Yoo-hoo! Elton! Billy! Nice Indians behind you!

You know the signs, somewhere out on the highway on the Navajo Rez? (That's reservation, to 5th generation Arizonans, like me. Or, I would be a 5th generation Arizonan, except I was born in Michigan. And grew up in California.) They are near the Grand Canyon, but also on that that well-worn wagon trail between Phoenix and Salt Lake City? Well, they advertise an arts and crafts stand out in the middle of nearly-nowhere. First, they warn you with a big Nice Indians Ahead sign, but really you aren't much tempted to stop, and so you don't, generally. But that's where the marketing genius begins. Just past the the stand, there are more signs. They go something like:

STOP!

and then...

TURN AROUND!

and...

GO BACK!

And finally:

And for some reason, you flip around and go back to buy some sort of painted bead bracelet that you don't actually want.

I haven't made the drive in a few years. I don't make the pilgrimage to the Temple of the Cute Boys (i.e. back to school at the BYU) as often as I used to (as I have my own cute boy here locally, plus I graduated), but I sure hope the nice Indians are still around. Course, for all I know, they might have lost their lease to the Mean Indians who are Gonna Scalp You. Which would also make for a fab sign.

Anyhow, that has nothing to do with my actual reason for writing today. Except that while I was sitting in my nosebleed seat behind the stage at the Billy Joel/Elton John concert last Thursday night, I kept wishing I had my own Nice Indians Behind You sign. Although, as far as I know, I'm not an American Indian. But you never know, unless you get that mail order DNA testing kit online for like 500 bucks, where you send a cheek swab in and they tell you where all you ancestors are from. 

I totally want to do that. Totally. Don't you?

So our seats were sort of off-center, and a video screen cut off our view of Elton's head, but allowed us to see the rest of him.  (Not really a bonus.) Billy was almost 100% blocked by a cluster of electrical cables hanging from the lighting apparatus on the ceiling. And did I mention we were looking at them from behind? Luckily, someone had sport parked their pianos sort of sideways. 

These are the sorta seats you get when you forget that the tickets go on sale Friday, and you mosey on over to Ticketmaster on Monday afternoon. But I wanted to get them for my brother Ryan for Christmas, because I knew the two-fer was gonna blow his mind. It did.

Although, Ryan kept asking why Billy Joel didn't get dressed up. I was like, Ryan, he's wearing a sport coat and tie. What do you want from him? And then I realized, Ryan wanted Billy to dress up like Elton, who was actually rather tame in a black cut-away with tails and a sequined little Elton on the back, coordinated Doc Marten wing tips, and sunglasses.

Ryan also kept asking whether Billy and Elton rent the speakers or buy them, and whether they came in a big tour bus. He did not like to hear that they might have a private plane. He's all about the buses. And has been since he was three years old.

Anyhow, we were right in the middle of our row, with no fewer than 10 people on either side of us, which became a problem when the concert lasted for MORE THAN THREE AND A HALF HOURS. Because around hour 2.5, you start thinking you might die for a treat and a toilet, but you are trapped. You start wishing that instead of the Nice Indians Behind You sign, you had one that said Someone please bring me a churro and a bed pan. I'm not sure how all the older blokes with the prostate problems did it.

Billy and Elton opened together on their dueling pianos, then Billy went off to have a nap or similar, while Elton played about 30 minutes of songs I'd never heard before. During this time I was able to stare at him very hard through my official 1984 Los Angeles Olympics binoculars (same ones I used to peep at Mary Lou Retton when she got a perfect ten on the vault), and I came to a startling conclusion:

Gordon Ramsay is Elton John's love child.

I do understand there are all kinds of problems with this theory. But Gordon is like a young, cursing Elton without the boas and colorful sunglasses.

Anyhow, later on, Elton started to play stuff I knew and liked, like Daniel and Rocketman, which are undoubtedly very fine songs, but he sort of yelled the whole thing. I don't know if he's lost his voice quality (like Neil Diamond) or what, but he (and Billy, too, to be fair), never brought down the volume and calmed down to just play the piano and sing. Everything was at top volume and high energy. I'll bet some of the other Rockin' Elderly in there with me would agree with me that the whole thing was just a bit too LOUD.

I did enjoy the second half of Elton's set, but when Billy's turn began, I realized: Billy's my boy. He's always been my boy. When I was a small child, our next door neighbor the Property Master (did props for movies, you should have seen the fantastic stuff in his garage) gave us An Innocent Man on vinyl (was a prop, as well as Adam Ant's Strip, but let's not talk about that), and I listened to that album for years on end, cause it was all I had of my own, except for some Men at Work songs I'd taped off the radio.

Billy sounded quite good, but still sort of yelly. The back of his baldy head peeking out from behind the cable bundle looked okay, too. He made a couple of dirty old man jokes that I found sort of creepy.

I saw Billy once before, in 89 or 90, where someone lit a cig behind me and lit my hair on fire. It was just a small fire, but the smell of burning hair was quite potent.

Anyhow, everybody got together at the end to sing a few tunes together, including even a few Beatles tunes (You say its your birthday and Back in the USSR), and ended the night with Piano Man. About halfway through, everybody quit playing (even the guitar guy who looked like if Dana Carvey dressed up as Rick Springfield for Halloween), and the audience was exposed! We were all (23,000 of us, the place was packed to the ceiling) singing the chorus at top volume, only you couldn't hear us over the very loud sound system (leased or purchased outright? Is still a mystery). It was a fabulous, hymn-like noise, a We Are the World-type moment of love and brotherhood, and I am not ashamed to say I shed a tear or two. (Completely separate from the crying over my empty belly and bulging bladder.)

So, do you like Elton or Billy? 

Do you think Gordon looks like Elton? 

Have you done any online DNA tests? 

Have you ever lit your hair on fire?

Was it very stinky?

Have you been to Nice Indians Behind You?

Did you have a good weekend?

More rough camping and bralessness with the Beeswaxes

Hmm. I do believe it has been so long, my blog muscle has atrophied. I am, for once, short of words. Is scary a little bit.

Went 'camping' in Payson again last weekend. When I enter the cabin I pretty much stop moving. I like to blame my slug-like behavior on altitude sickness. (At 4,921 feet, it is pretty much like base camp with the Sherpas. If the Sherpas were small curly-haired white children, and 4,921 feet was 17,000 feet) Whatever the reason, there is something about the place that makes me immediately remove my trousers, don yoga pants (inventor of yoga pants should win Nobel Prize), pop the top of some tangerine Diet Rite, heat up an entire case of Costco mini quiches, take a 2 hour tub with bubbles and jets (and quiches), slip under a down comforter, and stay up reading mystery novels until 3 am. 

There are of course some variations, which include BBC America marathons (How Clean is Your House? Cash in the Attic, and Jake's maybe new favorite show of all time, TopGear), or trips to the Payson Wal-Mart in previously mentioned yoga pants to check out what's in the Redbox (Secret Life of Bees, No Reservations), buy new ice cream drumsticks (ones in freezer had unacceptably stale cones), and check to see if there was any sort of vampire/panty party going on in the intimates section. I stopped there to check out some bras, since I forgotten to wear one. Alas, I was too early for the party.

I did venture out a little on Jane's birthday. We went and got some manipedis and some mexi-lunch over to the El Rancho (at the intersection of the Beeline Highway and Highway 260, across from McDonald's). Then we came back and decided to walk off our chimichangas with a brisk hike in the wild and dangerous forest (i.e. along the golf course). Management had put up some weird wire fencing around the green and other random and unattractive spots to keep elk from eating/digging up/pooing on the course. While we were looking for lost balls, Jane bumped up against the fence and screamed, well, like an 8-year-old girl will: super-duper loud and squeal-y. She couldn't speak, but kept pointing at the fence. I told her to pipe down and grabbed the fence myself to show her that she was being dopey. I was fine. Her hip tapped it again, and this time I heard a snap and a hiss (before the screaming began again in earnest). It was ELECTRIC fencing. Seriously. What is the point of rambles in nature if we only end up electrocuted? (Only, not me, as I am inexplicably immune to electric fencing.) Is not relaxing. 

I say, take the fences down. I prefer elk to golf, anyhow. But nobody asked me.

So then, after her harrowing adventure, Jane needed a relaxing soak and some quiches before cake and presents. Only, her quiches were pizza rolls. To quiche her own, eh?

In other news, I found another scorpion in  my entryway yesterdee mornin'. Have finally decided to call professional bug murderer fellows. I can deal with crickets and ants and even roaches and huge hairy wolf spiders, but I cannot deal with scorpions. I CANNOT DEAL, I TELL YOU! Am now willing to risk cancerous poisons so that I can sleep unmolested in my bed. 

I do not like the scorpions. I do not even like eating their relatives the lobsters (unless they are pureed in bisque, where they taste quite lovely and sinful), because they look like scorps on steroids.

Finally, am loving Charles Dickens on Masterpiece. Did anybody see David Copperfield? Starring tiny 'Arry Potter?

Lastly, here is a little clip from TopGear, wherein they race communist-made cars. (That link was in case the embedded clip doesn't work. It isn't on my computer.)  Jake said later in the show, they race the cars against a dog, and the dog wins.

I was in Freiberg, East Germany, in August 1990, just a few months after the wall came down. We went to Church (next door to the temple), where a girl told us all about the many lovely changes in her life all thanks to German Reunification. The biggest and most exciting? The family's shiny new BMV (is BMW in German. Go figure), which they'd just picked up in West Germany the day before. She had lots of terrible things to say about the Commy cars. She might have spat on the ground to emphasize her point. Or maybe she didn't. I can't recall. I was only 16, and more concerned about my bangs than about correctly quoting ex-communists.

So, who will go to the Twilight party for me? You know, in the interests of science?

If my kids see that I am on the computer right now, they are gonna lose it. Totally freak out and scream at me. We are heading up to the cabin today. Sometime. When I get stuff packed up. Actually, I let them pack their own stuff, mostly. So I guess we won't be going out in public much. Cause they don't always dress themselves so well. Or remember things, like underpants.

But I really needed to let you know about the big party tomorrow night. 

To which you are all invited. 

It is a Twilight release party. And it is at 9 o'clock tomorrow, in the intimates department of the Wal-Mart on Signal Butte and the 60. 

Yes, seriously. Jake got a flyer for it. 

I'm so sad I'm going out of town. What are the chances that they will have a similar party at the Payson Wal-Mart? 

I think someone should go scope out the party and report back here. Just so we know if people really will spend their Friday evening hanging out with super cheap panties whilst swooning over lusty teen vampires. Is sort of scientific research. Social scientific, anyhow. Anybody?

The one where I decide which superhero I am most like while I do the dishes.

First of all, It isn't that I've got so little going on that I HAD to blog about this. Since I last blogged, Jake's sister Liz got married, we found out Ross isn't ADHD and he switched schools, Tommy drank a whole bottle of amoxicillin and I called poison control but they said you can't OD on antibiotics very easily, I read two books about Frenchies (1 bio of Marie Antoinette and 1 WW2 novel), and I broke my very favorite casserole dish that my friend Jon Haight gave us for our wedding. Just so you know.

Secondly, let's be clear. 

I did NOT decide which superhero I would like to be, based on their fab super power prowess which I covet.

Is a totally different thing.

What I  decided was: which superhero is already most like me, the way that I am? Is not semantics. Is different. This involved carefully weighing both personality and physical traits, coupled with my own talents and abilities.

It seems a difficult question, yes?

I know. Is just another way my liberal arts education left me ill-prepared for real-life problems. (I'm totally lying to you. I loved my liberal arts education, and studiously avoided any classes that might have prepared me for earning any money in the working world.)

My first lady-hero choice was fairly obvious:

(Apologies to Wonder Woman. I'm not trying to steal your blogdentity.)

I chose her mostly cause of the big hair. 

Not the boobs. Anymore, anyhow: these boobs I've got are working girls. Course, Linda Carter seems to working hers pretty hard, but in a different way. Is subtle but important difference, which would become perfectly clear if I were to take photos of myself in a red and gold bustier with starry blue granny panties and post them here on the internet for you, but I don't have time for that this morning, as kids have shortened day at school.

In interest of full disclosure, I will admit I used to spend a little time out in the backyard trying to rope that bale of hay with the fake calf head with my brother, a la Wonder Woman's lasso of truth; but the fact is, I was no good at it.

So really, our similarity is all about the hair. Because there were some times in the 90s where my hair was so super big and awesome, it defied gravity. It was very, very gorgeous. I think I had a little crush on it, even. (Too bad I dressed like that and spoiled everything.)

Dear Big Hair,

Golly, I missed you so bad. I'm so glad you are coming back. I've got my hot rollers out again. I'm sensing the universe telling me the time is right. All that flat and wispy yuck that started with Ally McBeal is over now, right? Also, I'm so happy about all the hair accessories that the ladies are wearing nowadays. My sister is even wearing something called a fascinator, which is so large it could almost be a hat. Sometimes they include peacock feathers and netting. They are terribly fascinating to me, but I am afraid to go on Etsy and buy meself one, because I'm 35 and maybe they lose their fascination on ladies over 32? Am not sure. 

Love, Beeswax.

Anyhow, I didn't want to make my superheroine decision based solely on hair. 

It seemed a little superficial.

Not like writing about superheros and big hair, which is totally not.

In the end, it all came down to the thighs.

I mean, was there ever really a question?

Let's look at the facts. Do we share: 

Extreme pear shape? Is like looking in a mirror, when I'm wearing red tights and thigh-high boots while looking in a mirror.

Lots of wild children? Yes. Only, I have MORE! (But no one has set himself on fire, yet.)

EXTREME bendiness? Heck yes, am I bendy. Not only with the yoga, but also I totally beat all the UofA cheerleaders on the sit-and-reach in my freshman PE class by like 6 inches. I'm pretty much a sit-and-reach prodigy. Only, I don't think 35 year olds can be prodigies.

Large, man-sized hands with skinny fingers? Totally!

While it is true that she is sporting a traditional bob haircut, while my hair was supposed to be a 'long bob', (but instead I got 'The Rachel'), I think that Mrs. Incredible is my pick. Is as good as I'm gonna get.

So, which superhero/heroine is YOUR doppelganger? Please name and explain your shared traits. Or not. Whatever. You can talk about big hair or roping dummies or Liz's wedding if you like, too.

What I got to say to Shellie, that seemed too long to politely post in the comments section of her blog:

Dear Shellie, 

As you well know, I'm no lurker, but I wanted to tell you that my husband and I were on a date last night at El Charro, a delicious restaraunt mexicano, after the temple, and I was trying to affair-proof my marriage, like Oprah and her cute Jewish doctor friend told me (and all the other ladies of America) to do last week, and not talk about kids or money or work on our date. 

Jake wasn't doing so well at not talking about work. He took me on a tour of properties he manages around the temple both before and after dinner. Oh look, Kelly! Griselda in number 5 just bought that old Buick from Manuel in number 2. It's a real beaute, isn't it? Or Hey! See that guy right there? He owes me two months rent. When I complained about the parade of homes, he mumbled something about writing off the gas. 

So I was kinda of out of ideas (we had already discussed whether or not Oprah was already brainwashing me, since I started Tivoing her two weeks ago. Our consensus was: yes, it does seems so), so then I started telling him about your NCMO/DTR post and we had to pull it up on his iphone, and we laughed and laughed and reminisced about Provo, which was very romantic, of course. So much more than Buicks. But then my chimichanga came, so I had to eat it. I was very hungry, you see. 

After 12 years of marriage, food trumps NCMO. Even talk of NCMO. Plus, you can't really NCMO with your husband. Is only CMO, which is surely better, anyhow. The 'N' can't be the most important part of the acronym, right?

DTRs are real yawners, as well. What do you do, re-read your marriage license?

Anyhow, I didn't really have any stories to share, because no one ever wanted to NCMO with me, except one very odd guy who I met in Sacrament meeting one Sunday, where he invited me to a fireside that night. Only, it turned out to be a Baptist fireside, and then afterward he asked if I wanted to climb into the back seat of my parents' Q45. I know. So tempting, but I turned him down. So I told Jake that story, even though he'd already heard it a few times before (he would probly say, 300 times. I have a tendancy to re-tell the same stories over and over, in manner of brain trauma recovery patient). Jake didn't seem to have anything to say about NCMOs, either. Was pretty tight-lipped on the subject (ha-ha!), actually.

Anyhow, thanks so much to you, Shellie, for your funny blog, which provided us with some delightful date night hijinks-slash-antics. 

(And also some thanks should go to Oprah, I guess.)

(And to her cute Jewish doctor friend, as well, who probly dreams that one day, he'll get his own show, like Dr. Phil. Only, if he does get his own show, he should watch out it doesn't degrade into a Montel-like freak show, like Phil's has.)  

P.S. Shellie, is not your fault you barked at that lady at Church. There is a line between the cyber and real worlds that needs to be crossed delicately, else the shock might cause someone to yell and behave in crazy snake/little bunny rabbit style way.

Your faithful reader,

Beeswax