Confessions of a Radio Wife

I hate country music.

 Oh, it feels so good to admit that.

I know that it’s America’s music, our cultural heritage. I understand that many of the best musicians on earth come from country music, and that its lyrics speak of the common citizen overcoming emotional and societal oppression – and how else would we know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em? From a sound proof distance, I admire country music and its truly talented musicians and songwriters. 

I feel certain country music wouldn’t find me especially entertaining, either, and that we could have lived perfectly contented separate lives, similar to the non-relationships I enjoy with, say, opera and camping, were it not for Columbus radio.

You see, for twenty years or so, country music paid my bills. 

My husband George works in radio, and over the course of nearly our entire relationship he worked his way up the ranks from weekend part-timer to full time DJ to music director to program director at a Columbus radio station. Over the course of those years, his station swung back and forth between classics and current hits, occasionally mixing the two, but tragically, the variety was always well within the bounds of country.

Our son grew up hearing daddy on the radio, and learning the words to every Travis Tritt or Toby Keith song to hit the airwaves. This, combined with what George and I listened to at home, opened Riley up to a rich and varied musical world. 

My own musical world, on the other hand, was already populated and I couldn’t seem to find room for Faith or Dolly, George (Strait or Jones). Every new crop of up-and-comers gave me a migraine. Taylor Swift seems like an awfully sweet kid, but if I could go a single day without hearing one of her songs I will feel truly blessed.

It’s me, I’m not pretending it’s not. The problem usually is me. The heart of the issue, truth be told, has never been so much that I don’t care for country music. Everyone has their own personal likes and dislikes when it comes to music. 

The problem is that I have had to suppress this fact publically for two full decades. I don’t suppress well. Trying to behave in any way that is unnatural makes me uncomfortable, and once I’m uncomfortable, I simply lose all sense of appropriateness and start acting a fool.

For instance, many years ago at the old Germain amphitheater, I was in a backstage meet-and-greet line at a Reba McEntire concert. My husband was escorting the winner of their contest – What’s the Craziest Thing You Would Do to Meet Reba?! I, naturally, was his date. 

We were all wearing radio station tee shirts, and I’d had to borrow mine from another DJ. Reba warmly greeted the winner, pulled out her Sharpie, and began autographing shirts. 

I blanched and said, “No thanks.”

It wasn’t my shirt. 

Would the owner of the shirt have appreciated the autograph of an icon of her chosen field? Oh, I feel sure she would have. 

Ms. McEntire eyeballed me like the social alien that I was. The guy in front of me had literally tattooed a very good likeness of her face (and huuuuge hair) on his arm, all for the opportunity to meet her, and I wouldn’t let her autograph my ten dollar tee shirt. 

You can see why I should never be allowed to participate in this kind of thing – I only embarrass us all. 

There was also that time at the Ohio State Fair when Willie Nelson kissed me full on the mouth. I’m not even sure what went wrong there. 

Anyway, at just about the time our son graduated from Grandview Heights High School and we had to face an impressive tuition bill from Ohio State, George was downsized – released from the land of belt buckles and steel guitars. 

Unemployment is no laughing matter, especially in a field as tough as radio. And yet, I could scarcely conceal my glee over just that one little perk: I would no longer have to sit quietly and smilingly tolerate Kenny Chesney music.

But the better news is that George’s new gig as midday guy on Rewind 103.5/104.3 has him spinning tons of Eighties hits. Goodbye Blake Shelton (I braided his hair once. Don’t ask. I believe I was mistaken for a member of the staff.) Hello, Billy Idol (call me!). I can barely control my joy. 

Oh, one more thing. NASCAR is not a sport. 

This is so freeing!

Zombiepocalypse

The time has come. The Miami Face Eater has clarified the situation. It’s time to piece together the Zombiepocalypse team and craft the game plan.

Am I overreacting? A naked man was spotted eating the face off another naked man in Miami. A cop shot him, and he just looked up and “continued chewing.” Continued chewing another man’s face flesh.

Now, the victim survived. A lot of people were surprised that he was alive during the face eating, but not me, because zombies do not eat dead people. And, I hate to be insensitive – seriously, I do! – but I hope the survivor was restrained once hospitalized so that whatever was left of his face wasn’t able to bite anyone else.

Also, there was a cyclist who tried to separate the two. Has anyone checked that guy for bite marks?

Meanwhile, let’s all get to high ground, or head to a colder climate. And, we need to cobble together the team.

George and Riley – duh. Who else would bother to save my ass?

I’ve kicked around grabbing my brother Buddha, who’s super handy with a cross bow and is most likely to be able to hunt and then know how to generate food from the dead animal than anyone I know. On the downside, he is the loudest person alive. There’s just no whisper setting on that guy.

Also, I need to get to Vermont to grab my brother-in-law Jeff. Eagle Scout – that’s got to come in handy. Of course, he’ll insist on bringing his family, so let’s weigh the pros and cons. Cons: his daughters eat more than several full grown men. Pros: they’re very small, even for small children, and could easily scurry up trees to keep an eye out. His wife, my sister, is a massage therapist – so, basically, always welcome. Plus, that’s about as close to a medical person as we’ll have. Of course, Buddha’s a paramedic. Jesus, can we just get that guy to put a cork in it!

And Liam Neeson. Obviously.

George recommends Bruce Campbell. He’s put on some pounds, but he has the experience we’re looking for. Nice one, honey. Oh, and Woody Harrelson.

I draw the line at Sammy Haggar.

Road Trip!

Around this time last year, Riley announced plans for a road trip with his band. Not a set of gigs or anything. The group was going to pile into a van and drive to North Caroline to see my brother Buddha, stopping along the way to camp.

Five teens load up a van and take a trip into the Deep South. I have seen this movie. It does not end well.

I’m not a camper by nature, nor am I especially comfortable in the south. Or the outdoors, to be honest. I’m not even sure I like vans. Wisely, Riley waited until all other members of the band got their parents’ OK before springing this waiting, bloody disaster on me.

Surely to most people – George, for instance – a summer road trip with buddies seems like the most natural and fun thing to do with some free time. See the world! Bond with friends! Camp! So again, wisely, Riley told us together.

What is it these humans don’t understand? Have they not seen Cabin in the Woods? Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Wrong Turn? The Hills Have Eyes? These films offer the kind of education I believe we should all take into account before planning any adventure.

I wasn’t thrilled.

Lucky for me, Riley would be the handsome leading man, meaning he’d likely survive to tell the tale. I’d hate to be the comic relief sidekick, and God help the underage girls!

They mapped out their destination, got the car tuned up, carried a AAA card for emergencies. All they needed was camping equipment, which my friend Christie kindly supplied. She lent them tents, chairs, a lantern and other recreational whatnot. What she did not provide was the know-how to use the equipment.

Unlike his mother, Riley is not afraid of the woods or strangers or animals or the dark or the south. He would realize, though, that like his mother, he does not care for camping. Terror aside, camping totally blows. You work really hard to provide all you need for a good night’s sleep, only to find that tents don’t suit anyone over 5 foot 5, they leak if you don’t know how to properly set them up, and a sleeping bag on a tent floor over ground is exactly as comfortable as it sounds.

Plus, bugs.

He also learned that getting lost at night on country roads that offer no streetlights, no helpful gas station attendants, and no cell phone reception really is scary – even if there are no inbred cannibals in the vicinity. (Not that you’d know until it was too late!)

Eventually they made it to my brother’s house and spent a day with Buddha and his son in what amounts to my version of a nightmare. 

He has several acres about a mile from any road, about 30 miles from any town. There are woods, fields and swamps on his land, which lend themselves to bears, gators, backwoodsmen, and naturally, bugs. I’m not sure how many of those creatures actually infest the property, but my nephew did once hit a bear with his car, so at least we’re sure one manner of carnivore lives there.

Still, Riley and crew had a lovely time in Ivanhoe, North Caroline. They fished, went to the beach, visited a creepy store (like the one in the Chuck Connors flick Tourist Trap, I assume), ate a lovely meal, did not die, and headed back toward Ohio.

They made it home safely – tired and slightly sunburned, but healthy enough. The only casualty turned out to be Riley’s driving record: he got a speeding ticket somewhere around West Virginia.

The one thing I forgot to worry about.

Honestly Officer, my dad did it!

My next door neighbors in Tiffin were the sainted Celinda and her two smashing sons, Michael and Timothy. My extended family – aunts, cousins, whatnot – literally refer to her as Saint Celinda. This is perhaps due to her unreasonably calm response to the theft of her sons’ bicycles at the hands of two of my visiting cousins, but really, there are countless other reasons.

Had Celinda been a true-born Madden girl, she’d be situated between my brother Buddha and sister Ellen. But this small, olive-skinned Italian girl in the middle of giant, pasty-faced Irishmen was never going to pass as a Madden. I suspect this disappointed my parents.

Long after the genetic Madden kids had split town, Celinda and the boys were looking after our dad. Timothy and Michael shoveled his walk, mowed his lawn, and put up his Christmas tree. Celinda popped in every few days to make sure the man was still alive. 

I know this makes him seem like a decrepit and ancient fellow, but indeed, he was in his sixties at the time and capable of surviving if not thriving on his own. He was just too lazy and too fond of being looked after to do it.

So how did he return the favor? He stole her newspaper, dropped in unannounced for dinner, burned down her kitchen, and on at least one occasion he snuck a peek at her in her underwear. Yet he was surprisingly endearing through it all. 

Though Celinda has long been one of my dearest friends, I started off as her babysitter. Sure, there were “better” babysitters. Some “quality” caregivers learn CPR, read aloud, plan craft projects, prepare the occasional vegetable. But that’s not my bag.

About once a month I’d spend my full week’s wages to take the boys to Pizza Hut and a movie – Pee Wee’s Big Adventure or the sequel, Big Top Pee Wee, for example. You know – the classics. Otherwise, our schedule was pretty consistent: all morning we watched cartoons; most afternoons we watched bad, syndicated sit-coms; all evening we watched movies. 

Some afternoons we’d take a break from Charles In Charge to play. Playtime is important in the development of the youth. We generally developed by pretending we were Transformers or Ghostbusters or Thundercats.

The latter often stirred up controversy because Timothy thought I should be Cheetara, the sole female Thundercat, but I insisted on being mighty Lion-O. I think, secretly, Tim hoped to be Lion-O rather than always getting stuck playing Snarf.

Characteristically, Michael settled on playing the wise, soft spoken Panthro. If they were smarter, the Thundercats would have made Panthro their leader instead of that showboat Lion-O. I believe it was just that weakness that always gave evil Mum-Ra the upper hand, my friends.

Back to the story. It was, indeed, while I was “babysitting” that my dad set Celinda’s kitchen on fire.

I had a hand in it. I had turned on the wrong burner on the stove. Rather than heating up the canned ravioli I’d planned for the boys’ lunch, I heated up last night’s hamburger grease on the skillet on the back burner, which caught fire. 

It was quite spectacular, but entirely controllable. I turned off the back burner and went to the cupboard to find something to douse the flame – baking soda, flour, something like that. In the meantime, I sent the boys to my house next door, just to be safe. Naturally, they told my parents about the fire.

In burst my dad. Cursing under his breath at my clear, perhaps criminal incompetence, he rushed to the sink and began filling a pot with water.

“It’s a grease fire, Dad,” I called from the pantry.

Nothing.

“It’s a grease fire, Dad!”

He continued filling the pot. Then he turned off the faucet and moved, pot in hand, toward the flame.

“DAD! It’s a GREASE FIRE!!” 

No good. My dad’s deaf. 

So, water hit the flame, which rolled up the wall behind the oven, taking out the curtain over the adjacent sink then fanning about a third of the way across the ceiling before burning itself out.

 And still they mowed his lawn.

So, you see, Saint Celinda.

Oh my God, what’s your name? My name’s Lyle…

A few years ago, George and I were staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Cleveland. Why were we staying there? Because somebody else was paying for it. 

We knew Lyle Lovett was playing in Cleveland that night, but because of the work-related purpose of our visit, we would not get to see the show. Bummer.

We would, however, manage to see Lyle.

We’d already run into Julian Lennon in the hotel bar, so if that Cleveland evening wasn’t already star studded, it was at least bedazzled. Late the night of the concert, after a long evening of adult beverages, George and I and several likeminded revelers found ourselves standing in the Ritz-Carlton lobby, laughing loudly at one thing or another when Lyle Lovett entered the premises.

George, in the middle of a story, noticed the imminently noticeable singer/songwriter out of the corner of his eye and announced, “There’s Lyle!”

He really only said it to the four or five of us who’d been chatting. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but George’s voice carries. It’s a radio thing, I guess. Regardless, Lovett heard him, and he’d said it with such familiarity that Lyle apparently, for just a minute, looked over expecting to know who’d said it.

Still warm from the cocktails, George and I decided to pretend we knew him.

We strolled nonchalantly toward Lyle, George smiling with his hand extended. He shook the hand of the now visibly confused Lovett and told him how much we liked the new album.

I insisted that my brain tell my hand to stay away from Lovett’s hair, because I was overcome with the desire to touch it. It’s just such fantastic hair! I wanted to touch it!

I did not.

I did, however, smile like a speechless moron and turned what many have labeled “Hope Madden Red.” (Crayola copyright to follow.)

Lyle smiled politely, thanked us for our kind words, and headed hurriedly toward the elevator.

We trailed him, smiling like a couple of drunken maniacs who might just follow him right up to his room.

As Lovett stood in the elevator and waited for the doors to close, George and I stood facing him, just outside the elevator, waving.

The moment lasted a weirdly long time.

Lovett pushed and pushed at the button for his desperately wanted floor, but nothing happened. The door remained open, the smiling possible stalkers remained just outside the elevator.

Lyle did not realize that, at this late hour, he had to insert his room card into the elevator panel to get the doors to close.

We chose not to tell him.

Cot Troubles

We drove to the Land of Cleve Tuesday to watch a 62-year-old make dozens of thousands of Ohioans look like anemic, easily exhausted old people. Bruce Springsteen puts on an impressive show, that’s all I’m saying.

We were lucky to get tickets, but it appears we were luckier to get a room.

We had splurged a bit on our scalped and excellent seats, and we fully intended to drop some cash on souvenirs (one tee apiece, plus a shirt and set of guitar picks for The Boy, who couldn’t come because, well, we didn’t get him a ticket). Plus there’d be food and, let’s be honest, beverages aplenty. We decided there was no need to pay up for an expensive room as well, so we booked at the Red Roof Inn by the airport.

So, apparently, did about a million middle aged softball players.

We hadn’t been aware of what appeared to be a tournament of every all-male fiftysomething team in the state, so it’s just blind luck that we check in prior to the show. When we saw the hand written sign taped to the door post-concert, we were glad we had.

Due to unforeseen circumstances, your reservation may not guarantee a room.

It makes you wonder how they define “reservation.”

But we didn’t care because we’d already check in, so unless they’d decided to share our room against our will with a couple of balding shortstops and a pot bellied catcher, we were fine. Except that somehow we’d lost our room key and needed a replacement.

I mentioned the beverages?

The late night line at the check in counter was lengthy and unpleasant. Another handwritten sign reminded would-be guests that “reserved” means something totally different under the Red Roof, but by now the grumbling sleepyheads understood they weren’t getting a room.

One guy, though, who was lucky enough to have a room, wanted more. He wanted a cot, and the clerk was running out of different ways to say “we don’t have any.”  

“But I just need a cot.”

“Yeah, we don’t have any.”

Repeat six times.

Finally, after the clerk had resulted to puppet show and interpretive dance, the man slinked away, still cotless.

The clerk turned his attention to George.

Their eyes met. The air grew thick with anticipation as each man knew what was to come.  Fate had given George a gift, and he could not refuse it. The moment was so perfect that future generations of hotel clerks will speak of it with grudging respect.

“Can I help you?”

“Do you have any cots?”

And that, kids, is how one room almost became suddenly available!

Heist

I am planning a heist.

I uncovered valuables at lunch yesterday, valuables that are kept unguarded in my very home. My husband George has more than 900 points on his Subway card.

George and I appreciate a little Subway at lunchtime on Saturdays. The branch we visit sits right across Northwest Boulevard from the Chipotle where we eat dinner about three days a week. Our house has no kitchen at all.

Well, it does, but you’ll find a lot of cobwebs there. And pop tarts.

How lucky for us all that Columbus is the fast food capital of the world!

Two weeks ago we stopped by our favorite Subway location, and a new guy was working. Our new favorite Subway guy. Sure, we love Ben, the Cavs fan who looks like Brad Paisley. But this new guy, he made subs that looked like the advertisements. Delicious, filling subs overflowing with meat and vegetables, toasted perfectly. Big. 

And then, like a dream, he vanished. We haven’t seen him since. George lunches at Subway sometimes on weekdays, but since the dream Sandwich Artist hasn’t returned, I’d lost interest until I realized how many points George’s lunchtime visits had accrued. Yesterday I overheard the cashier remark with amazement about George’s collection of Subway points. How exciting!

“Did we just get lunch for free, then?” I inquired.

“No,” he answered. “I just paid cash.”

I was confused. What was the purpose of collecting enough Subway points to make a cashier gasp – and of denying me my beloved beans and rice – if not to save money on toasted cold cut sandwiches?

“I just like collecting them,” George explained.

It’s like he’s George Clooney in Up in the Air, hoarding those frequent flier miles: “Let’s just say I have a number in mind.”

“But you have so many,” I said, dismayed.

“Yeah, we could probably eat free for a month!” he said excitedly. “But I’d rather collect more.” He said this as if it were in any way sensible.

It was like the time he and our son Riley began collecting Star Wars cans. 

Back around the time George Lucas was ruining memories from my childhood by releasing the craptastic Episodes 1 – 3, Pepsi began issuing collectible cans with character faces on them. I alone put away more than enough Diet Pepsi to quickly seize Queen Amidala and C3PO, but what then? How were we to gather the coveted Jar Jar, Darth Maul or Chancellor Valorum – and why do I let people who care live in my house? Surely we’re not going to start buying Pepsi and Mountain Dew just to fill out this collection of empty cans, right?

Correct. Instead, both my boys rummaged through gas station trash cans to bring home the precious, discarded Mountain Dew and Pepsi cans that would complete their set, which still sits proudly in our basement. Well, some people are proud of it.

We won’t even talk about how I’d have to empty my pockets daily while they searched for missing states to fulfill their quarter collection. How, exactly, was I supposed to pay for the pop to satisfy their can collection if they kept taking all my quarters?

 But here’s the difference between this Subway point collection and those others: I want something out of it.

 Sure, sure. I love my chicken burritos, but let’s be clear: my favorite flavor is free.

 Plus, I can’t eat meat on Fridays and meatless Chipotle is just bean dip.

 No, obviously I must steal George’s Subway card and fill my belly with free processed meat deliciousness.

All I need now is a tiny Chinese acrobat, a bomb specialist, and Brad Pitt.

Oh, and I also need a plan to get that Subway card.

Baseball

Last night George ran past Pierce Field, the big park less than a block from our house where we spent hundreds of hours over the years watching and coaching baseball. A high school JV game was finishing up. Someone got a little teary with nostalgia. It wasn’t me.

It’s true that, although our little slugger Riley is now a college freshman, we still find ourselves drawn to that diamond. Seeing the kids out again this spring in their still-clean uniforms stirs something sentimental in George.

It reminded me of that entire season that Riley neglected to bring home his baseball socks for laundering, wearing the same nasty pair again and again until they ran off on their own to raise an army of filthy boy clothes dedicated to evil.

George assistant coached with his friends Bill and Dan for little league in spring, a summer league at Ohio State, and a fall travel team. For years on end, about 11 boys and their families committed to seeing each other basically every single day from spring thaw to winter’s first snow. Luckily, they’re all very nice – or at least entirely tolerable – people.

Except this one dad who drove us insane year after year.

But aside from that guy, we became a unit.

I can’t define for sure their opinion of me. They’re tolerant, anyway.

I accidentally took the entire team to a mildly inappropriate film on one occasion (that their parents know of), and I never once volunteered to work the concession stand. That second thing, friends, is the mark of a bad baseball parent.

We had a few catastrophes over the years. There was that game George was nearly tossed for his sass mouth, for example.

And the time Riley took a pitch to the hand, breaking his finger. I had to restrain my oldest sister from rushing the field to aid her suffering nephew.

She did blow kisses to my pre-teen hitter, sitting in the dugout, though. I kid you not. Whether or not Riley was kidded is another matter.

We earned a handful of championships over the years to offset the traumas, though, and shared a lot of sun block, bug spray, and juice boxes. And thanks to Kyle’s mom Beth, we always knew the inning, score, and whereabouts of the next game.

It often felt like there would always be a next game, as little league turned into middle school turned into high school. Riley even umped for a few summers.

George really misses it. How can I tell? Because he just bought wiffle balls and bats for our nieces, ages 4 and 7, who’ll come for a visit this summer. No doubt he’ll have them set up with uniforms, cleats and gloves by the time they actually get here in July. “Vivian’s a lefty!” you can hear him exclaim from time to time.

I miss it, too. But to be honest, this whole meandering down memory lane has done more to fill me with dread over the potentially filthy situation with Riley’s socks than anything.

Dad’s Gadgets

I was in Radio Shack recently. I didn’t know they were still in business, actually. I was looking for a digital audio recorder for my brother, and I’d been underwhelmed by Target’s offerings. As a general rule, if I can’t find what I want at Target, I go without. I’m not what you’d call a strong shopper. But on this day I remembered my dad’s old haunt Radio Shack and figured they would likely have the wares I needed.

And amid their low-priced, knock off brand electronics I did, indeed, find a recorder that fit the bill. But that walk down brightly lit aisles brought me more than just an adequate gift for my brother; it brought one particular memory rushing loudly to my brain.

Dad, who loved Radio Shack almost as much as any local Catholic church or that donut shop in downtown Tiffin, frequently picked up bargain bin gadgets. On one shopping adventure he nabbed two items he felt would help him notice when the phone rang.

Dad wore two hearing aids and rarely heard the phone, even with the bell turned all the way up. Late in his life he took to randomly picking up the receiver to see if anyone was there. That’s how you’d get in touch with him: let the phone ring 40 or 50 times in the hopes that he’d be meandering past his end table and decide to chance it. How he expected to hear the conversation on the odd occasion that someone happened to be on the line was a mystery. His concern was how to know it was ringing.

One night, while I was still living at home and working at a nearby restaurant, I’d gone to bed somewhat early. Dad wasn’t home – he’d gone to Toledo to visit my sister.

In the pitch black I was shocked from slumber by the loudest ringing ever heard outside the tower at the Notre Dame cathedral.

RRRRIINNGGGGG!!!

I bolted upright, which made me a tad dizzy as I woozily grappled with what had just happened.

RRRRRIIINNNNGGGGG!!!!!!!!!

You know, because the phone rings every few seconds until someone answers. I hadn’t yet pieced it together in my sleep addled brain, but by that second ring I realized it must be the phone, or some phone-like monster nearby. There were no extensions upstairs, so I tore clumsily out of my bed in an attempt to make it to the first floor before that insane sound returned.

I fumbled down the dark hall, nearly fell headlong down the stairs, and hit the landing just as the phone rang again.

I fell over completely at that point, fairly certain I was simply having a seizure. Maybe there was no ringing at all. Maybe something was eating through my brain.

In the pitch black of the living room, the ear splitting bell was accompanied by a rapid fire flashing light.

He’d purchased – without mentioning it to me – not only an enormous, wall mounted speaker to attach to his phone, but also a large strobe light.  

By the time I recovered enough to answer the damn thing, it had stopped ringing.