The sweetly noxious scent of my ‘tween years poured from my car radio as Janet Jackson’s “When I Think of You” played. Buddy Holly has the same effect on my dad, though he tends to recall grass clippings and gunpowder. I envy that in a way; he can revel in the scent of adventure at the sounds of a pioneer of rock n’ roll of whereas I’m forced to inhale naïve desperation and every time a ridiculous synth-pop song plays.

Damn the 80s – and XM radio for forcing me to remember them; there is very little about that decade that could ever be so refreshing to remember, least of all my youth.

I spent the summer of ’86 slathered in Coppertone oil, my nacho cheese-stained fingers eagerly flipping through Seventeen magazine. That’s where I got the idea to start using Sun-In, and at the time it seemed a good one. Rarely did I leave the house without multiple spritzes of the stuff singeing my scalp and it wasn’t long before Yahoo Serious decided to capitalize on my look. I guess it didn’t help that I also took a crimping iron to my hair on most days.

It could have been worse, I suppose. I could have given in to the temptation to get a perm, or I could have cut my own bangs. My friend Renee did both that summer, and the result was unfortunate. We spent an entire afternoon at the drug store near my house searching for a barrette, a bow, a headband – anything to wrangle that nightmare into place. I talked her into buying a bottle of Sun-In as well. Needless to say, we’re no longer in touch.

My efforts might have been somewhat misguided, but you can’t say I didn’t try. I layered my neons, cuffed my Esprit pants, flipped my pink Izod collar and I somehow still came out looking as though I’d been run over by a street sweeper.

It forced me to dread my family’s annual 4th of July trek that summer, not because I didn’t want to go, but because I had a litany of fashion-related fears. My family was about to pack up the car with burger-making supplies, brownies, pies, blankets, bathing suits, explosives, and liquor to head to a place I knew only as “the country,” and all I could do was panic.

Seventeen never really explained how to actually live in your clothing – white pants were definitely not made for bike riding; there was no way my hair was getting near lake water, no matter how rapidly it dehydrated; and I seriously doubted my teal mascara would hold up under regular mistings of mosquito repellant.

Not that I had anyone to impress, of course. “The country” was several acres of nature-ridden land my grandfather owned somewhere south of Chicago. He built a four-bedroom house off the lake, fashioned a beach, and opened it to the extended family of aunts, uncles and cousins for regular gatherings.

We’d all grill and hike and go for rides on the back of my grandfather’s giant lawnmower, and at night my cousins and I would sneak wine coolers out of the icebox while my dad blew things up. I had no idea how I was going to do any of those things under the weight of what I considered to be my fashion responsibility. My mother likely regretted ever buying me that first copy of Seventeen as she tried desperately to get me to put on a pair old shorts before we left that morning.

I was a ‘tween; I didn’t have words for the confusion, the wild urge to be “cool” or the conflicting impulse to be a kid. All I had was a page ripped from my current fashion bible with a picture of a girl I longed to be. Even if it meant wearing leggings, a denim skirt, oversize button front shirt and ropes of fake pearls into the woods on a 100-degree day.

My mother relented to my pleas to keep the ridiculous outfit on, but only with my agreement to a compromise: that I pack a bag with shorts and a t-shirt “just in case.”

That was fair enough. I added my Walkman, a couple magazines and a bottle of Love’s Baby Soft perfume and was on my way.

My cousins were already running wild when we arrived. Their eyes widened as I gingerly navigated my way up the gravel driveway to the house. It was the farthest thing from a runway as I could get, but I maintained what shaky composure I had until I made it to our bedroom, where I threw my bag on the bed in frustration.

This “cool” thing was not easy. The entire family was outside readying gear to go fishing, and I was left to roam the house alone. Seventeen could cure my pimples and instruct me on applying eye shadow, but it offered nothing to cure my loneliness.

I wandered into one of the bedrooms in back. We never really used the house that much outside the summer, but over the years it collected more and more of the entire family’s excess stuff. That particular room seemed to serve more for storage than sleeping quarters, and with nothing better to do, I started rummaging.

Most of it was junk – stuffed animals, old clothing, the usual surplus from growing families. A box on the dresser caught my eye. Piles of magazines spilled out, their glossy covers beckoning to be opened. I brightened a bit; there was nothing like the thrill of discovering a new magazine to make my day.

I grabbed a stack and stretched out on the bed with a bag of Doritos at my side. They were the Snack Food of the Gods as far as I was concerned that summer, and I never read anything without them. Something about the combination of a magazine, and the salty tang of cheese and crunchy corn equaled bliss in my little ‘tween world, and for the first time all morning, I had hope that the day might improve.

Little did I know how much.

A few pages past the cover and I knew instantly that this was not the typical fashion magazine. My biggest clue, of course, was that none of the women were wearing clothing. Fate had indeed smiled on me that morning, because I had inadvertently stumbled across an expansive collection of Playboy magazines.

What shocked me most about the magazines was not the lack of clothing – I’d been watching grade B horror movies for years before then, and topless women were nothing new – it was how relaxed, comfortable and happy they all looked.

Each page held something different to marvel at. Look! There’s a woman on a bicycle – and she’s wearing shorts! Look! There’s a woman fixing a car – she’s getting dirty and she’s happy about it!

Obviously, the concept of erotica was lost on me.

I only saw gorgeous women doing everyday things without any fashion hindrances. No labels, no hang ups, just fun. And in one unforgettable instant, Playboy magazine taught me the most important lesson of my burgeoning life: that less is most definitely more.

Cheers from outside interrupted my page-turning. My cousin had just caught a fish and was holding it up with pride. Suddenly, that bag my mom had made me pack seemed less distasteful. If the women in Playboy could run around outside without the layers of clothing and still look beautiful, so could I.

With my makeup washed off, hair in a ponytail, and last year’s gym uniform on, I ran outside to join my family. They never knew what inspired the dramatic change, but on that particular day, there were no complaints.

It’s funny now how much impact that day had. Eventually I gave up my bottle of Sun-In, I learned to temper fashion with reality, and to this day I forego most makeup.

Admittedly, I do still love Dorietos and a good magazine, and I may now have an uncontrollable (though not inexplicable) lust for lingerie, but of all the challenges the 80s threw at me, I guess that’s not such a bad fate after all.

That was, of course, before this Midwestern pit of despair reared its desperate little head and dumped several gallons of chilly rain on us. No matter, though. The thaw lasted long enough to prompt my guy and I to head out for our first margaritas of the season and spend the remainder of the night hillbilly-style, camped out in lawn chairs on our driveway.

I’ve even gone so far as to break out the open-toed heels to welcome the new season. Perhaps it’s a bit premature, but frigid pools of icy run-off be damned! I’ll break these suckers in before the book tour hits Las Vegas (27 days and counting!) if it kills me, or hypothermia sets in, whichever comes first.

It’s safe to say that the impending change of season has allowed giddiness to usurp my usual stabbiness for the time, and all I can say is – it’s about damn time. When I find myself Googling phrases like, “alternative uses for piano wire” and “what does lime do to a corpse” I know winter has gone on too long.

Fortunately, there are enough diversions and amusements during the days now to keep my wacky, “All work and no play make Juliette a dull girl” self at bay.

For example, three things that made me happy this weekend:

1. Stringing my guy’s bass unsupervised.
The key word being, of course, “unsupervised.” Deep down I know there are space chimps that could likely string a bass as well as I do, but I still get a thrill from being entrusted with the responsibility. I’ve even gotten good enough at it that my guy can hand me a pack of strings, walk away, and return to a perfectly strung bass. Of course, I might have downloaded a gig-worth of “bass teching for idiots” iphone aps, just to confirm I don’t break anything in the process, but my guy never needs to know about that.

2. Belting out backing vocals for my guy’s band in the studio.
When I accompanied my guy to the recording studio to watch his band record a track for the NHRA, the last thing I expected was to be tossed in the vocal aquarium. My tinny little voice is just one on many, many layers of phrases like “hot rod, hot,” but for a few minutes, I got to pretend I was a musician. There’s a “Yoko” warning light flashing somewhere, but I’m choosing to ignore it.

3. Free wine.
The only way to top off a nightcap of truffles and chocolate covered strawberries? A free bottle of wine from a friendly bartender at the best local winery in Illinois.

It’s good to have the alcohol on hand, actually, seeing as how I still need to prepare my talk for my next book reading/signing. I’m breaking with tradition and NOT actually reading from my book, but instead sharing stories from rock n’ roll past. Shameless plug: Don’t miss it! March 20, 2pm at Borders in Oak Brook.

After that, it’s on to Barnes & Noble in Vegas in April, movies at the drive-in, betting on horses at Arlington, and whatever else Spring may bring.

Check out my latest press clipping with Sun-Times media. I’m particularly amused by the full glass of whiskey at my side.

http://www.suburbanchicagonews.com/beaconnews/lifestyles/2034835,AU08_AUTHOR2_P1.fullimage

I, of course, am not on it. It’s my own fault really; I’ve steadfastly refused to play nice in the proverbial sandbox since my start as a blogger years ago. And that’s fine, especially considering that I appear to lack every single aspect from the blogosphere’s top elements for relevance.

Case in point: in 2009, I:

1) Did not get pregnant, give birth, or become a parent. It seems as though every chick who has gotten knocked up fancies herself a writer these days. Belching out children is amusing enough I suppose, and yay them for that whole launching a new life thing and all, I’m just not convinced all these blathering “momversations” make for anything other than weathered cautionary tales. A chick like me can only read so many botched episiotomy stories, excruciating toilet training soliloquies, and “vaccinations equal retardation” arguments before she logs off permanently and schedules an emergency appointment to double her birth control.

2) Could not name a single prime time network TV show. Oh, I’m not so pretentious as to claim I didn’t watch any television – I caught episodes of Entourage and Curb Your Enthusiasm whenever I could, I just (wrongly) assumed that they mean nothing. Silly me. If Time believes that recounting the plotlines of television shows (written by someone other than the blogger) makes for a stellar blog, who am I to fight it? Perhaps in the new year I will begin documenting every single episode of Man Vs. Food until I see the one I crave, where what’s-his-name finally succumbs to the ultimate competitor: his heart.

3) Failed to appropriately comment on the economy, politics, and celebrities. Name dropping, be it celebrity, cultural event or news story, seems to be the biggest blog seller on the Internet. It’s always been my policy to opine only when I have an actual story to tell, and since the online world seems to think in 180 characters or less, I fear it may be time I rethink my writing. Instead of relating the story about how I was nearly run over when an overly self important musician darted into his awaiting limo and sped away, rather than saying hello to the only two people waiting in the backstage alley for him, I should instead just write, “Davy Jones is a gay, douche nozzle, ass monster.”

4) Refused to link to other blogs, articles and web sites. According to Time, to be a “best” blog, one need not have original content. All one needs to do is create a dumping ground of links to other sites. I can have shiny object mentality, too – and swear to soon create my own “Links Not Language” blog.

5) Avoided interaction in comment forums. The real content of a blog isn’t so much in its posts, but in the comments people leave about them. That’s where a blogger can really flex her writing muscles: nothing says “future Pulitzer winner” like a two-paragraph tirade that includes gems such as, “U R a donkey sucking hoze beast thats’ goin to hell. I don’t start shit on boards but ur too stupid to know it.” Sadly, my fondness for punctuation, grammar and not verbing letters or numerals would brand me a “noob” the second I poked my nose into any comment forum – I’m best leaving that to the professionals.

I suppose I’m coming off as a bitter writer throwing sour grapes, and I’ll admit it: I am. Half the blogs on Time’s list weren’t even blogs by the traditional “web journal” definition, but repositories of random links and jabber-inducing headlines by people who are too cheap to dish out the six bucks a month for a real website.

Therefore, my allegiance is officially being thrown in with all the real writers of the world, who also happen to maintain blogs – we may not post often, we may never be able to tell you all the nominees for Grammys or Oscars or Heismans, and we will only flame you for misusing an apostrophe, but you can always count on every word being crafted carefully and with complete dedication to our story, whatever it may be.

And just to ensure Time and all their “best blogs” get my point, I’ll just sum it up in 180 characters or less: suck it, ass monsters.

PS – New blog coming soon detailing my guy’s attempts to teach me a song on bass and my eventual debut on stage. This may not end well for anyone.

Juliette Miranda

I have enough trouble with the term groupie; roadie isn’t much of an improvement. I am neither. I am my guy’s girlfriend and bass tech. Admittedly, the distinctions are fuzzy at best: my own line involves a refusal to carry gear or work the merch table. And as much as I like to believe my ability to string and tune my guy’s bass at soundcheck makes me better than the rest, it doesn’t change the fact that I am still, at heart, a fan.

Still, I consider it a privilege to be a part of my guy’s musical career in all my capacities: girlfriend, partner, bass tech, fan, and even critic. It’s a complex balance that does indeed provide insight into the world of music that not everyone is granted access.

That’s why, as I watch my guy become a member of a new band, I thought it useful to create a primer of sorts – a checklist to ensure that we can both enjoy his next musical endeavor. I hereby present:

Top 10 Ways to Know Your Guy Has Joined a Good Band

10. He’s not replacing someone who a) got carted off for starting too many fires b) had a curfew or c) ran off to join the German production of Cats.

9. “Sweet Child of Mine”, “Iron Man” and “Jessie’s Girl” are NOT in the set list.

8. The band doesn’t have a street team … run by the singer.

7. The first photo shoot isn’t scheduled to take place in front of a brick wall or by railroad tracks.

6. The band’s website and press kit are not written and maintained by their fans or girlfriends.

5. Shows are not booked at clubs where a) the bartender is also the sound guy b) the drummer’s mother’s van is the backstage or c) a passport, concealed weapon and inoculations are needed to get there.

4. No member of the band currently owns and/or wears anything circa 1987, regardless of whether they can still zip it up.

3. Phrases like, “Yeah, we have connections,” and “We’ve got a label deal in the works,” are never uttered.

2. The merch table doesn’t include specialty items like cheap panties with the band’s photo on them.

1. When the guitarist calls to schedule rehearsal, he says, “We’re all bringing our girlfriends with us; you should invite yours, too.”

My guy believes that I am the only woman in the entire world who has ever sputtered the words “chloroform” and “bouillabaisse” in the same sentence, but I’m not so sure. Martha Stewart appears to blink crazy every so often, and from what I’ve read in the tabloids could likely put the two words together to form a recipe well-suited for a cooking show from hell. Not that I haven’t mentally made the same combo, too, of course, but fortunately for my guy (and the general population), my crazy stays in check.

Most of the time.

Crazy runs in my family, I’m afraid. Mostly it’s been the Beautiful Mind kind of crazy – where genius comes with a side serving of compulsive ticks and maybe an apparition or two. We laugh about it more than anything else, and perhaps boast just the slightest bit as we regal each other and guests with stories that begin with phrases like, “Remember the chicken bones!”

They’d been heaped on a plate, a tangled mass of legs and wings awaiting transport to the trash compactor when my father got to them. His eyes circled the plate. Where I only saw the remains of a dead and cooked animal, he saw something more. And he stared at it for nearly an hour, unblinking and steady.

Even my mother wasn’t sure what to make of my dad’s catatonia. We cleared the dishes around him, held a mirror under his nose, and made nervous conversation until something snapped back in place and he returned to the land of the socially functional.

Two days later my father had the thesis for his doctoral dissertation.

I’d like to say that my own crazy has the same productive results. Unfortunately, I fear all it does is make my guy secretly program the local psych ward into speed dial.

I was half ready to make the call myself last weekend. Admittedly, I was edgy, having read far too many Martha Stewart Living magazines in preparation for a dinner with my guy’s family that night. I’d finally located my bouillabaisse recipe and was surveying the living room to ensure all was correct before I began cooking.

Rationally, I realize my home will never resemble Martha Stewart’s. I’d sooner jab myself in the ear with scissors than craft anything, and my idea of decorating involves displaying artbooks of industrial erotic surrealism on the coffee table and hanging a string of Indonesian Spirit Birds made out of multi-colored bandanas in the kitchen.

But I do take great pride in our bookshelves. I fell in love with them the second I saw them in the store – so much so that my guy had to prevent me from walking up and licking the shelves.

Since being delivered, I’ve lovingly filled them: first run hard covers, well worn paperbacks, framed photos and random things we’ve collected. My odd organization system likely makes my guy dizzy, and certainly wouldn’t win any nods from Ms. Stewart, but everything in those bookshelves has a specific order, and I can tell at a glance if something is out of place.

What my system doesn’t account for is the random misfirings of my brain when I am anxious or stressed. That particular day, as I planned a menu and hoped I could host my guy’s family with enough grace to cover my usual social bumblings, I lost something. My sense, my logic, whatever glue it is that holds my brain in place came undone, and as I stared at the bookshelf, I believed with every fiber of my being that a prized possession was missing.

A large amethyst that my father had given me when I was younger was supposed to be sitting on top of a stack of Charles Bukowski books. I KNEW this. I knew this because I loved that rock, treasured it and made a point to look at it and think about my dad every so often, conveniently forgetting to consider that he is slightly nuts.

I ran my hands over every single book on the shelves, hoping to somehow find the rock in a rearranged place. I began to panic as it became clearer that the rock was. not. there. Conspiracy theories raced through my brain. My guy had recently held a band rehearsal in the living room. Could the new guitarist also be a klepto? Could he have seen the amethyst, been entranced by its glimmer or thought it valuable and slipped it into his guitar case when no one was looking?

Or had my guy in a fit of playfulness snuck it off the shelves to test my neuroses? It was the more unlikely of the scenarios, yet it didn’t stop me from ambushing my guy the second he walked into the room.

“Where is my rock?” I asked, lips quivering and eyes rolling around their sockets. “You know the one – you made fun of it once and when I said it was from my father you stopped and it was on the bookshelf I know it was and now it isn’t and where is it!”

My guy looked at me the same way you look at a pet who has snatched something you need back: slightly amused, yet with trepidation. I’m sure he wanted to prevent me from gnawing off what was left of the sanity we both needed.

“Calm down,” he said. “Are you sure it isn’t in your closet?”

Of course I was sure. I had held it up and polished it and always kept it with my books.

“Are you sure you unpacked it when we moved in?”

Of course I was sure. I had packed it in the same box as the Living Dead Doll I wasn’t allowed to put on our bookshelves and the record album I meant to frame just as soon as I unpacked it. And with that, my eyes blurred, my brain slowed and it suddenly dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, I had never put the rock on the shelf at all.

My loving guy went to our garage as I sat with my head in my hands then, found the box I had not unpacked, unpacked my rock, and came back up to place it in my hands.

As I shook off my crazy and displayed my favorite rock where it belonged, I gave my guy an embarrassed smile, hoping he still found me cute enough to humor.

He gave my head a few soothing pats and told me it was all okay.

“I have my own weird issues,” he said. And to show me that I am not alone in my wackiness, took me to the garage and pointed to the license plate on my car.

“Look at the number 2,” he said. “It’s bigger than all the other numbers. I’ve stood here nearly every day staring and wondering why. It drives me insane.”

I looked. He was right; the two was bigger. I smiled with the realization that my guy is equally wacky, and he smiled back. Relief washed over me as he engulfed me in a hug, and I knew that we could both be freaks together happily. It was an unexpected, but welcome, ingredient to our relationship.

We walked back into the house, and as I turned to close the door behind us, I caught site of my license plate. What the hell is up with that two anyway? I made a mental note to investigate further. I’m sure my guy will understand.

“Sure,” I said, letting an insincere smile pull tightly over my teeth. I always have time to chat with Human Resources.

It seems wherever I work I have the opportunity to get well acquainted with HR. It’s never so much a testimony to my work ethic, but more a result of an overly anxious corporate environment. Here especially, seeing as how HR knows not only my credit score, but also the contents of my pee.

I’ve come to accept such indignities as routine in a workplace, and as I settled myself at the foot of HR this time, I braced myself for a request for bone marrow or spinal fluid.

As far as I could think, there wasn’t much reason to call me in. Unless, of course, my casual Friday Rob Zombie “Blood Mania!” t-shirt offended someone. Snark had gotten the better of me that morning, and the shirt I typically reserved for concerts and horror movie conventions seemed a nice contrast to the usual office attire.

But when HR began our chat with the phrase “ladies are talking”, I knew it wasn’t my t-shirt that was offensive.

The scene unfolded like a bad musical, and I half expected a gaggle of Ladies Auxiliary members to tap into the room and cluck their commentary alongside my HR rep:

“… you were with I’m assuming your boyfriend…”

(She’s not married, she’s not married!)

“… inappropriate public affection…”

(They were kissing, they were kissing!)

“… brought to my attention…”

(Look at them, look at them!)

“… consider the environment…”

(It’s indecent, it’s indecent!)

My skin started to crawl; I guessed it was a scarlet letter burning its way to the surface. The only thing I could think was: “Really? Are we really having this conversation?” Because as it was, the pitchforks those office folk carried were raised over nothing more than a single kiss my guy and I shared. At lunch. In his car. For less than 10 seconds.

Had my guy and I been pressed against the main entrance of the building, tongues a-twirl and clothing disheveled, HR and the Hens (which is SO the name of my new fake band) would have had a valid point about my perceived moral deficiency.

Frankly, I would have preferred that to be the case. It certainly would have made accepting the reprimand easier. Instead, I was forced to defend my decision to lock my guy in something other than a loose handshake in a place where Victoria’s Secret, when mentioned at all, is referred to as “Vicky’s” in hushed and embarrassed whispers in the restroom.

Needless to say, my rendition of “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” fell flat. I left HR with an updated list of things I cannot do: make personal phone calls, use the internet for personal business, and kiss my boyfriend on company property.

I commiserated with my guy at home that night, jokingly calling myself the “office whore” and predicting that the next time we meet for lunch, the only thing visible in his car would be my head bobbing up and down.

“Baby,” he said, “you can do anything you want on your last day.”

I smiled, and added that to my mental “to do” list. My last day had the potential to be very busy indeed.

It’s taken residence just close enough to the bottom of my eye that I see it every time I glance down, a swollen reminder of two things: one, that the baby jesus obviously hates me and two, that my birthday is fast approaching.

Involuntary impulses have me checking my reflection every 20 minutes or so, as if I will somehow catch the thing diminishing in size. It only seems to get redder and larger and more like a panic button on a nuclear warhead though, forcing me to consider alternative fashion accessories like paper bags and potato sacks.

It is fortunate that my driver’s license still has a year to go before requiring renewal, as I am still living with the picture that was taken right before my 30th birthday when I was, oddly, waging battle with a similar zit. 

I remember the DMV guy eying it when I confirmed my age; he was likely comparing me to his 17 year-old complexion-challenged daughter and wondering whether I was trying to pull a fast one in order to score beer.I find it slightly disturbing that this mark of the devil has blighted my skin again. Could there be such a thing as a birthday zit? It certainly has a repulsive sort of symbolism to it.

Maybe there is some mystic quack out there who could crack this fucker open and read the goo like tea leaves or entrails. Because I’d prefer to think that having this thing would offer me some other benefit than scaring young children from my path. If my zit can be an oracle of wisdom, so be it.

Still, considering the radius of facial territory it has usurped, I’m guessing my birthday zit would only confirm that I am indeed loaded with snark. My guy would likely agree, but he’s just mad because I threatened to kill his nonexistent ferret. 

I come from a family of hunters and mink coat wearers; what else am I supposed to think when I see a pile of furry vermin? Admittedly, the ferrets were in Petco, and not the wild, which may be why my guy was charmed by them.

They were cute enough, I suppose, but not so much that I wanted to take one home with us. We have enough to contend with between my own shedding and the random balls of fur our cat yaks up; a ferret would disturb our happy little ecosystem. 

“C’mon! What would you do if I came home one day with little Taco around my neck?” my guy asked.

(Oh yes, he’s even named his imaginary pet.) 

“I’d turn him into a cover for your favorite golf club,” I replied. If I felt a tingle in my cheek when I said that, I didn’t notice. I was too busy crafting a mental list of Ways to Use a Dead Ferret. By the time I’d hit number 47, I’m sure I secured not only this stupid zit, but a toasty room in hell, too.

Not that it stopped me from giggling, of course.

Who knows, maybe my body really did create the birthday zit as part of some pagan snark cleansing ritual. It’s also possible it’s punishment for all my evil doings of late. Or perhaps I just ate too much cheese last week.

Whatever the case, I’d really rather not start my new birthday year looking like a cautionary tale, so I hereby extend my apologies to all those I may have offended recently: Davy Jones… the baby jesus… and even little Taco the Ferret. Cut a chick some slack already, would ya? 

Random side note: My guy’s band recently open for Skid Row, and there is a 15 year-old me somewhere smacking the crap out of myself now for ducking out before Skid Row took the stage. (Sorry guys, but I lost interest right around the time you released an EP of cover songs.) Still, it was a fun night, and I always love to see my guy playing to a packed room. A few pics below, click thumbnails for larger images.