Fat for the Holidays

Trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle presents yet another reason for dreading the inevitable holiday onslaught.

Generally I opt for enjoying each holiday as much as possible, which means eating more calories than usual while indulging in some of my seasonal favorites: turkey breast, iced cinnamon rolls, cheesecake, homemade cookies, and bottomless boxes of chocolates. But that's a struggle when you're literally tracking every consumed and burned calorie (as I am - and have been - since losing 13 pounds from July to October) and trying to maintain a balance, if not a deficit, between the two. 

And it's not just one or two days. On Thanksgiving Day, if I celebrate in style, I'll stuff myself with turkey and trimmings and dessert twice (lunch and dinner), then take leftovers home (this year, rolls, baked potatoes, and nearly an entire pie) and continue overeating for the next few days, resulting this year in a three-pound weight gain for the week.

Christmas is worse. It starts weeks in advance with workplace potlucks. tins of cookies and fudge, and endless assorted chocolates from well-intentioned diet assassins. Sweet treats are the perfect gift for everyone, including the diabetics of the world, the maxim goes, because everyone loves chocolate! And God forbid you should ever politely decline any of it. That's when the guilt-trippers and force-feeders band together in ruthless tag teams to dropkick any lingering willpower out of your system, replacing it with excessive calories and a sugar coma. Their usual mantras: "It's just one day" (No, it isn't...), "Is that all you're eating?," "You have to try everything," "Just have one" (If I could, there wouldn't be an issue), "A little chocolate won't hurt you," and "So what if you gain a pound?"

There's no reasoning with food-stuffers, especially when one is your mom, who carefully monitors each item on every plate and picks a fight if you don't overeat to the point of discomfort. And if you're a pacifist people-pleaser like me, whose greatest holiday wish is for everyone to get along...you do.

As a result, by the time Christmas Eve rolls around, so do you. Your pants are snug, if they fit at all, your body is fleshier, and the scale is steadily climbing despite your daily workouts. It's a frustrating pattern that repeats itself every year, starting with Halloween and ending (hopefully, if you haven't entirely given up on a healthy lifestyle) after New Year's. After the Christmas calorie overload, I inevitably leave my parents' house with several pounds of chocolate (despite firmly requesting no chocolate gifts) that I parcel out over the following weeks, simultaneously loving and hating every luscious bite.

That's the truth of it. I've developed a love-hate relationship with the holidays. I love the family time and giving and receiving gifts, but I hate the way they sabotage my diet and widen my waist. What it ultimately comes down to, though, is that it's my choice, I don't always choose well, and there are unpleasant consequences for not making good choices. It's an ongoing problem that I've yet to solve.  

Maybe I just need to accept that I'll always wage a food fight during the holidays and have to hit the reset button after New Year's (every year). In a perfect fantasy world, I could regularly eat to excess, exercise lightly a few times a week, and still look and feel my best while comfortably wearing my favorite jeans. Unfortunately that idyll ended in my early twenties. As much as I'd love to live a healthy life on autopilot without ever veering off course, it takes more effort and willpower than I can sometimes muster. If i overindulge, I know I'll need to work harder and longer in the gym and lower my calorie intake before and (for weeks) after holiday meals. (As Tori Amos sang, "Why does there gotta be a sacrifice?") 

What I eat is my choice, of course, but there's no question my defenses are further weakened by food fiends, well-intentioned or otherwise.

So, in closing, a few friendly reminders for the holiday force-feeders:

• Not everyone wants, needs, or should have chocolate.
• No one, not even a PMS-stricken woman, needs chocolate.
• There's nothing wrong with gifting chocolate or other baked goodies...unless you know someone is diabetic and/or actively trying to lose or maintain weight, especially if they have explicitly asked you not to give them sugary treats.
• Don't police other people's plates and bodies. If someone wants to overeat, it's their choice. If someone wants to stay on their diet, it's none of your business. Let them live (and eat...or not eat).
• A polite decline of treats is just that, not an opening for a judgment or backhanded compliment about someone's weight or size. No means no!

Soul Drifter

If I couldn't see the Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac live, the next best thing was seeing its creative genius, wild vocalist, and criminally-underrated guitarist Lindsey Buckingham. I had seen him perform brilliantly at an outdoor show in Raleigh in June 2017 with FM bandmate Christine McVie and, at that time, considered it a warm-up to seeing the full band at my next opportunity. 

When his solo tour dates were announced in August, following months of typical FM drama, including a well-publicized contentious breakup, incendiary social-media posts, and endless fan message-board brawls, my friend Michelle and I immediately snatched up presale tickets for our nearest venue before the good seats were quickly gone. The timing was right. Most FM fans remained in a frenzy either for or against the newly formed FM and had the luxury of choosing to see the new FM in an arena or Lindsey solo in a small theater (or, for the unfazed, easygoing fan, both) since both were concurrently touring the U.S. this fall.

For me, it was an easy choice, one made when the band split in April (On With the Show). FM wasn't FM without Lindsey, so, as a loyal member of Team Lindsey, I was going his way. (And the value was in his favor: $85 for my eighth-row seat versus $325 for a comparable seat to see the new FM at my local arena.) For three months after purchasing my ticket, I was stoked. Until I saw the weather forecast: lake-effect snow from the day of the show through the following evening. (Proving that you can't even make snow-free plans for November when you live in N.Y. Sigh.)

The snowfall started the morning of the show, changing my excitement to untempered anxiety, and ramped up when I left work. Fortunately, Michelle was fine with driving nearly an hour through potential snow showers. (I, in contrast, was nearly hyperventilating driving the five snowy miles to our designated dinner spot.) She was my hero, calming my fears, restoring my preshow enthusiasm, and expertly guiding us to the theater without needing GPS assistance. (Thankfully the snow switched to rain as we traveled unimpeded north down the highway.) We arrived at 7:30 p.m., parked, and joined the throngs walking into the theater for the sold-out 8:00 p.m. performance.

Then, promptly at 8:02 p.m., the opener, Nigerian singer-songwriter J.S. Ondara took the stage and played and sang several acoustic self-described "sad songs" (which I'll likely revisit on YouTube) with a clear, expressive voice. By 9:00 p.m. Lindsey casually walked out with his bandmates, strapped on one of several guitars, alternated for nearly every song of his nearly two-hour setlist, and dove into "Don't Look Down" without fanfare or formal announcement but to hearty applause. They were no showy displays, costume changes (staying in a standard black T-shirt, sweat-stained by the end of the show), or special lighting effects. The music, highlighted by phenomenal finger-picking and passionate vocal grunts and wails, was the star.

Lindsey live / The Buffalo News

The rest of the set included solo gems "Trouble," "Go Insane," "Turn it On," the infectious "Holiday Road," "Slow Dancing," "Soul Drifter," "Down on Rodeo," and an emotional "Shut Us Down" (dedicated to former bandmate-and former girlfriend-Stevie Nicks at one tour stop) before he played solo (literally, without his backing band) FM hits "Never Going Back Again," "Big Love," "Tusk" (which nearly incited a conga line), "I'm So Afraid," and his signature song "Go Your Own Way," all of which sounded fresh and were received rapturously despite being played the same way since The Dance. Rather than ending on that energetic note, as I'd expected, he returned for three low-key encore selections, fittingly closing with the somber "Treason" ( promising that "At the end of the season / We will rise from this treason").

Through it all, Buckingham seemed moved by the audience's heartfelt ovations. Many of his songs' lyrics seemed prescient (particularly "Soul Drifter," "Shut Us Down," and "Treason") and were delivered with new meaning in the aftermath of his shocking FM dismissal. When he spoke, his tone was upbeat and his message was centered around moving forward after "a surprising year" (to say the least) like the soul drifter he is, and he repeatedly expressed gratitude to the fans for being witness to the current and future stages of his career.

For me, personally, despite having to abandon my dream of seeing the real Fleetwood Mac in concert, I wasn't disappointed. I've heard it said that FM fans went to shows to see Stevie and left talking about Lindsey. After seeing him solo, I get it. I didn't miss Stevie and co. for a moment during his performance. His supporting musicians more than capably backed him and added momentum to his underappreciated solo work. In the end, it was worth driving home in a treacherous snowstorm, and I was grateful for one artist's rich, untarnishable legacy of music, the promise of a liberated journeyman's future offerings, and the opportunity to serve as witness to both.

From Away to Toronto

As I discovered last weekend, October was the ideal time for an adventure. I hadn't really gone anywhere (except work) or done anything exciting (pretty much just work) since my Florida vacation and a pair of day trips in June, and I hadn't seen much of anything (except my apartment and office), so, over three months later, I was ready for a change of scenery.

The trip to Toronto was, like most of my adventures, brief but exciting. I woke up way too early (4:30 AM), with plenty of time to prepare, drove 30 minutes, parked my car, and boarded a bus, joining nearly 100 fellow travelers for a three-hour drive into downtown Toronto, thankful that I wasn't behind the wheel because the road was barely visible through an onslaught of rain. I was happy to relax with a book while occasionally glancing up to check the road signs and gauge the distance traveled.

After a single pit stop, we arrived at the Canadian border. The driver parked, we trooped inside, and, one by one, approached the counter with our passports and enhanced licenses, assuring the border agents that we were not transporting firearms. It was a quick, orderly process, but we had to wait inside while the bus was thoroughly inspected, inside and out, front to back, a process that took several minutes to complete. We stayed on schedule, though, so the tour operator must have accounted for the required delays.

Our first stop in Canada, shortly before noon, was the Eaton Centre, a giant downtown mall filled with chain stores and, most importantly to us, an impressive food court. Being the overly prepared nerd that I am (I did, after all, barrel through the Happiest Place on Earth with a detailed two-day itinerary, lest I miss a single attraction or waste a minute during my stay), I had browsed the mall's website prior to arrival and already chosen my meal - a quinoa salad and cortado (a double-shot espresso with steamed milk) - at Aroma Espresso Bar, which turned out to be the first stop off the escalator after I made a beeline off the bus, through the upper floors, and down to the ground floor, maximizing my limited time (always the downside of a guided tour). 

Thanks to my planning, I had ample time to eat, people watch, and then browse several stores before I briefly panicked, wondering if I, with my lousy sense of direction, could find my way out to the designated meeting place to reboard the bus. Fortunately, I did (in fact, I went out early and waited for the bus, preferring waiting to risking losing my ride).

When I returned to the bus, I unwittingly sat on a wet seat, courtesy of a leaking water bottle in my canvas bag, resulting in an embarrassing and uncomfortable wet stain on the back of my light-gray pants. I could only hope that no one would comment (thankfully no one, if they noticed, said a word). But on the plus side, the tour host handed out our tickets for our marquee event, a sold-out matinee performance of Come From Away, the wildly popular Canadian musical, at the Royal Alexandra Theatre. A few minutes later, we arrived and took our seats at the back of the orchestra section.

The show, which focuses on the plight of airline passengers stranded in Gander, Newfoundland, in the chaotic days after 9/11, and the resulting inconvenience to, and extraordinary hospitality of, the townspeople, started promptly at 2 PM and zipped along entertainingly for the next 100 minutes. I laughed a few times - the dialogue and scenes are frequently humorous - and choked up at others, and I knew the infectious songs, especially the opening and reprising number "Welcome to the Rock" would still be running through my mind days later. At the end of the show, I jumped out of my seat, releasing a sniffle-snort of emotion while joining the rest of the audience in a raucous standing ovation. (A woman behind me lost her brooch and my water bottle rolled under my seat in the tumult. I crawled under the seat to retrieve both.)

Back on the bus, bound for the border, one of my fellow passengers relayed that she had been seated next to a Gander resident (of all people) who confirmed that everything depicted on stage was true. "The plane people" have, in fact, stayed in touch with "the islanders," returning to visit and contributing financially to the town. If taking a poll, I think the driver would have found that most, if not all of us, wanted to continue on to Gander to experience it for ourselves, but, alas, we returned home, and the rest of the trip was anticlimactic. The high point was a dinner stop at a fast-food court. Since I hadn't planned ahead (not knowing where we'd eat), I wandered in circles (as I'm prone to doing) before settling on a safe and boring bet, a grilled chicken sub.

The final stop before returning to my car was our U.S. border crossing. This was a larger checkpoint with several stations, where I was asked if I was a U.S. citizen and if I had purchased anything in Canada. (Aside from the food I'd eaten, I hadn't.) We piled back onto the bus, where we drove past a breathtaking view of Niagara Falls. By the time I returned to my car, it was dark, my energy was spent, and I was looking forward to a shower, clean (dry) clothes, and a Dateline marathon in my pajamas, a typical night after an atypical whirlwind day.

Summer in Review

Summer 2018 was not the most exciting or adventurous of my life, but it was unquestionably one of the most relaxing. And relaxation, I’ve learned, is underrated and invaluable in its own right.

So what did I do? I wrote. I reserved at least an hour on each day off-and every weekend-to write something, usually a dispatch-from-my-life essay, one of which I might actually share with others (one of which I definitely won’t). I learned that there’s value in writing for myself, without seeking profit or clicks; in fact, that might be the purest form of creation there is. Regardless, it was cathartic. Writing, for me, is always the cheapest and most readily available form of therapy around.

I re-explored some of my favorite places, first discovered three years ago, the last summer during which I didn’t grind at a second job for travel cash. I wandered through two state parks with no set agenda, rediscovering my favorite parts of each (the little library in the woods at one, the waterfalls at another), savoring my solitude even among crowds of people. I stopped attending church years ago, but I always feel close to God when I’m alone in nature. (Favoring, like Emerson, a church in the woods.)

I spent four relaxing days with my family in Florida, my time equally spent lounging on the couch with a book and lounging on a float in the pool. On the few occasions that I ventured beyond the backyard, I indulged in authentic Mexican cuisine (and a massive margarita) and treated my sister and nephew to a pontoon canal tour that wasn’t as scenic as I’d hoped (we saw a variety of birds but no alligators) but worth the experience of cruising on a beautiful lake on a beautiful day, and I made a fool of myself–and had a blast–futilely trying to hit a little white ball at Topgolf.

 

I spent my last afternoon in Florida sprawled on a pool float and, despite slathering myself in sunscreen, acquired a painful sunburn on my thighs that made the following day’s travel home uncomfortable. (Thankfully I had ample time between flights because I wasn’t operating at my usual speed.) A strange thing happened on my flight home. I was settling into my aisle seat (30C) when a middle-aged gentleman approached and asked if I had 30C. He did too. My first thought was that I’d mistakenly sat in 29 or 31, or maybe I was on the wrong flight, or maybe he was. My heart palpitated as he notified the flight attendant, who took my boarding pass and spent several minutes conferring with my fellow seatholder while I panicked, fearing that I’d be kicked off an overbooked flight. Finally, the attendant told him he would find him another seat and returned my boarding pass, jokingly saying that I’d “passed the test.” Woo-hoo!

The rest of the summer was uneventful. I read voraciously, I watched many movies, and I obsessively played my favorite dreampop bands–Beach House, Wild Nothing, and Mazzy Star–the best soundtrack for a lazy, hot and sunny summer, the most summery summer I’ve had in many years, almost like the ones of my childhood, the good old days, before adult responsibilities (i.e. work) forced me to grow up.

Up All Night

I kicked off summer 2018 by flashing back to 1988 with pop music icon Taylor Dayne.

Last fall, I was stunned to see an advertisement in a local newspaper for an upcoming live performance by Taylor, one of the original hot ladies of the eighties, a childhood favorite. Taylor had inexplicably fallen off the music charts after releasing an album with her last (to date) U.S. hit single in 1993, and unlike some of her notable contemporaries, Madonna, Mariah Carey, Paula Abdul, and Janet Jackson, she had completely dropped off my radar.

Wikipedia

So I never expected to see this music goddess in concert until I saw that ad and, proving my love, instantly bought a sixth-row center seat (location, for me, being everything at a concert) at a nearby venue for a Saturday evening show in May. Then I waited impatiently through a miserable winter for the much-anticipated evening out.

As the months passed, I resisted the inevitable urge to binge the infectious hits that I'd once owned and played repeatedly on cassette tape (remember those?) during my childhood days, wanting to re-experience them live during the show. In the meantime, I checked her social-media pages and found that she had scheduled several performance dates - starting in spring and stretching through the fall - on a national Tell It to My Heart tour (named after her best-known hit, released 30 years ago). Love, perhaps, had led Taylor back to the music world.

And I was ready for it. On the long-awaited show date, I packed an overnight bag (having thoroughly learned that lesson) and drove an hour to an inexpensive motel in an undesirable part of town, rushing inside, checking in, and bolting the door before I was mugged (or worse). As is often the case with lodging, I got what I paid for: a cheap room reeking of tobacco and smoke (despite its non-smoking label) that made my head ache and made me regret being so incessantly frugal.

I took a quick shower, changed my clothes, ate the picnic dinner I'd packed, popped a caffeine pill (since I'd be out past my usual bedtime), and summoned Uber for a 10-minute ride to the concert venue, arriving at 7:30 for the 8 p.m. show. I attempted to smuggle a water bottle in my purse, but it was confiscated and unceremoniously tossed in the trash by security, so I returned to the lobby to purchase a $3 bottle (not bad as far as show snacks go) from the concession stand. After that hiccup, the rest of the evening was seamless.

Meghan Linsey, a runner-up contestant on The Voice a couple years ago, came on stage with an acoustic guitarist/keyboardist/co-writer guy and warmed up the audience with her bluesy pop songs (a mix of originals and covers) and passionate vocals. I wasn't bored during her set, but, of course, like the rest of the crowd, I couldn't wait to see and hear Taylor.

Finally, at 9 p.m., after a brief intermission, the lovely Miss Taylor Dayne strolled out in a sequined catsuit and rocked it (both the outfit and the stage), starting off with "With Every Beat of My Heart" while the projection screen behind her played vintage video clips, a brave choice for an artist 25 years past her heyday, but truthfully, the 56-year-old version didn't look or sound all that different (maybe a decade or so older) than she did then. Whatever the reasons for her stalled music career, she hasn't lost the soulful voice that took her to the top of the pop charts.

Facebook

Through her set, she belted out all the familiar crowd-pleasers and a few bonuses - "Don't Rush Me," "I'll Wait," "I'll Be Your Shelter," "Nothing Compares 2 You" (a tribute to dearly departed music legends Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, David Bowie, and George Michael, following a lengthy anecdote of her first meeting with Prince), "Born to Sing," "Can't Get Enough of Your Love," "I'll Always Love You," "Simply the Best," "Prove Your Love," "Tell It to My Heart" (which got everyone on their feet) - and ended with a sultry "Love Will Lead You Back."

Through it all, I was entertained by a pair of irresistibly enthusiastic superfans, two middle-aged men, one of whom arrived with two shrink-wrapped classic '80s records, holding up and waving both through every number of her set, clearly having the best time of their lives.

As for me, I restrained myself from doing more than clapping and swaying (precisely the extent of my public performance repertoire), but it was the most purely enjoyable evening I'd had since my last concert - Tori Amos - the previous fall. After the show, I returned to my smelly room and barely slept before I got up, scarfed down something resembling breakfast, and drove home, but after all that excitement, who needed sleep?

Midwinter Adventure (Or, How I Learned to Always Pack an Overnight Bag)

It was yet another godawful winter in snowy western New York. 

Although I knew better than to plan anything in February (or any other month between December and March, for that matter), I went ahead and bought a pit seat for a touring company production of Waitress at Shea's in Buffalo. Not without my usual trepidation, however, and only after weeks of debate while I checked and rechecked ticket availability and cursed Mother Nature's annual wrath. In mid-December, not wanting to risk losing that coveted front-row seat, I decided to buy it and book a hotel for a night or two, if necessary (but, being the cheapskate that I am and will forever be, only if necessary). Worst-case scenario: I could resell it on Ticketmaster if I couldn't safely reach a nearby hotel before or after the show.

So the wintry weeks passed agonizingly slowly (as they do). Christmas Day brought a blizzard that made traveling seven miles to my parents' house difficult and kept me snowed in overnight on the couch, without a change of clothes or a toothbrush, after I failed to leave during a brief sunshiny afternoon interval.

January was typically bleak and treacherous. In addition to the miserable weather, I spent an entire weekend zonked out with flu symptoms - fever, chills, aches, sniffles, lethargy, loss of appetite - before I recovered and rejoined the living. Needless to write, after all that, I really needed something good in my life, and Waitress was it.

The big weekend dawned, I was healthy and excited...and the weather was sketchy. Snow showers fell on and off Friday, but Saturday started off cool (30 degrees) and clear. Sunday's forecast included accumulated snowfall, but I expected to be home by then, so I figured I'd be okay. My plan was to drive to a mall near the theater, browse the shops, park there, and get an Uber ride to the theater and back, cutting out the panic-inducing downtown traffic and parking. My plan should have included an overnight bag and an overnight hotel, but I was uncharacteristically unprepared.

The morning started smoothly. I arrived at the mall around 11 a.m. to light snow flurries, noting an adjacent hotel as I pulled in (for future reference, only if needed, obviously). I was concerned about the weather, as always, but didn't want to overreact. The day's forecast did not include problematic snow, so I went ahead as planned, futilely seeking an affordable pair of work-appropriate black pants for an adult female in several shops before I gave up (there were several pairs appropriate for the club or the gym, but nothing for the office), bought lunch, and summoned Uber for the 2 p.m. performance of Waitress. 

I arrived at 1:45 p.m. and was thrilled to walk to the front of the theater and take my seat directly in front of the glass pie cases, a perfect view with ample leg room. I was instantly scolded by an usher for excitedly snapping a photo of the pie-covered stage curtain with my smartphone, so, as I did at the Tori concert, I put away my phone until intermission to avoid eviction. 

The show itself was feel-good and funny, with a Sara Bareilles-crafted soundtrack that I loved. "Everything Changes," sung by Jenna (SPOILER ALERT) after she has her baby, kicks her brute husband to the curb, and finally gets her life in order, always chokes me up, especially performed live just feet away from my seat. But once the show ended, it was back to reality, and that reality included big, fat snowflakes that pelted my coat and phone while I stood on the sidewalk and attempted to order an Uber. 

I had to cancel the first selected ride because I'd entered the wrong pickup location and was too directionally challenged to find my way there, so it was 5:30 p.m. and daylight was fading by the time my second ride took me slowly back to the mall. I debated all the way there, should I stay at the hotel, or should I try to go? My driver's car windows were ice-covered, the streets were slippery, and visibility was limited, so I decided I'd rather be stuck safely at the hotel than on the side of a snow-covered road. So I booked an overnight stay and returned to the mall for dinner and a few essentials, including a phone charger, and found exactly what I was looking for - the perfect pair of black pants - on sale at Old Navy. Score! (I didn't have a comb or a toothbrush, but, by golly, I had those pants.)

I carefully cleared off and defrosted my car and moved it into a snowbank in the hotel lot. I checked into my room and took a consolatory hot bath while lamenting my lack of toiletries and clean clothes, and de-stressed with a couple episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm on my phone before I dozed off and slept for most of the night.

Both my mood and the weather were brighter in the morning. I sampled the hotel's impressive hot buffet in a large dining room, which I had to myself, and then packed my meager belongings, checked out, and drove home on snow-free roads through light traffic, with full visibility. 

As often happens during a WNY winter, a simple, inexpensive day trip turned into a costly weekend adventure for which I was woefully unprepared. If only I'd trusted my instincts, booked the hotel in advance, and packed what I needed, I would have enjoyed the experience so much more. I gratefully returned home without any further complications, vowing never again to make winter plans...without packing an overnight bag of essentials.

One Night With Tori

I'm not really a concert person, despite my rash of recent concert reports.

Until I experienced the magic of (finally) seeing Stevie Nicks (on my second attempt) live, I'd always opted to watch (and hear) live musical performances from the comfort of my home's TV screen, preferably in my jammies, with an unobstructed view and my own drink and snacks, without an inebriated fellow concertgoer screaming song lyrics in my ear and invading my personal space.

In short, there are only a handful of musical artists that I'll go out of my way to see live. Tori Amos, at whose altar I've bowed since the awkward age of 10, is unquestionably one of them. By some fluke, or unexpected stroke of luck, I scored a reasonably-priced sixth-row center seat at North Carolina's DPAC for last fall's Native Invader tour when they went on sale in July, subsequently adding an affordable round-trip flight and an overnight stay at a hotel near the airport. All my plans easily aligned, giving me something to look forward to between the end of summer and the holidays.

As the tour wound its way through Europe and into North America, I followed its progress courtesy of an online Tori fan board with setlists and show reviews from each venue. It was through this that I discovered that Tori, depending on her availability, conducts free meet-and-greets before or after soundcheck, offering each lined-up devoted fan a precious moment with the goddess, to snap a selfie, share a personal story, get an autograph, or sob on her shoulder. (Her music is just that powerful.) I doubted I'd be able to participate since I was flying in from NY and arriving within hours of the show (and doubted I could squeak out anything more than "thank you" or "I love you"), likely too late to be one of the lucky hundred or so meeters, but I was amazed by her kindness and generosity to fans. (I mean, who else does that?!).

Finally, my turn to see Tori (on stage, at least) arrived on Nov. 11, 2017. My day started early, waking up to my alarm at 4:30 AM and leaving for the airport - earlier than planned - with my bags at 5:15 (probably a personal record) for an 8:00 AM flight to Charlotte, followed by a quickie flight to Raleigh-Durham at 1:00 PM. I'd learned online the day before that Tori had cancelled her planned meet-and-greet because NC unfortunately shared NY's chilly 40-degree weather, which she considered too cold for queued-up fans standing outside the venue for several hours (her fans might have disagreed). 

Not attempting the M&G removed a considerable amount of the hustle from my bustle. I took a courtesy shuttle from the airport, arrived at the hotel at 2:45, and relaxed rather than rushing to the venue. I was too amped to sleep, so I visited the fitness room, showered, dressed for a night on the town, ate an airport wrap, and requested Uber, which arrived (literally) two minutes later and dropped me off at 7:00 PM sharp, giving me sufficient time to pass through security, buy a bottle of water (no sloshing lidless cup!), find my amazing seat, and scour social media for show updates.

The show started promptly (surprisingly) right at 8 with opening act Scars on 45, a three-member indie-folk-pop band with one male and one female vocalist, both on acoustic guitars, and a male keyboardist. They were pleasant - performing catchy radio-friendly songs - but not extraordinary. (And not Tori, but, really, who is?) They thanked Tori's fans for showing them love, and acknowledged that they knew we were "desperate" to see her following their set. (Yes!)

The anticipation - glorious anticipation that I almost didn't want to end - finally eased at 9:15 when Tori emerged to banshee wails and sat down between her Bosendorfer and keyboard (which she plays alternately and occasionally simultaneously). In my ecstasy, I unintentionally broke protocol, attempting to snap a smartphone photo of Tori and being politely (this is NC after all, where security officers apologize for the inconvenience of searching your bag) but firmly asked to cease and desist (which I did...immediately). I popped my phone in my bag and lost myself in the music, as I had since discovering it 25 years earlier, never imagining in all those angst-filled tween and teen years that I'd ever be there live, so close to the stage, as she performed those vulnerable, soul-piercing songs that became the soundtrack of my life.

 

She kicked off with a trippy "iieee" and moved on to "Crucify," "Baker, Baker," "Reindeer King," "Little Amsterdam," covers of "Personal Jesus" (dedicated to her grandmother who, she suggested, "needed Jesus") and "Landslide" (!), and encored with "Cloud Riders," "Cornflake Girl" (arguably her best-known and most popular song), and a ravey "Raspberry Swirl" that had almost everyone dancing. Basically an overview of her entire musical history from beginning to present (though only two from her newest Native Invader album), all packed into one magical 90-minute set (which changes every show based on meet-and-greet fan requests and her mood, apparently; again, who else does that?!) She has more than earned her crazed cult following. She was passionate, theatrical, and enchanting. For me, at least, she gets better with age, each album crafted as a gift to the universe.

There are many days in my life that I can't wait to end, and only a precious few nights that I want to last forever. This was one of them.

Thank you, Tori. I love you.

On With the Show

My all-time favorite band, Fleetwood Mac, is hitting the road this fall and stopping into my hometown arena next March (Lord willing). Although this was my ultimate bucket-list concert experience, I will - sadly, shockingly - not be there.

Like Lindsey Buckingham, I'll be going my own way, unfortunately in the other direction, because without him it's just not Fleetwood Mac (to me). The Rumours-era "five fireflies" line-up that nearly all FM fans loved and wished to see is no more. Buckingham joined the band in 1974 with his then-girlfriend, an unknown singer-songwriter named Stevie Nicks, and became its MVP: a producer, guitarist, vocalist, songwriter, and all-around creative force, bringing his brilliance to the band's best albums and tours. 

In April he was unceremoniously, unjustly (in my opinion) tossed out of the band after years of hard work and loyalty (shelving solo albums, contributing new songs, and postponing solo tours many times along the way) for disputed reasons (allegedly tour scheduling conflicts). The real reason, however, seems to be that his ex Stevie decided she'd rather work with Mike Campbell, sorrowfully freed from his Heartbreakers duties after Tom Petty's death last fall, than Lindsey. Mick Fleetwood, desperate to keep the band's "star" happy, gave in, canning Buckingham, hiring Campbell, and randomly adding another member, Neil Finn of Crowded House, for male vocal duties.

The band's devoted, long-suffering fans were (and remain) justifiably apoplectic. Even for a group of individuals well-known and well-compensated for its personal and professional melodramas (and resultant line-up switcheroos), this latest band breakdown was a gut punch. It wasn't their first breakup, but it's likely their last.

Although some fans had expressed less-than-enthusiastic sentiments about another cash-grabbing, golden-oldies jaunt around the world (announced tentatively last summer for this summer and emphatically described as not "a farewell tour"), others, like me, desperately wanted to see the band live for the first (and/or possibly final) time. 

In November 2016 I watched Stevie perform solo. Last summer I saw Lindsey and Christine McVie live in Raleigh, NC, riding through a tsunami to reach the outdoor venue (courtesy of Uber). I'd hoped both concerts were a warm-up to seeing all five together (not realizing that seeing two-fifths of the band playing FM classics was the closest I'd come), though I knew it might not happen. 

Music legends, such as David Bowie, Prince, Chris Cornell, and Tom Petty, are leaving the earth at untimely intervals, so it wasn't a stretch to imagine the band's 70-something-year-olds not hanging on for another tour. And, as I joked to a coworker (prophetically, it seems now), it would take a minor miracle (plus mucho dinero) to wrangle all five together from their lavish holiday lifestyles and various solo pursuits to continue their turbulent and dysfunctional history (an assortment of breakups and reunions starting in the late 80s and stretching through the 90s and into the millennium).

But the band promised to "never break the chain" and that "the sea that divides us is a temporary one, and the bridge will bring us back together." So even when various members used media interviews to take potshots at each other (Stevie: "There's no one I'd rather tour with than Tom Petty"), you had to believe that the money, if nothing else, would bring them back together, at least one more time. 

As fall turned to winter, I anxiously awaited a tour-date announcement. (My summer plans were uncomfortably in flux...) I combed fan chat boards, hoping for commiseration and, perhaps, inside information. Anyone questioning the delay was harshly reprimanded for impatience. But as the weeks passed, "rumours" of "trouble" persisted. 

Then, in the days before the official breakup announcement, the fan chatter exploded with outlandish stories of a backstage fight (that might or might not have turned physical) at the band's final public event, MusiCares, in January and a subsequent "him or me" ultimatum from Stevie to Mick, with the inevitable result. 

I asked a friend and fellow FM fan if she'd heard the stories.She said she hadn't and seemed shocked. Meanwhile, I felt a bit silly for spreading (what I hoped was false) online gossip. But then, later that afternoon, my coworker sent me a link to the news story. It was real, and I was devastated. 

Maybe I'm ridiculous for feeling outraged and sad. More accepting fans have told grieving fans to get over it. (You can imagine the fan-forum fireworks...) Truthfully, I wish I could, and I envy those who are excited to see the new line-up.The band doesn't owe its fans anything, of course, but going on with the show (rather than reaching an agreement with all five members or, barring that, preserving its remaining integrity and cancelling the tour) and declaring the latest incarnation "a brand-new band" feels like a slap in the face to Buckingham and his fans and a blatant money-grabbing maneuver.

When tickets went on sale a few weeks ago, I couldn't muster the enthusiasm required to pay $500 (or more) to see a FM tribute band. (To avoid further tarnishing the fab-five's legacy, suggested new-band names include "Fauxwood Mac," "Fleetwood Mashup," "Crowded Mac," and "Mick Fleetwood's All-Star Band.") They (and their fans) deserve better. 

If I need a FM fix as they're traversing the country this fall, I'll stay home, reliving their glory days via YouTube, listening to their '70s and '80s albums and rewatching their greatest onstage moment, The Dance.

U2 in Buffalo

I hesitated before buying a ticket to see U2's heavily-promoted and much-lauded Joshua Tree Tour last fall.

Ironically, unlike most of the other concerts I've attended, this one was close enough to home that it didn't require a plane ticket (although I did book an overnight stay at a nearby bed and breakfast). And thank God for that because the ticket itself (any ticket for a decent arena seat) was one of the priciest I've bought. (But in true Jeanie fashion, I go big or stay home.)

So I waited a week or two (but not too long, lest I lose a shot at a good seat) while I debated. U2, back in the '90s, was one of my favorite bands. In the decades since, however, I'd stopped buying CDs and gravitated more toward female singer-songwriters than classic arena rockers. As a result, I was still a fan, but a looser, more casual one than my long-forsaken teenage self. And, also, on a practical level, the show was on a work night, which basically guaranteed that I'd be operating (though not literally) the day after on almost no sleep; tough, but not an outright deal breaker.

But, alas, an entire show devoted to The Joshua Tree, arguably U2's best album, one of the few discs left in my meager music collection, and so close to my hometown was too good to miss. Plus, having Beck as an opening act was a bonus. (And, really, who knew if I'd have another opportunity to see them?) So I gritted my teeth, bought a pricey ticket, and reserved a room at a nearby inn.

The day of the show, the Tuesday after Labor Day, I left early in the morning for a full day of work, with roller bag in trunk, and then hustled straight from there to my reserved bed and breakfast. Unfortunately, I wasn't familiar with the area, 35 miles from home, having driven there only once. I'd hoped to arrive by 5:30 p.m., but I must have taken a wrong turn and had to remap the route, using my phone as a GPS, before I finally arrived, mid-panic, at 5:45.

I begged my B&B hostess, Catherine, for 10 minutes to change out of my work clothes and transfer my essentials into a tiny drawstring bag (all that the arena would allow) as she vacuumed her car and then drove me the short distance to the venue and dropped me off (conveniently saving me an Uber ride) within walking distance at what would be our post-show meeting spot.

I arrived at 6:30, so I had more than enough time to clear security, get something to eat, and find my seat before the show started. Dining options were limited, but I was desperate, so I settled on a huge lukewarm slab of pizza and a lidless cup of water (which I proceeded to slosh all over) for $12, and I was in my seat, ready to rock, at 7 p.m.

Unfortunately, the musicians weren't as prompt. Beck didn't arrive on stage until 7:45, but he was worth the wait. I was expecting namaste Beck, based on his most recent albums, but got rocker Beck, with "Devil's Haircut," "Loser," a funky "Where It's At," a new EDM song, and one from my personal favorite, Morning Phase.

Then it was a long(er) wait for U2. After Beck left the stage, I waded slowly through a crush of people to the ladies' room and considered getting popcorn until my claustrophobia (paired with long, unmoving lines) forced me back to the comparative comfort of my seat.

By the time U2 arrived, at approximately 9:40, the anticipation had built to an explosive level. They kicked off with energetic early cuts, "Sunday Bloody Sunday," "New Year's Day," and "Pride (In the Name of Love)," before launching into the full Joshua Tree album, accompanied by short-film video clips, interspersed with live stage footage (which I needed to actually see Bono, the Edge, etc.).

They returned for a generous encore featuring their biggest crowd pleasers: "A Beautiful Day," "Vertigo," "Elevation," Mysterious Ways," "Ultraviolet" (a tribute to historic influential women), and "One." Perfection.

It was an incredible night that I didn't want to end. The weather was perfect for an outdoor show (and I came prepared - having learned something from Raleigh - in a jacket over a hoodie with jeans and sneakers). I tried not to think about getting up for work in less than six hours (all concerts should be held on Saturday nights, IMHO) and just live in those glorious moments. I needed that night out. I don't think I realized how stressful, exhausting, and unenjoyable my life had been while working two jobs since returning home from June's travel adventures (which seemed so long ago and far away).

When the show ended around 11:30 p.m., I slowly followed the mob outside and received a text from Catherine, who was waiting down the street to pick me up. After a long walk down the street, accompanied by many of my fellow concertgoers, I found Catherine's car and hopped in with her rambunctious daughter and friends. I nearly dozed off in the passenger seat despite their raucous chatter and laughter. But then, back in my cozy, peaceful room, I struggled to wind down, maybe drifting off at 1 a.m. before I woke up (cursing) to my alarm at 5 a.m.

I got up, dressed, packed, collected my to-go breakfast, graciously packaged by my hostess, and GPSed my way to another full workday. Like almost every other adventure before or since, it was over too soon, but deeply beneficial, gratefully cherished, and forever remembered.