Since my absence has reduced Heidi to inquiring after me on my best friend’s blog, I thought it prudent to write a post before too much speculation is sparked as to my whereabouts.

I’m here.  I’ve been here.  At this moment I am propped against my headboard with a warm flaxseed aromatherapy pillow– which was a gift from Sharon–draped across my neck.  I’ve only just a few minutes ago stepped out of the jacuzzi where I sat slumped down in the water so the jets could massage my neck muscles.  In other words, I’ve got a doozy of a tension headache going on.

My last real post was full of excitement about my pending trip to Las Vegas to see Phantom of the Opera.  My life is such a great one that I get flown to big cities for the sole purpose of enjoying live theatre for my birthday.  I am lucky and, believe me, I know it.

The trip was perfect.  My mom and I flew in, dumped our bags in the hotel room and promptly walked to Harrah’s and stuffed our faces at their fabulous buffet.  I have two words for you:  Cream.  Puffs.  I seriously could have eaten those cream puffs until I puked.  I even developed a method for how I best liked to eat them:  I bit about a quarter of the pastry off of the top and then sucked the cream out before popping the rest in my mouth and letting my eyes roll back in my head as the perfectly flaky crust melted in my mouth.

We waddled out of Harrah’s to the Caesar’s Palace Forum for some light shopping before showtime.  My mother admired a tiny pair of high-heeled sandals before noticing they were Jimmy Choo’s.  Holding a pair of Jimmy Choo’s in her hands seemed to be a spiritual moment for her on par with my experience with the cream puffs.  We did remarkably little damage at the Forum shops.  I bought a Brighton ankle bracelet and she bought a picture frame for my nephew who is due to push his way into this world sometime this month.

On our way to the Venetian, where Phantom is performed, we wandered into the mothership:  Sephora.  The lip glosses, blushes and mascaras, oh my!  I fell in love with a lip gloss only to forsake it when I learned it cost $42.00 for a little tube.  I bought a new blusher by Laura Gellar and my mom used Amazing Concealer to touch up my dark circles.  I touched up my mascara and smacked some gloss onto my lips and we were ready to hit the Venetian.

The Phantom of the Opera:  If I told you that I sat with happy tears rolling down my cheeks for parts of the show, would it convey just how much I loved it?  If I told you that I had goosebumps when the overture played, would you understand?  Would you appreciate my wonderment if I told you that I gasped and couldn’t breathe again for a moment when the drapes were pulled away as the opera house was revealed to us in it’s full past splendor?  Oh, my God.  I loved it. I proudly wore a pink and silver sparkly Phantom tee-shirt the next day on my trip home.

On the way back to our hotel, my mother stopped at an outdoor bar and ordered a drink.  Before she’d made up her mind which drink, exactly, she’d like to order, the young bartender began tossing and juggling bottles and cups and ice scoops in the air, stopping only long enough to squirt several different colored juices in a cup.  Mom watched confusedly for a second, certain that she’d not specified a drink, before asking, “What are you making?”  He flippantly answered, “Somthin’ sexy,” and kept up his elaborate choreography.  My mother, who is rarely at a loss for words, simpered, “Oh.  Okay,” just as he plopped a cherry and lime wedge in her cup and offered it to her with a flourish.  And a price tag of $10.00.  It was priceless.

The trip was perfect.  I am glad I finally had an opportunity to write about it.  My birthday present this year will be another trip to another show.  I can’t wait.

I have more to write, more to say.  But my husband has informed me that he is fading fast into the Land of Nod and I must sign off if I wish to spend any time with him before morning.

Adieu.

because Sharon also posted them

Clowning around in Morgantown with Sharon:

Everyone thinks she’s so shy and quiet . . .

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RJBNzkR_qY[/youtube]

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csBs8t22f_4[/youtube]

Rocky Mountain High: The Conclusion

I know I promised to provide details of mine and Sharon’s weekend getaway in a timely manner. And I also know that I have been home for several days without providing any information.In my defense, I got very sick the day I traveled home and was sick the following day as well. And yesterday was, like, the most horrible day evah!Sharon already posted some pictures and captions on her blog and I considered just sending you all over there and saving myself the trouble of writing a post.However, there’s this to consider:When it comes to expressing emotions, I couldn’t possibly be less inhibited. I rarely hide my excitement or my displeasure. I am an open book — most of the time. And Sharon? Sharon couldn’t possibly be more inhibited. She revels in the excitement and happiness of our girls’ weekends. But she keeps it all inside. As such, it is my nature to write a gushy post telling everyone how much I loved the weekend and how glad I am to have such a funny, kind, and sensitive best friend. And Sharon tends to write something abstract about the scenery or a shape she saw in the clouds or about the pair of shoes someone left in a corner of the sidewalk in the village square.

It used to bother me that she was unwilling to wax poetic about our time spent together. It took me awhile to realize that our differences, as much as or more so than our similarities, are what make our friendship so wonderfully close and synergistic.

So, instead of just linking to her slideshow of pictures from the weekend or the drawing she made of the scenery, I think you should have the benefit of hearing about the weekend in both of our unique styles.

The weekend started mid-afternoon on Thursday as I sat near gate B1 in the Albuquerque airport, watching as a silver jetliner pulled up just as I received a text from Sharon worded, “Brace Yourself!” Moments later, she flung herself toward me, we embraced and squealed like schoolgirls, then locked arms and made short work of the airport with our long, enthusiastic strides.Our next stop was the car rental counter where a very nice man named Barnard waited on us. I quipped (apparently quite loudly), “Don’t give us a lame car, Barnard. We have a reputation to uphold.” There was a burst of surprised laughter not only from Sharon, but from the people in line behind us and the customers at the counter beside us. I blushed a little and vowed to be a little less, um, spirited? Spunky? Vivacious? Stoopid?I’d love to give you a detailed account of the weekend from that point on. To be honest, though, it just flew by and, before we knew it, we were retracing our route back to the airport toward the gate (a different one this time, A8) where we embraced tearfully, blew a kiss, and she soared through the clouds to her side of the country while I waited for the plane that would take me back to mine.I guess, if I had to whittle the weekend down into a few mental images, I would remember sexy cab drivers from Paraguay, a crowded Mexican restaurant, and waking up at 2 AM to continue a conversation as though we’d never fallen asleep.I would remember stained glass windows, clear baptismal pools, and watching Harry Potter with our bare feet propped up on the seats in front of us. I’d remember french braids and afternoon naps and the dinner conversation that seemed so easy despite being quite serious and deep.

I would remember walking through the prayer garden while she took pictures of flowers and I splashed my feet in the water. I’d remember tapping my feet to the live music in the former ghost town of Madrid only moments after walking in to the restaurant from the dusty street. I’d remember the view from the scenic byway and how much nicer it was to see it freshly through the eyes of one who’d never known the magical beauty of a desert landscape.

Oh, and I’d remember margaritas. Lots and lots of margaritas.

Rocky Mountain High

I’m finding it hard to concentrate on any of my tasks today. It’s not my fault, though. Honest. My body is here in the hot, dry West Texas heat but my mind is already in the cool (operative word being “cool”) mountain air.

Let me explain.

Tomorrow, Sharon and I will board separate planes 1500 miles apart but will reach a common destination by mid-afternoon. Then we will proceed to spend our hard-earned dollars dining at a Mexican restaurant that serves over 100 different types of margaritas, watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and buying tchotchkes in little artist communities located in the middle of nowhere.

Other than that, we plan on doing a whole lot of nuthin’. Except talking. Somehow, after all the time we’ve spent writing e-mails and letters, chatting online, and talking on the phone, we still never stop talking. As a matter of fact, we usually both suffer from extreme sleep deprivation after our weekends together. Sleep? Who can sleep when we have only a couple of days to talk and giggle and watch movies that we’ve seen so many times that we can say all of the lines along with the actors?

But you get the gist, right? Best friends, cool mountain air, margaritas and lots of fun.It’s alright to be jealous of me. I understand.

I’ll be back in a few days with photographic evidence mementos of our crimes weekend.

Chicago

The plane to Chicago (via Houston) left at 6:25 Friday morning. Brenda and I got to the airport at about 6:15. Neither of us are morning people.

As soon as we got to Chicago, we headed to the Art Institute. I’d never been and would like to go back and spend more time. As it was, Brenda eyed me as we entered the Institute, “I hope you’re not one of those who likes to stand and stare at pictures for hours. Because I think that’s creepy.” Lucky for her, I’m not. But there were a few pieces I would’ve liked to spend more time with.

We ate dinner that night at 312 Chicago. I ordered a steak dish with rosemary potatoes and Brenda ordered a rabbit something or other. Our entrees were good but the dessert was fabulous. We ordered a pistachio torte and a quince and cherry crisp with two dessert wines. We promptly sat the desserts and both glasses of wine in the middle of the table and proceeded to share. We decided that I liked her dessert and she liked my dessert best.

As a late birthday gift to me, Brenda paid for us to go see Wicked. We sat in the theatre admiring the architecture prior to the show. At the first notes of music from the orchestra and the first flurry of activity on the stage, I sat back and murmured, “Oh, Brenda. If I’d had a little more talent, this is what I would have done with my life.” She gestured confusedly at the stage, “What? This?” “Oh, yes,” was my breathless reply.

To say Wicked was an amazing show would be an understatement. I was mesmerized by the talent on the stage. When Elphaba and Glinda sang “Defying Gravity” and Elphaba rose into the air with her cape rippling about her in the wind, I felt goosebumps rise on my skin. When they sang “For Good” as each clutched the other, I wept.

(Glinda) I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

(Elphaba) It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you
You’ll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend…

Wicked was my favorite part of Chicago and came in second only to the Barbra Streisand concert so far as my trip was concerned. It made me want to go back ten or fifteen years and work harder, try harder, sing better . . . anything to keep me on the course I was on. I loved music. It made me happy. I was never as good at it as I wanted to be but it always made me happy.

The rest of my Chicago trip was a blur. We attended the American Heart Association pre-symposia on Saturday and it was quite a disappointment to us both. But later that evening we shopped at Macy’s and ate dinner at Giordano’s Pizza where we literally stuffed ourselves on their famous stuffed crust pizza on which we chose to top with sausage, bell peppers and onions.

Afterwards, we walked for a long time on the Magnificent Mile just to try to walk off some of the dinner that left us feeling stuffed and miserable. We browsed the Borders bookstore where I bought The Color Purple and Running With Scissors (both of which I read on the planes to and from California). Just as we began feeling human again, we decided to stop in the Ghirardelli’s chocolate shop for dessert. We managed to exercise some restraint and only ordered hot chocolate to keep us warm on the trip back to the hotel.

My stay in Chicago was short but I enjoyed it immensely. I enjoyed spending time with my good friend of several years and I thoroughly enjoyed the sights and sounds. My husband will be spending five days in Chicago very soon and I wish so much I could go back with him. I’ll never get enough of Chicago, methinks.

Thus concludes any major posts about my excursions across America. I am sure I will have a few more things to say about them now and then but, by and large, I’ve said what I want to say.

As wonderful as it is to travel and see, hear, and taste new things, there are few things better than what I am doing right now: Relaxing in my own home, in my own bed, in my favorite worn nightgown with my children sleeping sweetly down the hall.

Babs

I returned home from my trip to Chicago and San Jose yesterday night. Since then, I’ve sat down to write about my experience, specifically the Barbra Streisand concert, but have found myself woefully undertalented and unequipped to convey to you just how extraordinarily lovely the concert was for me.

I’ll write about Chicago and some of the other parts of the trip. But, for now, the concert is what shines in the forefront of my mind and still causes a ripple of excitement to run up my spine.

What can I say about the show?

My mother and I sat and chatted with the couple seated next to us before the show started. Various song and movie titles were dropped and every time I was asked, “Have you seen that movie?’” or “Have you heard that song?” my answer was, “Yes, I own it.” Finally it was commented, “Wow, you are a big fan, aren’t you?”

My answer? “You have no idea.”

There was speculation, “What will she sing first, Heather?” I thought about it. “Hmmmm. She opened the 1993/1994 concert with “Everything’s as if We Never Said Goodbye” and the 1999/2000 concert with “Something’s Coming.” But I seriously couldn’t predict what song she might sing first that night.

The overture began and it was, we later found out, the overture from the Broadway score of Funny Girl. That made a lot of sense because some of the music sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it when I ran through a mental list of albums in my head. It’s been many, many years since I listened to the Broadway soundtrack to Funny Girl.

As the overture reached its peak, we all leaned forward in our seats, anticipating the moment when Barbra would come on stage. None of us were certain it would be her. We thought she might have Il Divo perform first. But she did come onstage at the end of the overture. I saw the top of her famous blond head as she walked up the stairs at the back of the stage and I immediately began jostling my mother while I breathlessly exclaimed, “Ohmigod, ohmigod! There she is! THERE SHE IS! Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

And then, La Barbra opened her mouth and started the show with a beautiful rendition of “Starting Here, Starting Now” (Duh! Why didn’t I think of that!) and I was completely bowled over again by her voice, her talent, her presence –HER. Her voice is a gift not only bestowed upon her but also bestowed upon the world. Such beauty. To hear her sing in person. To watch her body language and facial expressions whilst that honey sweet voice poured over the crowd — it was a gift. A priceless gift that I will cherish just as I have cherished the memory of her last concert.

Barbra seemed so much more relaxed than she was at the concert I attended on the Millenial New Year’s Eve. On New Year’s Eve 1999, it was the first time she’d given a concert in many years and she seemed nervous, a little stiff and rehearsed. But Monday night was different. She’s already given several concerts over the past few months and only has three concerts left in her tour. She took her shoes off and pranced about barefoot for most of the evening. She flirted with the audience when she shrugged her jacket off of her shoulders (“Is it hot in here or is it just me?” she asked.) and teased, “I can’t show you everything.”

When I thought I couldn’t be any more impressed, Il Divo took the stage. I have always thought there is none worthy of sharing a stage with my beloved Babs. But Il Divo changed my mind. I LOVED Il Divo as a group. But I lusted after the Spaniard whom I affectionately refer to now as “my boyfriend.” As the group sang, “Unbreak My Heart,” I sat in my chair, melting.

Barbra returned to the stage after Il Divo’s performance of three songs and together they sang “The Music of the Night” from Phantom of the Opera. If I’ve ever heard anything so beautiful, I’d be hard pressed to tell you what it was. I’ve been enchanted by the arrangement of “The Music of the Night” that Barbra and Il Divo sang ever since I first heard it on the Back to Broadway album.

First, in the musical, “Music of the Night” is a solo. Barbra turned it into a duet and she sings a beautiful, haunting harmony. She sang:

Floating, falling,
sweet intoxication!

Touch me, trust me
savour each sensation!

And I did savour the moment, the intoxicated happiness I was feeling as I sang along in my mind since I knew every word and every nuance of the harmony from singing it along with the CD a million times the summer I bought it.

The night passed by so quickly. I was thrilled with so many of her song selections. She sang “Down With Love” which has always been one of my favorites with its jazzy styling and saucy lyrics.

I was enthralled by the lyrics to a song that I’d never heard until that night. She described it as a song for relationships that are difficult to define and I thought of how many such relationships I’ve had in my lifetime.

In a very unusual way one time I needed you.
In a very unusual way you were my friend.
Maybe it lasted a day, maybe it lasted an hour.
But, somehow it will never end.

In a very unusual way I think I’m in love with you.
In a very unusual way I want to cry.
Something inside me goes weak,
Something inside me surrenders.
And you’re the reason why,
You’re the reason why

You don’t know what you do to me,
You don’t have a clue.
You can’t tell what its like to be me looking at you.
It scares me so, that I can hardly speak.

In a very unusual way, I owe what I am to you.
Though at times it appears I won’t stay, I never go.
Special to me in my life,
Since the first day that I met you.
How could I ever forget you,
Once you had touched my soul?
In a very unusual way,
You’ve made me whole.

Toward the end of the evening, she sang “Have I Stayed Too Long At The Fair?” and I told my mother sadly, “She’s beginning to say good-bye.” Anyone who knows me well knows that I loathe good-byes. They pain me. They sadden me. And Barbra’s good-bye was no different.

When she exited the stage for good, after her second encore, I stared hopefully at the stage and sighed, “I wish she’d come back.”

But that’s the measure of a beloved actor and singer and even the measure of any good relationship, I think. They leave you wanting more but feeling oh, so lucky that you got to spend some time together, no matter how little.

And I do feel oh, so lucky.

Comments (12)

November 14, 2006

Filed under: Barbra, Travel — Heather @ 1:11 am

OMIGOD!

I love Barbra.

I am in love with the Spaniard in Il Divo.

I am particularly touched right now by the kindness of the couple who sat next to my mom and I at the concert. They were lovely. They gave us their umbrella when we walked out of the concert and found ourselves faced with walking back to the hotel in the rain. I don’t know their names but I did give them my blog address. So, I hope they read this and know that their kindness was very much appreciated and warmed my heart.

More posts to come about Barbra. In fact, I suspect you will hear about it ad nauseum.

Peace out.

Comments (5)

November 11, 2006

having a great time in Chicago . . .

Filed under: Travel — Heather @ 10:28 pm

Tomorrow, California!

Comments (9)

November 8, 2006

a grand adventure

Filed under: Travel — Heather @ 8:11 pm

In two days, I am embarking on a grand adventure!

Brenda and I are flying out of here at the butt crack o’ dawn on Friday morning. Our destination? The Windy City! (Chicago.)

We are going on a Segway Tour of Chicago! We are dining at 312 Chicago! We are going to see Wicked! We are eating at Giordano’s Pizza! And, oh yeah, we are going to the American Heart Association Scientific Sessions.

Then? Then, I fly to San Jose, California! To see Barbra Streisand! With my mother! Who went to the last Barbra Streisand concert with me in Las Vegas nearly seven years ago!

Oh, the excitement. I can barely stand it. I may die of happiness.

Comments (9)

October 5, 2006

the children

Filed under: Friends, Travel — Heather @ 1:13 pm

One of the things I loved most about my trip to West Virginia was that I got to spend time with Sharon in her element which means I got to spend lots of time with her three sons.

The teenager was generous enough to give up his bedroom to me for three nights. He’s a thoughtful boy and made every effort to make me feel at home. He insisted that I listen to his CD player, watch his TV, or read his books (his recommendation was the Lemony Snicket’s series) while I was his guest. He inquired if I was warm enough, if the bed was soft enough, if I had slept well. When I protested and claimed everything was very comfy and inviting and that he really shouldn’t fuss over me so, he looked at me very seriously and stage-whispered, “Well, a little birdie told me you’re pretty spoiled.” At which point I demanded, “It wouldn’t be a birdie of the red-headed variety, would it?” and threw a pillow at Sharon. She asked incredulously, “You told her that?” and then consoled, “You’re not that spoiled, Heather.”

The teenager is also the one who, when I announced at breakfast, “I’m going upstairs to put on some make-up,” said, “That’s a really good idea.” I playfully challeneged him, “What are you trying to say, Teenager? That I’m ugly?” He sputtered, “No! That’s not what I meant. I just meant that it would be a good idea to get ready so we can get the day started.” He sighed heavily, “Oh, nevermind!” The other male at the table counseled, “See? That’s why I don’t talk much, Teenager. It’s easier to keep your foot out of your mouth when it is closed.”

Sharon’s middle child is her clone, so far as personality goes. He’s sensitive and takes himself very seriously. He can’t contain his enthusiasm no matter how he tries. We all ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant after the art show. Our waiter spoke very heavily accented English and Sharon’s family kept looking quizzically to me for translation. When the waiter left the table, the middle child was wide-eyed and wondrous, “I didn’t know you speak Mexican!” I giggled a little before answering, “I don’t. He’s speaking English.” A very confused look from the middle child, “He was?” Yes, heavily accented English but English, nonetheless.

The dinner conversation progressed and somehow I ended up telling the story of my uncle who won a million dollars with a hole-in-one. The middle child blurted, “Did he lose his mind over it?” and Sharon and I burst into laughter simultaneously. “No, his sanity is still intact,” I assured him.

Sharon’s youngest son, the four year-old, is the child whom I’ve sworn to kiss on the cheek ever since I first saw his picture. He has Sharon’s deep brown eyes that are warm and loving or brooding and fretful in turns.

Monday afternoon, I wrestled with the two youngest boys, tickling them mercilessly and then planting a kiss on their cheeks before settling down in Sharon’s studio to watch her paint. I’d only been sitting down for a few moments when the four year-old walked into the room and very solemnly stood before me. “Heather, come on. You can kiss me and tickle me now.”

This is the same child who climbed the stairs Monday evening calling, “Heather?” He found me on the teenager’s bed where Sharon and I were lying on our stomachs with our arms wrapped around pillows while we talked and rested simultaneously. “Oh,” he said. “You’ve been up here for three days!” Clearly he was disgusted that I was spending time with his mother rather than watching The Simpson’s with him and his brothers.

Two hours later, after the youngest was bathed and toothbrushed and pajama’d, he climbed onto the bed next to me and wrapped his arms around me thus winning my heart forever and always.

Spending time with Sharon’s sons gave me glimpses into the little girl she must have been once. Children fascinate me because they haven’t yet learned to bridle their enthusiasm, edit their words, or temper their reactions. By observing our children, our friends can often appreciate the undiluted elements that form our own characters and personalities. Sharon’s sons have inherited her sensitivity, intelligence and enthusiasm. Add to the formula her loving and careful nurturing and you have a powerful alchemy that shows all the signs of producing three remarkable men to help shape the future.

Thank you, Sharon, for sharing your family with me.

Comments (8)

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