Walking Pneumonia, Step Off!

I've been sick for five weeks.

Five. Weeks.

If you need a bit of perspective, in that same amount of time, Lenny Kravitz started the US leg of his Black and White America Tour, criss-crossed the country and is two days away from wrapping it all up.

On a bus.

Don't cry for me Argentina. I've recently gotten my sense of humor back. Which apparently reappears before any desire to work out, clean my house or grocery shop. I guess that's a good sign. Plus there's gratitude. See.

Oh, Thank You Walking Pneumonia for Teaching Me...

10.  The lasting power of a Shellac manicure is not a measly two weeks. It's closer to seven. Well, at least on my non-dominant hand. The right one is looking a bit crack whore.

9.  At 6am, 19 Kids and Counting works as a gentle time release sedative.

8.  My husband married me for my laundry skills. In sickness and in health. Emphasis on sickness.

7.  Running a bath in a soaking tub is a simple task, if you remember that a) a repair man lowered the temp on the water heater, in 2010 and b) boiling pots of water on the stove, will indeed provide the necessary warmth, as well as a faint chicken soup aroma from last week's dinner.

6.  Excessive TV viewing triggers some sort of alarm at the cable company, reminding them your free introductory package, the same one that's been killing your brain cells since 2009, needs to be cut off. Immediately.

5.  Intelligent reads like The Happiness Project, MWF Seeking BFF and the entire collection of Pamela Ribon, can prevent you from drooling in a corner.

4.  Taking Clarithromycin 500 mg, twice a day, for ten days, will make you feel like you've been left in a car with the windows up, during the height of the summer, in the deserts of New Mexico.

3.  That refreshing hydration drink you've been chugging, no really chugging, contains citrimax, which is not some sort of exotic juicy tropical fruit you've pictured in your mind, but a heart palpitation inducing dietary supplement. 

2.  Do. Not. NOT. Attempt. Your. Taxes.

1.  You should never, ever, ever say out-loud, 'Gee, I haven't been sick in a while.' Superbugs are listening.

Soundtrack of My Life: The Lenny Kravitz Edition

The day Let Love Rule was released, September 1, 1989, was the day before I turned eighteen.

I spent it moving into a cinderblock dorm room at the University of Rhode Island, roughly 500 square feet that I'd share with two complete strangers, along with their even stranger boyfriends. I'm sure someone on campus was more than diggin' the first album by Lenny Kravitz, but I was far to busy adapting to my current hell to notice.

Besides, my zippered nylon cassette case was at capacity--filled to the brim with 1980's teenage angst: The Cure, Depeche Mode, Tracy Chapman, Indigo Girls, and, yes, Milli Vanilli, you know, in case things happened to get too dark. (Snicker if you must, but Rob Pilatus, lip syncher or not, was amazingly beautiful.)

Years past, before I gave LK a second glance. I'm guessing I heard 'Fly Away' on the radio, which led me to the sheer perfection that is the album 5. And once again, Lenny shows up on the scene on one of the biggest days of my life. My first LK concert was in May, 1999 on the day I gave my two weeks notice to a job that I hated, so I could start freelance writing full time. Three weeks after that I got married.

Good vibes indeed.

I wish I could say that I became a better LK fan from there. Oh, I tried. But stuff got in the way. Like too many neo-soul artists to count. And that cover of Baptism. Straightened hair and bloody bathtub at the same time? Too much. But with his ninth studio album, Black and White America, Lenny Kravitz had me at hello.

Well sort of. He had me at this:

"In 1963, my father married (a black woman)
And when they walked the streets they were in danger (look what 'cha done)
But they just kept on walking forward hand in hand."

For me, this is where it gets personal. Not because of my parents--two blondes, 1967--but because of me. You'd think that after twenty solid years with my husband André, an outstanding chap, who just happens to be black, the color of our skin, together or separate, would be a non-issue. But for the times that it's not, Lenny's outstandingly beautiful sentiment of 'they just kept on walking forward hand in hand' touches my heart.

Onto another milestone, and yes, more Lenny. On September 2, 2011, my 40th birthday, I was fortunate enough to welcome LK back onto the musical scene, thanks to one very generous friend and fellow Virgo, Kristine, who invited me to his celebration on the Today Show. Or as I like to think of it, Lenny showed up as a special invited guest to my nationally televised birthday party.

Regardless, last Friday night, it just seemed fitting that André and I would be belly up to the stage in Boston, as Lenny Kravitz kicked off the US leg of his Black and White America tour. And in between the intense sound of tracks like 'Come On Get It', 'Always On the Run' and 'Mr. Cab Driver', I wondered why I hadn't come here more often.

Not literally here, of course. This particular experience, within the 'DNA zone' as André called it, where droplets of Lenny's saliva, sweat or a combination of the two flowed freely in the air, directly above my head, cannot be replicated.

(Don't worry, sir, no apology necessary. These things surely happen within that level of exertion.)

I mean here, as in a place of both true awe and thankfulness for the outrageous talent of Lenny and his crew, including Mr. Craig Ross, who should be a household name. LK performed with such an intense showmanship, passion, energy and clear love for his craft, you'd have no inkling that the US crowds are a whole lot smaller than what he's used to.

Newsflash: LK sells out stadiums in Europe. And France? They bestowed the Legion of Honor on him.

Hello! What is up with us, America?!

I wish I knew how to change this. But I don't. So all I can say is thank you, Lenny Kravitz, for not seeing boundaries, musical or otherwise. For successfully creating your magical, one of a kind version of funk, with layered rock riffs, keys, horns, drums, and that voice, which just continues to get more powerful.

But above all, thank you for making no apologies for who you are.

Until next time: Let Love Rule, baby. Let Love Rule.

Don't Drink The Water

In the midst of the cold and flu season, it's always helpful to review tips for maintaining good health. Wash your hands. Cover your mouth. And last, but not least, don't drink the water.

Especially if you have reusable containers in your fridge.

Especially if someone has been sick in your house. Especially if said ill person was spotted, during the height of the ordeal, surrounded by half empty bottles of H2O in the living room.

Granted, if you live in a child free environment, you'd probably just assume the fridge would be safe from common hazards, like say, a stainless steel bottle of infected ice water, sipped from, then returned to the fridge sometime during the course of a two-day period that a normally logical person had clearly LOST THEIR MIND.

But there's no way to be sure.

In fact, you'd be better to assume the germs inside said bottle were actually being preserved, sort of like what happens in the great labs of the world, dedicated to studying the DNA of viruses. The only problem was, last time I checked, no one here was interested in learning about the rapid reproduction of cells or being part of a control group, to test the strength of the virus after two weeks of refrigeration.  

Don't drink the water.

The first sign of trouble was the arrival of Moaning André in the middle of the night. The illness came on so quickly, I knew it was something he ingested.

"Thirsty. I'm so thirsty," André croaked.

"What did you eat?" I asked.

"Nothing," muttered André clutching his stomach. "Thirsty."

"You must have eaten something," I said. I'd survived enough food poisoning incidents in my day--hello tainted deli meat--to know the signs. "At work? Think."

André rolled his head back and forth on the sofa, "No."

"Nothing?"

"Thirsty. Oh. No. Maybe. Some pineapple."

"Some pineapple? Huh. Fresh pineapple? From someone at work? Had anyone been out sick?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Oh. Yeah. Her and---her daughter. So thirsty. Oh, this water tastes so good."

With the rapid onset of delirium and digestive distress, I theorized André's co-worker had been kind enough to share the uber-contagious Norovirus, you know, the same grossness that closes down schools and docks cruise ships.

So, to prevent my own demise, I went into super sanitation mode, disinfecting every surface in sight. I used gloves. I was hyper vigilant about washing my hands. I avoided touching my eyes, nose or mouth.  And amazingly enough, my health remained intact.

Which was a good thing because we were closing on our house.

And there was a bit of packing to do. As well as physical moving. And heavy lifting.

As you can imagine, this active labor can dehydrate a person. So two weeks after André had cleared the bug from his system, I quenched my thirst with some cold water from, you guessed it, one stainless steel bottle in our fridge.

The rest? Well, you know how that went.

Never ever EVER drink the water.

You've Got The Car. You've Got The Girl.

This year, I am officially done explaining myself.

Well, from here on out. Truth is, I hadn't really thought much about how often I do it, until a neighbor complimented me recently, with an innocent: "Your yard looks great."

And indeed it does. The fence, stacked in our backyard since we bought the house over two years ago, has finally been installed. We replaced our crumbling asphalt driveway with brand-new tinted concrete. And our backyard was not only leveled, but outfitted with lush, green, inviting sod.

A simple thank you would have sufficed. Or an invitation to come over in the spring for a drink.

Instead, I went into my typical over-explaining mode. "Thanks. We took out a loan to pay for everything. We're not that handy."

Really? Who cares?

The problem is that I do this all the time. Nice designer Kate Spade planner! Oh, I bought it on sale. Something like 80 percent off. What a fantastic convertible! Yeah, we got quite a deal because Pontiac was going out of business. They were practically giving this thing away.

What I've come to realize is my over-explaining is not really over-explaining at all. It's more of an apology to say I'm sorry for my experiences, my possessions and really, for who I am.

Cue the ah-ha moment music.

I actually think this is a fairly recent development, a protective mechanism cultivated to insulate myself from the haters out there, who have a hard time accepting their own lives as a journey that they are responsible for, instead of constantly comparing their existence to everyone else's. Not a recipe for success.

To compensate, I've opted for blanket apologizing, no matter what the situation, so that no one feels bad about their own experiences. Or, as my friend Shelly so brilliantly refers to it, I've been actively 'dimming my light'.

But the truth is, I am a hard working, chance taking member of society, who consciously lives my life to the fullest. And in these, 'see, I'm really just like you', moments of apology, not only am I taking away the opportunity to accept a genuine, pure of heart compliment, because they do exist, but I'm also compromising the celebration of whatever the event, as well as my worthiness to receive it.

So I'm done.

Naturally, my husband Andre got this message a long time ago. He is older, and, sigh, yes, sometimes wiser. We were honeymooning in South Beach, and had just pulled up to our splurge hotel in a convertible. Getting out of the car, a panhandler approached asking for money. At the time, Andre's standard line for this situation was, "I'm all set." And I'd known for years that eventually, his response of choice was going to get him into trouble. This time, it did.

"You're all set?!" said the panhandler, with an unnerving combination of venom and disgust. "Yeah, you're all set. You've got the car. You've got the girl."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell this guy that he had it all wrong. That the car was a rental. That we were hauling plastic bags of groceries into this classy hotel, because our budget couldn't support eating breakfast, lunch and dinner out. And while he saw two, relatively well dressed people, our clothes were, as always, purchased from the clearance rack, because you've got to be an idiot to pay full price.

But my gut told me to be quiet.

Andre came away with a major life lesson from this encounter--beyond altering the way he responds to requests for change. He learned that life is all about perception. And no matter what you say, you're not going to change someone's idea of you. No matter how far it deviates from reality.

Sometimes, I'm a little slow on the uptake. But this lesson, I've finally got.

Rock This Dick Clark!

Sometimes, Rhode Island, you really surprise me.

I'm a die hard fan. Obviously. I've stuck around, while so many of my nearest and dearest have bolted for seemingly greener pastures. My secret? Appreciating your quirks, while keeping your faults in perspective. Sort of like any good relationship. (Plus I've seen what a thousand dollars will get you for a rental in New York City, and there's no way--no way--I can do that.)

But New Year's Eve in Rhode Island. You've continued to be a problem.

I've always thought that for any new year to unfold properly, you need to bring it in on the dance floor. This undoubtedly goes way back to my childhood, as I partied in my pj's with the glamorous peeps of Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve. This became my goal--until I discovered it was a cast, taped production and no one over age 35 was welcome. All my dreams? Crushed.  

Locally, our choices were sad and predictable: Stay home. (Loser.) House party. (I'd rather be asleep.)  Pay an overinflated cover charge at a club. (And try not to spend the rest of the evening calculating how much money you'd save if you came back manana.) Head out of town. (Yeah, I think I can see the ball drop. See, Andre. Can't you see the reflection off of that skyscraper?)  

Believe me, we've done it all, while still holding out hope that someone, anyone, would host a festive celebration to do Dick Clark proud. Enter World Party Entertainment. This year, the promoters held the 2nd Annual New Year's Eve Masquerade Ball at the Convention Center.

And with a half price Groupon, we were in.

Admittedly, initially, I was a bit skeptical, even with the promise of free cupcakes. Will we be the only ones there? Will we be the only ones dressed up? Will we be the only ones dancing?

Hell no.

Granted, the congregation of bodies provided a perfect opportunity for a whole lot of marketing. Personally, I thought it was a small price to pay. (Or maybe a big price. I'm now jonesin' for an Alex and Ani bangle bracelet. Or two. Or three.)

Our night on the whole? Fabulous. Even with Andre's sinus infection. Because while it may have elevated him to designated driver, it didn't prevent us from salsa-ing to Rhode Island's own Santa Mamba. Or his execution of a left turn. In public. (Huge. We've been practicing for months.)  

We had the pleasure of hearing the extreme talent of local teen guitarist Noah Andrade. (Watch out for this cat!) We felt the groove of the Colour of London, fronted by Jimmie Allen formerly of American Idol. And we counted down to 2012 with spokesmodel Claudia Jordan, model number 1 on Deal or No Deal, who, of course, is my best friend's cousin. It is Rhode Island after all.

And at midnight? We were on the dance floor getting down to Pitbull and Ne-Yo's Give Me Everything, as balloons dropped around us.

So welcome 2012. I've got a good feeling about you.

(Photo by Al B Photography)