Songs in the key of life.....

In an effort to to write a more interactive blog, I am digging deep, to ask the important questions --meaningful and thought provoking--that will compel you to post comments for me to learn more about you. So, when recently considering what my favorite song is, I thought it would be good fodder to consider my choices and for you to think of yours. My ipod has such variety that I'm not too sure how to narrow it down. Based on what? And are there any category limitations? No, just top 5 songs that make you feel something for whatever reason. Not being a real musical aficionado, in the technical sense, I have decided to go with 10 of my favorite songs that just move me somehow. Try not to think too hard. Okay, so here goes. 1. I Can't Tell You Why--by The Eagles 2. It's too late--by Carole King 3. I'm Every Woman--by Chaka Khan 4. One of These Nights--by the Eagles 5. Can't Get Enough of Your Love--by Barry White 6. Dreams--by Van Halen 7. Holiday-- by Madonna 8. My Cheri Amour-- by Stevie Wonder 9. Superstar--by the Carpenters 10. Can't You See--by Marshall Tucker Band. These are songs that I unabashedly wail out in my car and the shower, too. No one will every mistake my voice for Whitney or even Cher, but who the hell cares. It's fun to dream and I c0nsider it my right and privilege. As probably evidenced, all of my choices can be traced to love lost, lusted after, enjoyed, dreamt of, been empowered by, and reveled in. Specific songs mark very specific times and people--okay, men. What can I say. I am a slave to the feeling. Having a song relative to those times can bring back a flood of feelings--good and bad. Luckily time seems to somehow "rosey up" the bad times. Jogging my memories for history or say checkbook balances--are something I can NEVER remember. Maybe I would have done better in accounting and history if it just could have been set to maybe, a Grand Funk Railroad riff. But alas, it's true, relationships and love are what it's all about--past and present. And I have to acknowledge Travelin' Man with the Beautiful Loser segue. Ahhhhh. Forgive me Prince, Frank, Englebert, Johnny and Dwight, I love you all too. Please, dear readers, do me a favor and think on this. Let me know at least your top five, and what motivates your preferences. If it makes you dance, cry, sing, etc., tell me about it. Looking forward to your responses. P.S. "Swingtown" debuts tonight and I will be DVR'n the series for some serious strolls down memory lane!! And the groovy 70's tunes. More P.S Beat the Sox, Tigers!!! Yay on the new Pistons head coach, Micheal Curry. (what a hottie!) Welcome to Detroit. Help us bring home the championship!. Whoo hoo! One more P.S. Thanks to my sister, Lisa for giving me the Harley Davidson tank top in my pic. She got it while visiting Dubai and I was the envy of bikers while in the Keys! xo

We will, we will ROCK you....

LET'S GO RED WINGS!! Can you even stand it? After having our hearts broken by our Pistons, The Wings have came thru again. They simply, coolly and calmly, get 'er done. Our team has so much heart and ethics that they are the perfect representative of our blue collar gritty city. Detroit love abounds today. We are national news FINALLY for a good thing. Any other day we are the most crime ridden, fat, non-graduating, out of work, murder capital, etc. etc. But today, we even got kudos from Regis. I remember 2 championships ago, we were attending a family wedding when at game time, a big screen telly was wheeled out and shots were slammed around. When they won the final series that night, it was met with as much hoopla as the original reason we were there. Of course!! It's Red Wing hockey!! In 2002, I was at the game and had such goods seats, that my face is in the official team picture. I will never forget the moment, with Scotty skating out on the ice, and the "D" party that then ensued. Last night, watching the game at home with friends, I never got that nervous. My girlfriend and I drank wine and caught up only occasionally glancing at the game in progress. I just KNEW that they would do it. Growing up in northern Michigan gave me quite an early appreciation of the game. We all ice skated about as soon as we could walk and even had a rink in our back yard. My uncle Dan would water that thing till it was smooth as--well ice. We had floodlights positioned around and would play and skate till well after dark. Gotta mention that one year our septic field froze, thus forcing us to the public rink. In high school, we had a class A championship team. The Alpena Wildcats rocked! And like Detroit, we gave all love and support. I spent about a million hours freezing my cookies off over at that unheated rink. Didn't help that I dated 3 or so different hockey players. Always attracted to the jock type, I loyally did my part. Inspiring from the sidelines was the least I could do--tragic and loyal and FREEZING!!! So okay , 'nuff of sports involving ice. It's finally summer, the Wings have delivered Lord Stanley and the only ice I am participating in is the chunks in my cocktails. I must say, it will be nice to have a night off from watching sports, or even just one as sometimes all 3 teams were playing. Tonight debuts the new series, "Swingtown" which promises a flashback of July 1976! I loved everything about that time and have the DVR set to record the whole series for a serious stroll down memory lane. Maybe it will fill in some of those events I seemed to have somehow forgotten. But, I digress. Congrats Detroit Red Wings!!! xo

Mustang Sally--er, Jodi

Driving home today from an appointment in Detroit at 5:00 p.m., on 94 with the snottiest conditions ever, once again forces me to reckon with the fact, once again, that I INSIST on driving a Mustang during winter in Michigan. I know, rear wheel drive, wide slick tires and a uselessly big engine--not to mention a top more suited to down than up, is a MOST ludicrous decision. Not to mention life threatening, with all the fishtailing and such. BUT. In the days ending with 70 degrees plus, its a whole 'nother story. The car in question--a.k.a. Black Betty, is one fine ride! With gleaming black paint, the top down and those hot, racy wheels it is its own piece of heaven. Sometimes even giving bored, myopic truckers a vague reason to blow that air horn thing. I can easily merge onto freeways with acceleration that just means POWER! And safety!! With the wind in my hair and some designer shades, (okay-so they are knock offs) I can't drive 55! Just ask the not so understanding St. Clair Shores cop who recently, and heartlessly collected a cool $225.00 from a slight speed limit misunderstanding. Some people have no sense of adventure or romance in their souls. Its one of the few ways I know that an old Michigan broad can feel like a young, California chickie. And I had 8 whole miles going 25mph. to dream of it!! Great idea #364. How about if Ford Motor Co. could lease me Black Betty for 6 months of the year and then swap her out for, say a Black Bart, a big ass Expie for the other 6? Do I have to think of EVERYTHING! Bam a lam. xoxo

I can't tell you why....

Did anyone know that May is Mental Health Awareness Month? Yep. May 01-30 to be precise. Surely we all are aware that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, with it's total barrage of media attention and Pink ribbons everywhere. The celebrity support is stronger than even the powers behind the Aids Awareness. But, mental health, probably with all the stigma attached, seems to be lost in the shuffle, shrouded by fear and misunderstanding. It is thought that 1 in 4 adults are effected in some way. I think it would be impossible for anyone to not know someone or even themselves that are suffering. This statistic is based on adults and does not include the incredible number of children with autism and other disorders and disease. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from our useless wars have left millions of veterans struggling. But what is being done, if so many of us are unaware? Growing up, mental health problems have plagued my family and friends from depression to eating disorders. I had an uncle who was simply locked up in the Traverse City "Mental Hospital", with the key thrown away. There was then and still, 40 years later, not enough awareness and funding. Just trying to find a therapist now is nearly impossible because the case overload has them booked for weeks in advance. Mental illness is more rampant than ever, due to social and economical pressures. Money and insurance--or lack of it is appalling. Even the very best of insurance covers only half of most treatments. The thing that always confounds me that if you do not care for yourself thru basic ways--such as diet and exercise--and have resulting problems, most likely these issues are generally covered 100% minus co pays, etc. You have to be suicidal to be admitted into basic mental health programs- with not much help in between. Anorexia is both scary and usually fatal. Again-crummy insurance coverage. Obviously, I could go on and on. Exact research numbers are hard to obtain. In the book, "Strange Son" by Portia Iverson, I read figures from 1995 that showed that Autism was getting around 5 million a year for research, Alzheimer's--60 million a year, Breast Cancer--600 million, and Aids--900 million a year. I was unable to even find even a spongy number for Bipolar Disorder. One more startling fact, and I will stop my rant. Over 15% of the burden of disease in established market economies-- such as the U.S.- is due to mental illness and suicide. This is more than the disease burden caused by ALL Cancers. Now don't get me wrong--ALL diseases and their research is very important to me. ALL is am asking, is that you reconsider maybe what your "cause" may be and try to be aware of this awful problem. I will be back with a regular and normal, fluffy post soon. Just had to get this in before the end of the week!!! x0 P.S. Go Wings--you are our last hope!!

I'm as free as a bird.....

A past beau gave me a Harley Owners Group jacket as a parting gift for the demise of our relationship. It symbolized freedom and was his way of saying that it was time for me to fly. It's the requisite black leather and wool affair with the logo proudly displayed. Okay with me, we were gonna wrap things up anyways and I've worn the hell out of the jacket . Makes me feel reckless and exotic and, okay, free. Harley dudes feel some kinship with me and always want to know what bike I ride. I have to then explain that I am, in fact, a wannabee, and the jacket was a gift given to symbolize my freedom. This is always met with support given that the lifestyle and attitude are what's really the important thing. Growing up near a gorgeous beach and state park campground gave me an early vision into this lifestyle. Once a year, the "bikers" came to the beach and set up camp for a long weekend. This was met with much trepidation from my parents, even then realizing my curiosity. We were warned to stay away from the beach during that time as surely drugs and debauchery were the main purpose of their visit. They will rape you and get you hooked on drugs. (Reefer Madness--hard at work!) As you can well imagine, you could not KEEP me away. Like a moth to a flame I was drawn in, and totally enthralled by all of it. I sewed myself a little halter top and wore it under a sweatshirt as I fearlessly strutted down to the beach, only to strip down once I got there. Copious amounts of Sun In made my hair the proper color with a sorta straw like texture--again more sneaking. It was imperative that I look like the girls hanging out by those beautiful bikes, a feat not easily accomplished by a naive little 14 year old. If only I could pull off the black eyeliner without getting caught. You know me--forever in search of anything "glamorous." I was totally unafraid and starved for that attention--and knowledge. I would have given anything for some leather chaps or maybe even a vest to appear more in the style. Smoking ciggies and drinking beer with dangerous looking guys seemed so romantic, not to mention the idea of hitting the highway for wherever the road takes you. As a small town girl dying to get out, this was the shit. I imagined that ANYPLACE had to be more exciting than this. With the smell of campfire and pot and the sounds of Lynyrd Skynrd and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, I sidled up to the party. Somebody would invariably ask if I was "from here?" Yes, was the answer but I assured them that I was leaving just as soon as I could. Why? Where the hell do you want to go? They would laugh and try to tell me that THIS place was it. Paradise. And they looked forward all year to coming back here. At the time I thought they had to be kidding. This was it? Hmm.mm.mm. At the end of their vay cay, as I watched everyone fire up those bad boy bikes and roll out of town, I imagined myself with that same freedom someday. Years later with lots of "notches in my lipstick case", it finally occurs to me. Paradise is wherever you are as long as you feel free. xo

I ain't got time for the flip flop kind....

By request, props Marty dear, I have to let y'all in on my fabulous and locally famous, shoe collection. And no Mart, you cannot steal the green and black patents! Yes, it is a fetish-- it's mine and I own it. Hey, for the most part, ya gotta wear 'em every day anyways, right? I cannot resist and am rendered totally powerless to their allure. Just the sight of 'em makes me weak in the knees, while raising my heart rate to fat burning mode! Zeroing in on the perfection warrants a sharp inhale and pursed lips. Your comin' home with me, Baby, I've been known to coo. Or as Carrie on Sex and the City would say, "Hello, lover." And can we talk about the smell of good leather? Woozy. Oh, and the feel of it too. Slippin' into 'em and I can envision the total outfit and occasion where wearing them would be appropriate. As transporting as chocolate and sex, I tell ya! I've got boots in Italian leather, long and short, chunky heeled to spike. Cowboy boots in 4 colors. Pink mucklucks. Hell, the only reason I look forward to fall and winter is the whole chocolate suede of it all. The long, cold season simply warrants a varied selection, as long as they are warm and CUTE. But mostly just cute. Closed toe pumps with patent and bows can warm my heart as well as a hot, buttered rum by the fireplace. Sometimes I have said cocktail with JUST my sexay shoes by the fireplace--a little situation that warms someones elses heart! Hey, I do what I can. And with these long Michigan winters, it's imperative that the selection be just massive.. Ahhh, but then comes the spring, (eventually). Who Hoo for pedicure time! Mr. Lee keeps the tootsies fit for viewing. Little peep toe wedgies and pink jeweled heels, polka dots with rattan soles, maybe some marabou trim. Patent leather and leopard print. Thong styles and strappy types. All with giant heels. Hey, I am only 5'3", and I need all the help I can scare up. Which brings up the point that shoes are not nearly so fickle in the size department as say, a pair of jeans. I've never been brought even close to tears(only happy little ones) by trying on a pair of Franco's. Shoes stay faithfully the same size give or take a little for a good bloat here and there. So here's a picture of my say 60 favorites so as to give you a visual aid. Don't offer therapy--I don't want it and it won't work. Unless you want to get a pedi and hit a DSW!!! xoxo

Somewhere over the rainbow....

I think of him on spring days with warm rains--mushroom growing weather. My Grampa loved those days. With a small pail in hand, He would head to his favorite spot and ferret out morels. As kids, we were free to and encouraged to join him at any time. We learned the technique of bending to pick and peering around for more. We may have been gone for hours and walked miles, but it never ceased to be fun under Grampa's patient tutelage. Afterwards, if we begged enough, we might be treated to a coke and chips while he had a cold "shell" at the local watering hole. Everyone knew and loved my Grampa. He grew up sadly, a poor and abused orphan that ran away from foster homes till he was old enough to support himself. The lore is that his Grandma was a Native American that married a French man. With his snowy white hair, hooked kind of nose, and bronze tanned skin--he certainly looked the part. He kept his whiskey bottle in the basement and was known to indulge a couple of times a day. He referred to Grandma affectionately as "the war department", even though they were married nearly 60 years. I remember being all trussed up (yes, like the Christmas goose) and ready to go out and wow 'em, when Grampa would comment, "what do you call a get up like that?" Or "did you mean for your hair to look like that?" "Looks like you been runnin' in the wind!" One time I was out for a run when Gramps pulled up next to me to ask if I needed a ride somewhere. When I puffed out that I was running to drop a few pounds, He asked me to let him know where so He wouldn't hit it with his car. Always the comic, that one. He was an avid Tiger fan and went to Tiger Stadium for most home games when he was living in Detroit. Able to quote stats and such at any time, He never missed a televised game. We always kept him in current yearbooks, and he pored over them. Grampa was healthy till he had a massive stroke and even then he religiously did the prescribed exercises till he could walk, talk and had most use of his arm. Grampa cooked all meals in the same cast iron skillet. Cholesterol was a foolish notion. He would fry a half a pound of bacon for breakfast along with 3 eggs or so. Then saving the bacon grease, he would use it to cook up a good greasy burger for lunch with a side skillet of fried onions. I will never smell the smell of fried onions without thinking of him. Once a month, during my "woman time", my Grandpa would have me over for lunch. A big helping of his famous liver and onions would give me the shot of iron I needed, not to mention nearly clogging my last artery. He would start getting things ready around 9:45 a.m. and would anxiously wait for my arrival. Gramps loved the old home remedies. A poultice was advised for most maladies. And regular kerosene would work if we were ever cursed with lice. Many times upon arriving home, I would find cabbage, tomatoes, zucchini , corn and potatoes-- vegetables from his well tended garden. His baseball prowess was well known locally for both his playing and coaching abilities. He could be found in the stands for cheering and advising-even on those long, boring t-ball games, because nothing was more important than baseball and grand kids. He taught us all to play cribbage and would even sit through long, riveting games of war. He could be counted on to ferry children to and from preschool or kindergarten. My colicky son was lovingly threatened to be "sent back to the Indians." "Put him on some old squaws back--that'll fix him!" Grandpa was a reverent man and never missed Mass. As a God fearing man, He was not afraid to die. On his deathbed, He asked St. Paul to "please call this old man up. I've done it all and twice if I liked it." Of course, I had to ask how He was so assured He was going in the direction of the sky. His faith had made him ready to see his Lord's face--a sentiment I am sure was mutual. So Gramps, whether you are mushroom hunting, enjoying a shell, or playing cards--I know that heaven is more fun with you there. See ya when I see ya. xoxo