that song, I kept singing and as soon as the announcement finished, the song resumed at the precise point where I was. The more comfortable I became, the louder I sang. I even broke into harmony on several songs.

As I unpacked the groceries at home, an idea struck me. This would be a great game show! We'd call it "Supermarket Karaoke". Contestants would win free products for every song they sang correctly. Extra points (or products) for those brave enough to harmonize. I think David Lee Roth would be a great host for this show. He's already shot one music video inside a small grocery store. I cant remember the name of the song but the video is very stark in my brain.

I was shopping the other day when that song, "What if God Was One of Us" came on. I started singing along enthusiastically, when something odd happened. As I finished one line, another voice joined in! We sang in unison until the chorus, when I broke off into a harmony. As the chorus ended, I rounded the corner and came face to face with my duet partner, another middle-aged mom like me. We finished the song, gave each other a high-five and moved on.

David Lee Roth, where are you?

Insecurities

I love hockey.  I love to watch it. I love to write about it. I hope to one day learn how to play.  I love interviewing players, but I will never interview them face to face.  It has to be done either by phone or email.  At every Thunderbirds game I cover, the PR guy asks us during the third period, "Do you want to talk to the players?" I always say no.  It's not because I'm shy or feel my hockey knowledge won't stand up.   I say no because I don't want any player to look at me.   I'm overweight.  Strike that. I'm not overweight.  I'm very overweight.  

Sure, I'm working to lose it.  I've gotten serious about my health.  Actually, I've had to get serious. I've been diagnosed as being pre-diabetic.  I have extremely high blood pressure.  And I'm still young, dammit.  I gained a lot of weight when I was pregnant and never lost it.  Well, that's not exactly true.  I did drop four sizes about 10 years ago, by diligently going to the gym every morning and walking on the treadmill for an hour.  I know I can do it again.  Yes, I have a few health challenges.  I also have a few lingering aches from a car accident four years ago.  But the fact remains that I can do it.  I can lose weight.

But that doesn't change the way I look now and the way I feel about approaching hockey players. These guys are young and fit.  They would look at me and just see the weight.  They wouldn't see the pregnancy, the accident, the injuries.  And no matter how well they've been brought up, they would not see past the weight to the brain that houses the passion for the game they play so well. I could not stand to see the disgust or even pity in their eyes.

So, I will continue to interview players by email or phone.  I will continue to cover the games.  But I will not meet any of these guys face to face, no matter how nice they seem.  It's a step I just can't take.

Ride the Wave... or Freeze

Lately, I've been feeling the pull of the ocean, even though I haven't set foot near the water.
No, the ocean I'm feeling is churning inside me, calling on me to make the changes I so desperately need to make.

But do I move to make the changes? No. I'm still standing, feet planted in the sand, even as the tide swirls around my bare ankles, shifting the sand around and under my feet, unbalancing me.
I catch myself as I start to fall, and as the tide rolls out, I right myself and brace for the next wave.

Why am I so scared to ride that wave of change? Why do I buck against it, standing rigid, absorbing each swell that soaks me to the bone, when it would be so much easier to let go and let the wave take me on a wild and joyous ride to shore?

I spent a summer on the Maryland coast. I remember body surfing from sunup until my dad called us for dinner, skin wrinkled like a raisin, teeth blue and chattering, heart pumping blood throughout my body so forcefully, I could hear the "whoosh-whoosh" in my ears. I remember the feeling of complete abandonment, the excitement of not knowing just where I would land. Oh, to relive those days again, even if only figuratively.

What am I waiting for?

Confessions of a Java Hussy

I'm having an affair and I don't feel one bit guilty. Actually, if I'm truly honest with myself, I'm having several affairs. At the same time.

I know!

I live dangerously!

There's the Colombian. Ah… what a way to wake up. He's rich, smooth and knows just how to get my brain cells going. I need the Colombian before I hit the shower. Buenos Dias, indeed!

At lunch, I have a quickie with the Frenchie. My friends say Frenchie comes on too strong, but I like strong! Sometimes, I only have 10 minutes for Frenchie, but boy does he make those ten minutes count and sends me off with a buzz to beat the band!

Before dinner, I might take a nip from the Indonesian. Ooh, spicy and light. Five minutes with the Indonesian and I'm perky and ready for any dinner conversation.

After dinner, though, it's always the Italian. He's from Verona and knows how to get right into my veins. And stay there. The Italian makes me forget about dessert-- because he is the dessert.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You brazen hussy!" (or maybe words to that effect). Go ahead, point your finger at me and hiss. I don't feel ashamed. I even flaunt my love affairs in front of my husband. He doesn't even notice. Well, once, he said, "what's that smell?" I played dumb, mostly because I couldn't tell if it was the Frenchie or the Indonesian. I'd had both by that time and both were affecting me, although their aromas had blended together into one heady scent.

I've pretty much kept to those four for awhile now. Until today. When I came face to face with the Cajun. Hmmm…. I grabbed other items then circled back for another look. The Cajun looked strong. Nice lines. Bold, hard to ignore. I try to walk away but swing my cart around again. The Cajun stood his ground. Was he taunting me? Obviously, this Cajun doesn't know me very well. I push my cart right up to him and say, "Jump in, baby, let's go!" The Cajun topples on top of the yogurt and pop tarts. Oh, he's a player, this one.

I got him home and went in for the kill, can opener in hand. As soon as I heard him sigh, I knew he'd become part of my java harem. There's just one question. Where does he fit… and how?

Time to reshuffle the lineup.

Who F**ked Up My Chocolate?

Chocolate.

Just saying the word brings to mind stolen moments of bliss, sitting in a corner, in a car, in bed, savoring a truffle, a piece of fine dark chocolate, a Hershey bar. Just like there's no wrong way to eat a Reese's, there's nothing you can do to ruin a fine bar of chocolate.

Or at least that's what I thought.

Until recently.

One of my good friends, knowing I was having a stressful week littered with mines called "deadlines," dropped off several bars of chocolate to help fuel my brain and ease my consternation. Looking at the wrappers, I knew she had taken some time and care before making her selections. The bars were not cheap. They were also organic (although I'm not fussy). They were waiting for me when I staggered back to my desk following back-to-back meetings about topics I know nothing about and care about even less. I spotted the bars on my desk and alighted on the first one, clutching it in my desperate hand. Doing a quick sweep of the room to make sure no one had seen the confection on my desk, I opened my drawer and swept the other two out of sight. Then, leaning back in my ergonomic office chair, I unwrapped the bar in my hand and took a huge bite.

And promptly spit it out.

Simply put, it was AWFUL. I smoothed the wrapper out to see what this chocolate was made of. The label read: 85% cacao (okay, it's really really dark. I can live with that). The label continued: Contains: chunks of crystallized ginger.

WTF??? Crystallized ginger??? Why, in name of all that is sacred in your world, would anyone put crystallized ginger in chocolate? I grabbed my cup of 6 hour old coffee and chugged, trying to get the taste of said ginger out of my mouth. I loathe ginger on principal. The fact that it somehow sneaked into my mouth via an innocent piece of chocolate makes it more vile.

Looking for respite, now, I yanked open the drawer and pulled out the other two bars. One was milk chocolate with chai. Chai. That's Middle Eastern tea. Hmm…. I eyed the chocolate. Dare I try it? I finally decided to give it a go, thinking it couldn't be any worse than the dark chocolate with ginger.

It was just as bad.

After washing my mouth out with even more 6 hour old coffee, I threw the two opened bars of chocolate away and placed the third bar on a table we affectionately call "Ingestation." It was formally known as the "trough". Any food that gets placed there disappears within moments. Picture a cloud of locusts descending upon crops and decimating said crops in mere seconds. You get the idea.

A week has passed. That chocolate bar is still sitting at the Ingestation.

Seems even broadcast engineers with cast-iron stomachs steer clear of chocolate with questionable things added to it. Or maybe we're just not sophisticated enough to enjoy it.

Eh. I don't even want to find out.

Just pass me the Snickers and shut up.

Remembering James

"He had an easy smile."

I've read those words many times, but never have they rung so true as when I use them to describe my friend James.  When he smiled, his entire face lit up and you felt your own face light up, even if you were in a dark mood.  James did not have a mean bone in his body and nowhere was that more evident than his million-megawatt smile.

I met James and his brother Eric in Germany.  Our fathers were stationed there and somehow, we wound up on the same traveling bowling team. James was 2 years younger than me. Eric was 4 years younger.  Where James was languid, laid back and comfortable wherever he happened to be sitting, Eric was bright, bubbly and ready for action. The two brothers complemented each other perfectly and both doted on their mother, one of the most beautiful and vivacious women I had ever seen. I loved being around them because it usually meant that a lot of laughter would ensue.  And it did.

I remember watching James, Eric and a few others mooning other cars during a long bus ride between Kaiserslautern and somewhere (maybe Spangdahlem, maybe Hanau) to bowl in a tournament.

I remember long hours spent at the Vogelweh bowling alley, eating fries and playing those blasted video games. (Okay, I did not play that often. I sucked. I mostly watched the guys play)

I remember James deciding that I needed to learn how to drive and that he was going to be the one to teach me.  In his friend Chris' BMW.  In the parking lot of the commissary at Vogelweh.  In his disarmingly charming way, he talked Chris into actually taking part!  Next thing you know, I'm behind the wheel of a Beemer, James planted next to me, Chris in the back seat with this "Oh, sh*t, what have I agreed to?" kind of look on his face.  I remember starting the car. I remember hitting the gas. And I remember James yelling, "STOP! STOP!" and mashing the brakes so hard, we all nearly went  through the windshield.  End of lesson.

I remember, several  months later, running into James in another parking lot. He had had a bit too much to drink and could not drive, but did not want to leave his car.  Even drunk, he talked me into driving his car.  I still did not know how to drive, yet I maneuvered his Beetle to my house. Did I mention it was a stick shift? I helped him up to our apartment, where he, my sister Kim and I watched movies until he sobered up.

I lost touch with James when my family moved back to the States, but several years later, reconnected with Eric.  Eric put me back in touch with James, who was in Germany with their mother.  We talked on the phone. We wrote letters- yes, actual, handwritten letters.  He did not have a computer, nor do I think he wanted one.  He wrote long letters talking about everything and nothing.  He talked about his job. He talked about his mom. He talked about the child he had not seen because he was in Germany and the child was in Florida.  That was the only time I heard sadness, regret.  Every other time, it was hard to miss the smile in James' voice. Every conversation immediately brought his face to mind, split wide with a grin, eyes crinkling and twinkling. We talked about me visiting his mother and him in Germany.  We talked about how Eric lives kind of close to me (he's in Oregon, I'm in Washington).  We talked about where we would go to drink.  Some of the old stomping grounds.

This morning, I received an email from Eric.  Entitled: "Sad News", it was short and to the point:

"I regret to inform you. My only brother James died unexpectedly in his sleep last night 10/22. He was 42."

As I read those words, the years sped by in fast-forward through my brain.  James bowling.  James joking.  James laughing as I try to make him stop smoking, even as he lights another cigarette.  But most of all, I see  James grinning that million-megawatt smile.  And I cried.  I cried for Eric.  I cried for their mom.  I cried for their dad.  But most selfish of all, I cried for myself because I will never hear that lazy voice. Never see that brilliant grin.

But I will always remember.

Rest easy, my friend. I hope you are at peace.

Letting Go

"And loveIt's not the easy thing
The only baggage you can bringIs all that you can't leave behind"

This line from a U2 song has been dancing around my head today, especially the line "All that you can't leave behind."

That line describes my life. I have a lot of baggage, but it's nothing compared to some very close to me. They've got so much baggage, it's slowly pushing my life to the wayside, as I am forced, time and time again, to deal with their baggage at the cost of my own.

It's like a giant, super-sticky spider's web filled with baggage. Baggage to the left, baggage to the right. Baggage in front of us, baggage trailing behind.

AND IT'S NOT MINE!

I have been taking on their baggage for years, to "keep the peace," to "not rock the boat," to "make things okay," to "not upset the apple cart," or however that fucking saying goes.

I'M TIRED OF HANDLING THE BAGGAGE.

So... I started forcing some decisions. Ultimatums, if you will. Oh, how people hate ultimatums. I can't stand the fucking things. But here I am, forcing ultimatums on people. Trying to free myself from this giant, super-sticky spider's web, one strand at a time. Trying to live the life I put on hold, to help others live a lie.

No more.

If this house of cards ends up crumbling, then so be it.
It's not my baggage.

A Child's Hug

(written: April 12, 2007)

I saw video of a child hugging his dad, crying.
Let me back up a bit.
The dad, just back from Iraq, decided to surprise his son at school.
Our photographer backed into the classroom first, followed by the boy's mom.
Then Dad walked in.
The camera swung around- caught the look of shock on the boy's face.
His lips trembled, his little body shook.
Then he launched himself out of his little chair and charged up to his dad, who swung his boy up in one motion and hugged him close.
The wireless microphone picked up the emotional exchange.
Dad: I missed you.
Boy: I missed you too, Daddy.
Cue the tears. Grab the tissues.
That video, shot by our photographer, has made it around the world.
The Today Show ran it.
Inside Edition ran it.
Access Hollywood ran it.
AFN ran it.
The Pentagon channel ran it.
I've seen that hug at least 20 times.
Each time I watch, I cry.
I cry because I remember the day my own dad came for a visit.
The year: 1969
The war: Vietnam
My mom and I were living in Seoul, South Korea.
We lived near her family while my dad did his duty for Uncle Sam.
It also make it easier for him to visit on the rare occasion that he got to take r'n'r.
He flew to Tokyo, then to Seoul.
He surprised me, not at school.
He was waiting when I came home from school.
Sitting on the front steps in full dress uniform.
I remember seeing him from down the street.
I'm sure my lip trembled.
I'm sure my body shook. I don't remember.
I do remember running down the street and launching myself into his arms, crying.
Dad: I missed you.
Me: I missed you too, Daddy.
Then, I took him by the hand and paraded him up and down the street, crying out in Korean, "Yuh-ghee nah abu-jee ee-suh-yuh!" "Here is my dad!"
You see, I had been teased unmercifully in the time I'd lived in Korea without my dad.
I have the curly hair and round eyes of my dad.
I speak the fluent Korean of my mom.
The kids said my dad must have "had his way" with my mom then abandoned us, as had happened with so many other families.
When I said, "No, my daddy is fighting in Vietnam," they laughed.
"That's just what your mom tells you."
Well, here was living proof.
Flesh and Blood.
My Daddy.
Visiting from Vietnam.
Letting me drag him down the street to meet everyone once and for all.
So they could see my Daddy loved my Mommy... and he loved me, too.

Life

(written: June 8, 2006)

My Life
It is what it is
The storytelling
That blossomed into lies
The depression-fueled lows
The cocaine highs
The dreams that came true
And those that failed miserably
Money evaporating before my eyes
Leaving me in the dark
I fell hard
But I never stayed down
Does that make me a victor
Or a sucker for more
more pain
more gain
more pride
more shame
New life
New strife
with no end in sight
Each failure increases hesitation
Do I try again?
Whats around the bend?
Wouldnt it be easier to lie down
and never wake?
But I cant do that
For Ians sake
Pick yourself up, girl!
Take a look around you!
My brain chides, cajoles and berates
Pick yourself up
Theres nothing wrong with
your legs
your eyes
your brain
Take it all in
Use the lessons youve learned
Brace for those yet to come
Some may not be pleasant
Some may be quite fun
But whatever you meet
Face it with your head held high
It is what it is
This thing called Your Life.

Hiding Places

(written: September 1, 2006)

EVERYONE HIDES.

That's a fact of life. HOW we hide is a different story.

I know a woman who hides behind hair extensions, fake nails and colored contact lenses. She's a beautiful woman, but you'd never tell because she looks like such a Barbie. She also hides what could be a lovely personality behind bitterness, jealousy and pettiness. There's not much to enjoy in her company anymore, and what's worse, no one can tell her.

A good friend of mine is hiding behind loneliness. She is planning to marry a man she does not love. He is not a nice man. He's very conniving, making decisions for both of them, then apologizing after the fact. I won't go into detail but you know what I mean. I think she's afraid she won't find love if she lets this man go. I love her dearly, but know that she needs to make her own decisions. That's the hardest part.

Another friend of mine hides behind what he calls "his career". He's been working away at the same job for 20 years-- moving from city to city. He keep saying he'll think about "settling down" once he finds a city he likes. He's still looking for that city.

Do I hide? You'd better believe it! I hide behind the biggest wall of all - my weight. I packed it on when I got pregnant and never lost it. It comes in handy when I want to be invisible, because no one looks twice at an overweight woman. I've tried to lose weight a countless number of times. But I realize, I really DON'T want to lose weight. I don't want attention. I like being invisible. I don't even mind the sneering looks I get from trim, fit people who think I'm a lazy slob. Let them. They don't know me. I don't care what they think.

I hide in my shell. Will someone crack it?

Symphony of Life

(written: June 4, 2006)

I took time to listen today... and I heard quite a lot.

I heard the light patter of my son running down the hall from his bedroom to the computer room to watch morning TV. (He's done this every weekend morning since he could walk - he's now 11)

I heard the soft snores of my dog as he napped in his crate. He's a black lab/golden retriever mix and a real bundle of energy except when he's sleeping. He snuffled and snored until I threw my blanket back and touched the carpeted floor with my bare feet. In that instant, Marley scrambled to his feet and was ready for me to open the bedroom door so he can bound joyfully down the hall, his nails clicking and scrabbling on the hardwood floor.

I heard the soft fall of rain outside my kitchen window, drops plinking on the cover of my barbeque grill, or slapping on the leaves of all the trees in the backyard.

I heard the whir and whine of the weed-wacker as my husband trimmed the jungle-like grass at the foot of our front yard.

I heard the dulcet tones of Stephen Fry narrating the latest Harry Potter book on my cd player as I layered ingredients for our lasagne dinner.

I heard the running shower, accompanied by my son's wordless humming, sometimes swelling to aria-like proportions as he indulged in his nightly waterfest.

I heard the soft whirr of my computer as I sit in my lamplit office, catching up with emails as the rest of the house grows silent in the night.

Another day has gone-- and with it, the sounds that make up a Symphony of Life.

Soul

"The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience."~Emily Dickinson

Yes, Su is quoting again! Seriously, I saw this and it really spoke to me. It's so easy to shut our souls down because we are upset, tired, frustrated or depressed. I am guilty of that. My heart and soul shut down, then the rest of me quickly follows. Before I know it, I've sunk into a pit of depression and lethargy. This usually lasts days to weeks- and takes a major event (or a good beating), to bring me out of it.

Lately, though, I've tried to find reasons to keep me from sinking into depression (lifelines, if you will... as in "throw me a line, I'm going down for the last time"). Anything that will light a spark of hope, which can blossom into moments of self-love.

So... the above quote comes at a very good time. It's a good reminder to keep the door to your soul open, even if a tiny bit (ajar), so that when the next ecstatic experience arrives, it can come in-- instead of bouncing off the door and ricocheting back into the stratosphere.
The quote reminds me that there's always good around the corner, once you slog through the shit.