Encore

Pic of Caleb Followill (lead singer of Kings of Leon)
taken with Hubby's camera phone

The Kings of Leon concert I went to last night was excellent as expected. A live performance by the group is an amazing experience and I found myself craving to hear more of their live music today.
Nearing the end of their performance last night I began wondering, almost anticipating, if there would be an encore. Of course I was going to be disappointed when they exited the stage – but I nearly knew they’d return for a few last numbers. And indeed they did take the stage again for 3 final songs.
I find it a little bittersweet that the encore has become predictable. The past 10 concerts I’ve been to have all included an encore at the end. This tool has lost all its excitement. I have no clue as to when or where this concept of false finality began, but I’m sure it originated as a true surprise. I try to imagine the birthplace of the encore. The fans of this historical concert event probably had already filtered out of the arena. I picture only the diehards remaining, still clapping their hands numb, when the band returns for one last song, making their wildest dreams come true.
Now we’ve come to expect the encore. We don’t even flinch as the band leaves the stage. As fans, we trust that the performers will come back for our listening pleasure. And they in turn trust that we’ll wait for them in the stands as they head backstage to shotgun a beer. They know we’ll keep our seats in undramatic fashion, putting on our facade of worried applause.
But hey, I keep playing along. Whatever it takes to get the Kings of Leon back on stage.

Photo of the Day

Mine and hubby's shadows on the beach in Jamaica

Music to my ears

Tomorrow evening hubby and I are going to see the Kings of Leon perform live in Cary. The band consists of 4 brothers from Nashville and their music teeters on the edge of rock, though I find it impossible to define. I am psyched about the concert. They are by far the most talented band I’ve ever heard. I own all four of their albums and love every last song. Their genius blows my mind...gives me chills. I’m barely ashamed to admit that their song “Sex on Fire” is my ringtone. Hubby has the same respect I do for the band, and I find it miraculous that we agree on something such as this. I usually deafen him with a pop or country CD on repeat and he usually has tastes stuck somewhere in the ‘90s. But on this matter folks we have found our middle ground.
The bad news is that I will not be allowed to bring my camera to the show. I guess that frees me up for some frantic, pregnant lady dancing. It’ll take all my concentration to not tip over.
Will report back after the show!

Fools rush in

I had just celebrated my 9th birthday. It was a hot, sticky summer and I was aboard a Carnival cruise ship with my family and my best friends from Poughkeepsie, New York. We were touring the Western Caribbean, spending long days by the saltwater pool tanning our pale skin. Us four young girls would return to our cramped cabins late each afternoon to assess the sun’s damage, apply loads of gooey aloe vera while peeling any burnt skin, and discuss which boys on the cruise ship were the cutest. We were at that age when just barely glancing at a guy meant the two of you were exclusively dating. It was the time of our lives.
Each night after gorging ourselves with gourmet cruise ship food, our families would retreat to the auditorium for some type of evening entertainment. Sometimes we’d watch professional dancers, singers or comedians. The best night was always the talent show, where anyone aboard the ship could participate.
The acts were always interesting to watch and most of the participants had real talent. I had no clue who I’d vote for, as everyone performed really well. That is until Mr. Right entered the stage. Looking back I’d have to guess he was about 14 or 15. I remember him as a generally handsome boy, though I couldn’t begin to describe a single one of his features. He took hold of the microphone and belted out the song “Voices that Care” (a ‘90s hit sung by a huge group of singers including Michael Bolton, Celine Dion, Will Smith and Luther Vandross). I had never heard it before nor have I ever heard it again, but I KNOW that I fell in love with this boy as he sang. He became my infatuation for the duration of our trip. The fact that I never saw him again after he exited the stage didn’t even matter; in my mind, we were meant for one another. I’m also fairly certain that I had a new boyfriend the very next week. Oh summer love...
It is now only a vague memory, but one I was reminded of on my recent vacation to Jamaica. Hubby and I were walking down by the beach after a big dinner. The Jamaican live piano band was playing a variety of American hits up at the poolside bar. The band began playing “The Greatest Love of All,” a song originally recorded in 1977 by George Benson, but made popular by Whitney Houston in 1986. In hubby’s eyes grew a burning fire as the song played. It was hard to deny that it brought back some memories for him.
As hubby tells it, he was 6 years old and attending a private school in Mississippi. The school was hosting a talent show for all grades (the school went through 12th grade). A sixteen-year-old girl took the stage and belted out “The Greatest Love of All,” winning hubby’s affections for a solid year. He told me he wanted to marry this “older” woman.
If nothing else, rehashing these memories provided a good laugh for both hubby and myself, and reassured us that we’re both fools who can be easily persuaded by a heartfelt, soft rock song from the late ‘80s/early ‘90s.

Ya mon!

Hubby and I just got back from Jamaica yesterday. It was the most relaxing vacation I've ever been on, and that is just what we needed before bringing a child into this world. Here are some of the photos:

Hubby and I posing in front of the Caribbean Sea.

Goat races on the beach. Breezes Resort at Runaway Bay was awesome,
hosting tons of games and activities daily.

We met a couple who was getting married on the resort.
I offered to take their wedding photos. Yeah for freelance!

Congrats Dean and Cindy!

Hubby and I smooching at sunset.

Frightened vacationers daring to climb Dunn's River Falls.
We went just for the photo opp; my doctor wouldn't let me climb.

Hubby and I at the falls. A nice Jamaican dude offered to take our photo.
In Jamaica these gestures usually are rewarded with tips.
He also offered to sell us marijuana...but who didn't offer?

My typical breakfast. Veggie omelet, sliced tomatoes and peaches, stewed prunes, cheese, croissant, bacon. After the first day I discovered a smoothie bar. I began ordering a peach, banana and yogurt smoothie every morning.

Hubby awaiting a Red Stripe at one of the many resort bars.

Eager eaters

Why are babies so darn cute when they’re being fed? Is it because of their innocence and dependence on us adult providers? Does it make us feel like important mama birds, dumping life-giving nutrients into gaping and eager mouths?
Despite the slobber, drool and crumb-stained faces, we still adore these hungry faces. Who could blame us?

Size matters

One of the worst side effects that comes with pregnancy is that everyone, strangers included, feels the need to comment about said pregnant lady’s size. Some comments are great. Those include, “Wow, look how little weight you’ve gained.” or “You’re so tiny.”
But those types of welcome comments don’t happen as often as the “Well your tits have gotten huge.” and the “I can tell you’re filling out your dresses now.”
I especially enjoy being compared to a “gorilla” and a “beached whale.” I’ve always thought of myself as more of a hungry, hungry hippo.
The belly touching has already begun as well. My belly is just emerging and yet people HAVE to run their hands all over it. Maybe that will seem more natural once I have a huge belly. I don’t think I’ll mind it so much then – we’ll see.
I complain about all this stuff but in the same moment I’m really too thrilled to be pregnant to care. Baby Caleb is on his way here and he’s already making his presence known via my emerging belly.

Photos of the Day

My family spent time together on Easter Sunday eating a late brunch at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville. The brunch spread is almost as enormous as the hotel, thus I look forward to this meal for months before Easter every year.

The view from the back patio at the Grove Park Inn. This photo doesn't really show it, but the back patio is a maze of tiered and terraced stonework and landscaping. There is a waterfall and fountain, a pool, and an outdoor spa for massages.

The plants at the entrance of the Grove Park Inn were in full bloom. My mom and I had a hard to deciphering what this hydrangea-esque flower was. It was on a bush that was about 6 feet high with hundreds of other blooms.

I love tulip beds. I WILL have one next spring!

Celebrity encounter

Saturday afternoon I searched through my bookshelf to select my next lucky paperback candidate. I had just finished reading a book that had taken me months to read and I wanted something I knew I’d love. I chose Augusten Burroughs latest book, “A Wolf at the Table,” a memoir that paints a beautiful portrait of Burroughs ugly, alcoholic father. I have read Burroughs’ past memoirs and novels and have loved them all. He is fierce competition with David Sedaris to be my favorite author of all time.
So I began reading the book on Saturday and much to my delight on Sunday, I opened the front page of the newspaper to find a story about Augusten Burroughs. It was reviewing the book I’m currently reading. From there I discovered that Burroughs was going to be in Durham on Thursday with local author Haven Kimmel for a speaking engagement and book signing at the Durham Theatre. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity.
I eagerly awaited Thursday’s (yesterday) arrival while continuing to read his hauntingly good memoir. Hubby was nice enough to attend the speaking engagement and book signing with me last night.
Burroughs and Kimmel are extremely close friends, always in contact, and have their publicist in common. The played off each other’s humor for about an hour and even answered audience questions.
As they wrapped up, hubby and I darted out to the lobby to purchase Kimmel’s book, “Iodine,” and the only one of Burroughs that I didn’t already own, “Magical Thinking.” We somehow managed to be the 4th and 5th people in line for the signing. Both Kimmel and Burroughs were extremely outgoing, humble, sincere and comfortable to speak with. Burroughs even let me take a photograph with him, surely utterly unaware of how happy that made me. For the duration of the evening, and throughout our 3 course tapas meal at Revolution, I just kept repeating “Augusten Burroughs,” “Augusten Burroughs,” “Augusten Burroughs.”

Augusten Burroughs and Haven Kimmel, speaking engagement
at the Carolina Theatre Thursday, April 9, 2009

Augusten Burroughs and Haven Kimmel at the book signing at the Carolina Theatre in downtown Durham

Me and Augusten Burroughs

My signed copy of "A Wolf at the Table" by Augusten Burroughs

Endive filled with spring greens, feta cheese, ham, and fried caperberries at Revolution in downtown Durham

Foie Gras "BLTs" at Revolution in downtown Durham

Lamb meatballs at Revolution in downtown Durham

Hi (High) neighbor

Hubby and I are fortunate to have very friendly, generous neighbors. We work as a small community, lending a helpful hand when in need. We borrow lawnmowers and hedge trimmers from one another. We grill out together. Hubby teaches 7-year-old boys how to change oil in a car. It’s a lovely commune of shared experience.
With the pollen-filled arrival of spring, the neighbors have been seen out and about in their yards – mowing grass, planting flowers and trees, and preparing for the days to come. Our mutual time in the yard has welcomed garden conversation galore.
“What are you planting this year?” “How are you updating your garden?” “What grows best in the shady part of your lawn?”
Hubby and I have been offered so many plants this year. My sweet coworker has given us lamb’s ear, irises, and golden yarrow. One neighbor directly across from us is giving us hostas. Another neighbor is giving us daylilies. And yet another neighbor is giving us red, yellow, and orange canna lilies.
The neighbor with the abundance of canna lilies lives quite a bit down the street from us. He sees us walking Paxton the dog every morning. As we come closer to his house on our morning journey we are always sure to see him sitting on his front porch. Come to think of it, he is almost always wearing his blue garden shirt. You can’t miss this man. He is rather large and jolly – always eager to say hello. His garden is pristine and already looks beautiful this early in the season. See, people as experienced as him know exactly what to plant to provide color and variation throughout the bleak winter months.
I’m fairly certain this man doesn’t have a job. He’s always home enjoying his days out in the garden. Sometimes he’s just sitting happily in plump fashion on his front porch. On a day with a small breeze you can pass by his home and get a whiff of something interesting in the air. Marijuana. I’ve glanced his way (though nothing resembling staring) just to investigate further to spot a joint, blunt, bong, or bowl. He’ll have something in his hands, though in all their large splendor I can’t quite make it out. But a small plume of smoke can typically be seen rising up from them. And I don’t judge him. To each his own. Perhaps he’s even smoking pot for medicinal purposes. But I question the fact that he does it on his front porch. Wouldn’t one choose a more secluded venue, such as a back porch or even indoors? He means no harm and he is a fantastic neighbor. But pot on the porch makes me wonder…

Mama's Little Boy

Hubby and I had our 18-week doctor visit this afternoon, which was all too exciting. It was hubby's first time seeing the baby and his first time hearing it's tiny 153-bpm heartbeat. We were anxiously following the ultrasound tech's every move and meticulous measurement, dying for her to announce the baby's sex. I kept seeing what looked like a tiny little deflated balloon between Baby Busbee's legs, but I didn't want to get my hopes up in thinking it was a boy. Sure enough, the tech announced moments later that we were having a little boy. Hubby is so proud. He feels he is now a man.

Profile shot of Caleb. (Yes, we've already selected the name: Caleb Heath)

Profile shot #2. He's darling with that little button nose.

Here Caleb is upside down. The arrow is pointing at his pinga. The bulge beneath that is the scrotum. I'm sorry, but it's hard for me to imagine that this little being inside of me has a scrotum. It sounds so adult.

This shot is taken from beneath Caleb. His thighs are spread and the little pinga is bobbing about in between.

Another shot from below. Pinga between two fleshy thighs.

Now that I have embarrased my son to no end, as any loving mother would do, I'll call it a night.

Fear of bathing

I was invited by my friend Misty to tag along with her and her boyfriend to their church in Cary for yesterday’s Sunday services. The church is called Colonial Baptist and is, I came to find out, very popular in the area. So frantic was the transition between first and second services that the road in front of the church required a cop to direct traffic in and out of the church parking lot.
We had to circle the series of 5 connecting parking lots to find an open space. To be seated, an usher had to search for spaces in the banquet room-like sanctuary; sort of like a hostess at a restaurant. “Church for 3 please…non-smoking if you have it.”
Once we were seated, the service began with, I kid you not, an orchestra and full 40-member choir. There was a performance by Jesus as well. I’m guessing special attention was paid to this service because it is the week of Passover. The service was beautiful and had a wonderful message.
My area of concern lies in the realm of baptism. As you probably know, the Baptist Church practices baptism by full submersion into a pool of water.
I was christened in the Catholic Church as a baby with a gentle sprinkling of water on the head. So for me, the Baptist method of submersion was always a little startling. But I’ve grown accustomed to it after seeing it done for so many years.
During this past Sunday’s service, I noticed on the bulletin that we’d all get to witness two members being baptized.
Mid-service, up pops a large television screen at the front of the church. Well, two screens to be exact, and another huge one at the back of the sanctuary. A pre-recorded interview between the minister and the member awaiting baptism came alive for the entire congregation to view. The minister would question each member on why they were getting baptized and ask them to give their testimony. Wow. Pretty powerful stuff to say in front of a HUGE congregation of people. That alone would freak me out enough to not want to get baptized in front of everyone. A lot of people, including myself, are not comfortable being filmed.
Then the minister and the member awaiting baptism appeared in the elevated pool of water, all eyes of the congregation on them. The minister asked the member to please recite for the congregation his or her favorite passage in the Bible. Wow again. Now this church requires public speaking to be baptized. Another no-no for me.
Of course last comes the actual dunking. The minister gently places a cloth over your mouth and nose and lowers you backwards into the pool of water. You come back up, gasping for air, snot dripping from your nose and mascara running down your cheeks, hair plastered wet and tangled on your head. Now if standing under a spotlight in front of a room of 500 people looking like you’ve just been through a hurricane isn’t mortifying enough to resist baptism, I don’t know what is.
Thank you thank you Mom and Dad for getting me christened as a baby.

Drumroll please...

Sorry for the extreme sunshine in this photo. I had to rush and take it before work. But here is the much anticipated photo of my new haircut. The one that looks like I cut it myself with a jagged rock. Granted, in this photo it is straightened and much tamer than the half curly/half straight version.

Strenuous workout

I must confess that during the colder months of the year I find just about every excuse in the universe to avoid working out.
It’s too cold to walk the dog.

It’s too windy to walk the dog.

It’s gray and ugly outside.

I’m depressed because of the weather.

Well, somehow, tapering back on outdoor workouts also gives me a reason to not work out indoors either. Or at least I convince myself of this.
I end up only walking the dog about 4 days a week and maybe doing the elliptical 2 days a week. Yoga sessions are cut down to a pitiful 20 minutes. Weight training and swimming are basically non-existent.
Here’s where my confession turns to pure shame.
Last night I went bowling with some friends from church. We bowled two rounds in two hours; neither round did I break a score of 100. That’s not the embarrassing part.
I noticed today that my wrist and my arm elbow down are completely sore. How can a simple bowling match turn into a pain only explained by post-workout status?
I am pathetic. No more excuses. I will return to weightlifting and yoga TODAY.