Voices

In 1983, I was at Chimacum High School in the farthest boondocks of Washington State. I was 15. Alternately a good kid and a raging lunatic. I was woefully unpopular and growing out an unfortunate asymmetrical haircut. I was learning to drive and listening to the Stones and The Who and Duran Duran and I even lip-synched Irene Cara's "Why Me?" at a talent show.

The man I will soon marry was 22, in a band, managed by Barry Manilow. They dressed him in white leather and razor-cut clothes and a bandanna. He had a small son. He was a rock star in California. Had we met then, I'm sure he would have been nicely dismissive. I would have been too young. He is good. So good and so kind. And I was such a dork.

I took the scenic route to where I am now. There is no way I would have predicted that it would take a good 27 more years until I got married. No less, to a man with three children and one grandchild (still taking suggestions on what to be called as Evan's grandmother. My grandmother preferred "Grace" or "Gracie").

I do believe that time knows its own way and travels in the path it is supposed to. But I do wish, the tiniest bit, I could have been the girl with the fake ID and too much eye makeup in the audience who could have scored a makeout session with Steve after the gig.
 

Soundtrack of Our Lives

Could It Be Magic - Barry Manilow

When you're 40licious, you have a very specific soundtrack to your life. My first memories of music were dancing for anyone who would watch in my dad's home office, the long leather couch a stage, to Teresa Brewer's "Put Another Nickel in Music Music Music." Later, there was listening to disco and yacht rock on a Snoopy transistor radio under my pillow -- Little River Band, Dionne Warwick, Kenny Rogers, Eric Clapton ("Lay Down Sally" seemed like a very dirty song to me). And then on to junior high and high school for a stupefying cocktail consisting mainly of New Wave/Southern Rock/Led Zeppelin/Journey/REO Speedwagon/Foreigner/Loverboy, infused with the adolescent yearnings of the FAME soundtrack. (I also lip synched Irene Cara's "Why Me?" at a talent show in a gold lame top over a black pleather miniskirt.)

There are the breakup albums, with the Cranberries and Ani Di Franco leading the pack. And always through everything, Beatles, since I took it upon myself to illustrate what Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds might look like.

So I don't know why it is that tonight, getting ready to hunker down for my homebody Saturday with a French film (I'm in a phase, but please do get Jean de Florette and Manon of the Spring, you will be so much richer as a person for seeing them), and I do a little channel flip to see Tony Orlando and some middle-aged woman with a Mom haircut hawking the Time-Life collection "Romancing the 70s." It's a monstrous compendium of 156 songs. These songs are in my DNA. I've heard them all thousands of times. And I don't know why I am so riveted by the clips of Anne Murray, Neil Sedaka, Lionel Ritchie, BJ Thomas, Captain & Tenille -- there are scores -- in their 70s flair and gloss. But I am, and I can't turn away, and choking back tears is a futile effort.

My first reaction is to wonder why I am so moved by this music, these wide collars and far out hairstyles. A mental check confirms it is not PMS.

It is because the 70s were about summer breezes and midnight trains to Georgia and morning breaking. Danny's song and Annie's song. Or knocking three times and taking a little afternoon delight. Asking if you know where you're going to.

I can't think of a contemporary song that grabs me in the exact same spot. Maybe it's nostalgia. Maybe it's because I know I'll never love this way again.

40licious: The Movie!

Birthday. Vegas. Barry.

I am complete.

Announcing the 40licious Hall o' Fame!

Because I am officially now 40licious, and hence I can do whatever I want, I hereby announce the creation of the 40licious Hall o' Fame!

My first inductee is one Ms. Kathlyn Albright, my good friend and collaborator from the Seattle days, who just up and decided that she's going to run the L.A. Marathon for her 40th birthday. Just like that! (And I thought I was a bad-ass going to Vegas to see Barry Manilow!) In all the time I've known her, she has never been, truth be told, much of an athlete, unless you count going up and down the bazillion Escherian steps to her apartment. I didn't even know the woman owned a pair of sneakers. But there she was, texting me from the racecourse (I know. So L.A.). She finished in a little over eight hours and raised more than $2,000 for cancer.

Kathlyn prepares for the big race

I hope all of us can learn a little something from Kathlyn: That you can indeed drink yourself silly two nights before a marathon, flirt with a sexy bartender and still finish with dignity and grace.

That, my friends, is the definition of 40licious.