For the Love of the Game

It’s no secret that I’ve had a rough go in my personal life the last few years. Of course, no one has perfection and bad shit happens to everyone, however, I’ve been numbed to the point that I don’t expect the worst but am surprised by nothing. Nothing.

Martians falling from the sky? We believe you.

It’s also no secret that I love college football – especially my alma mater, the Iowa Hawkeyes.

Fans #1 and #2.

It can be hard for those who experience trauma to remain in the moment, appreciating what life offers up for enjoyment. No matter how small the pleasure.

The last day that I can truly say I was ‘in the moment’ was December 5, 2015. I got to experience the first Big Ten Championship with my dad, The Silent Indian (who cheered for the wrong team) and Camo with my Iowa Hawkeyes taking on Sparty of Michigan State.

Big four at the Big Ten game.

It was one of the best days of my life even though Sparty won in the literal last second of the game.

All the after morning feels.

Four days upon returning home from that game, I was pushed out of a career that I’d worked my ass off to obtain in the music business. Eleven days after that, I experienced the worst Christmas of my life – a day I cherish (almost as much as my birthday) due to family dynamics shifting and my unwillingness to accept it. Less than one month later, a woman who was like a little sister to me died in a car accident. That evening, I went to my best friend’s house and was raped by her boyfriend.

I went into deep personal hibernation.

Somebody wake me when it’s 2025.

The day I was at the hospital awaiting my rape kit to be performed, I was asked if I’d like an advocate to come sit with me. I didn’t know if I did or didn’t because as my bare ass was hanging out of the back of a hospital gown, I was in a state of shock. An advocate was called on my behalf. Aside from her beyond sweet demeanor, her name being Barbie (I mean, c’mon!), her fabulous Louis Vuitton purse (obvies the right advocate for me), she said something that still rings true to this day.

“There will be a before rape in your life. And there will be an after rape.”

A before and after. Seems like a simple enough concept but I did not comprehend then how fucking true this would be in my daily life moving forward.

The Before: last selfie I took before Rapegate.

The After: first selfie taken after Rapegate.

It’s now been 1,277 days since the saga of Rapegate began. At first it was all-consuming, eating me up – a worm in my brain, invading every moment of my sleep, thoughts, feelings – I had no idea that I might as well have been standing at the bottom of Mount Everest, readying to climb 29,029 feet with zero conditioning.

My thoughts on hiking.

Thing is, life goes on all around even though time stands still for victims of any sort of trauma. For me, I was stuck on January 29, 2016 but I still had a job to find, bills to pay, fur ball mouths to feed and personal hygiene to maintain (this took much insisting from Mrs. America and my sister). I just wanted to wallow on my leopard couch and have it swallow me whole but of course that didn’t fucking happen.

Not so fresh and so clean clean.

With the support and love from my family, friends, and readers of this blog (my sparkly army), I was encouraged to put one (semi-clean) foot in front of the other and got into counseling. I’ve tirelessly acted as my own advocate with a horrendous detective, found a job, kept my lights on, was diagnosed with PTSD, adjustment disorder and severe stress and stumbled forward.

I don’t wanna but I’m gonna!

Through what felt like a continuous avalanche in my life, I put on the happiest face possible and plowed forward. Although, everything had less meaning, was less fun, was just not right. I went to my fave watering hole Dalts, invited girlfriends over, tried to read books but couldn’t remember the page I just read, watched TV only to forget what the episode was about as my mind couldn’t stay focused, stopped going to yoga and jogging due to not being able to be alone with my thoughts – because the aftermath of Rapegate was never far.

SAY WHAT?

Trying to trudge through life, every step felt like I was moving through snow waist deep. Yet again, life stops for no one. Aunt Crazy Pants was diagnosed with terminal cancer almost six months to the day after I was raped. She passed just a little over two years ago, ten days after I suddenly lost the fur ball love of my life, Ted. The searing dual losses not only felt like unusually cruel timing but also like a hot iron had been stabbed into my chest. I’d never experienced the throes of despair (navigating my way out of Rapegate), alongside devastating, life altering grief (losing those we deeply love) at the same time.

There’s not enough wine for this.

While I was home for ACP’s celebration of life, I had an opportunity to go tailgating with my Uncle Toddy, Aunt Crispie, my cousins and their many friends at the in state rivalry of the Iowa Hawkeyes versus the Iowa State Cyclones. It was a thrillingly unexpected day jam-packed with tailgating shenanigans.

The friendly family rivalry…

Battle of the birds.

The fun of endless booze all around…

I hate tailgating.

The classiness of passing time while waiting to use the port-a-potties…

Shotski for three please.

Having to ask your uncle if there’s anyone he’s friends with in his season ticket section just in case I embarrass him with my big, loud pie hole…

A beauty and a sparkly beast.

Embarrassing my youngest cousin with all the right moves…

Cousin love is acceptable below the Mason Dixon line.

Up close and personal for the live action overtime win didn’t suck!

End zone win baby!

Afterward, I realized how much fucking fun I truly had that day. I lived in the moment for the first time in almost two years – at yet another football game. I didn’t think about anything other than what I was partaking in every. single. second. The bands marching through the tailgates. The booze. The Hawkeye buses arriving. The booze. The food. The booze. The rivalry. The family and friends I was enjoying the fuck out of spending time with. The game I got to watch from the end zone and the exciting win by the Hawks in overtime.

Some cousins took it well.

Others were sore losers.

Point is, for a brief day I got a taste of what it will be like when I transfer from survivor to thriver. I felt normal. I felt the fun I was experiencing. I felt like pre-rape me for once in almost two years. And it was fucking fantastic, freeing and I caught a glimpse of my old self starting to shine through the cracks I still carry.

Fist forward.

I’m happy to report that in the two years after this fun day of football, I will be there again this upcoming Saturday as a thriving survivor. And holy shit Ames, look the fuck out. This survivor is gonna be there in the wee hours of the morning to secure a spot to see my 82 year old boyfriend, Lee Corso, with the rest of the College Game Day gang.

At the end of every episode, Lee picks one of the two teams featured and my fucking fingers, toes and legs are crossed that I get to see him don a Herky head.

Everything else is triple fucking crossed that I not only get to lay eyes on Lee but also, hopefully, maybe just maybe, get my hands on my other boyfriend, Herky the Hawkeye.

Stud.

I attended the University of Iowa for four years and never once got close enough for a pic together. But you bet your ass I tried.

Wait. Stop. I love you.

The Hawkeyes are almost always considered the underdogs. And it’s not lost on me that both the last and first time I realized I was living in the moment were at football games, watching my favorite team with some of my favorite people.

I love you too, Lee.

The love of the football fan experience was and is a much needed reminder that I’m doing the best that I can every goddamn day. Aren’t we all?

Appreciate what life offers up for enjoyment when you can.

ON IOWA!

CBXB

 

Anthony Kiedis Ate Me Like a Grape

Yep. The Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Hello Red Hot Chili Peppers. I’ll be your Iowa City tour guide whether you like it or not.

While attending the University of Iowa, I joined a student group (SCOPE Productions) that was in charge of bringing music acts to our campus venues.  Not only did we book shows, we handled all aspects of the production, marketing, finance and hospitality.

Greeting the 18 wheelers at 8am for a load-in, setting up dressing rooms (meeting requests like making sure there was a pack of open cigarettes within reach of any seat in the room), dropping off tour staff laundry (NEVER look inside the bag, FYI) at the local Fluff ‘n’ Fold, restocking tour bus groceries, escorting talent wherever they wanted to go, fulfilling dietary needs of demanding artists, scheduling a masseuse, being at the ready during concerts for any during-the-show needs (I had to run a joint up to the stage once) and being a stage hand once the concert was over, assisting in the load-out of semis that would depart around 6am the following morning.

I loved it.

Mostly we’d handled semi-national acts, so it was a huge deal when SCOPE Productions landed the Red Hot Chili Peppers tour.  I was familiar with the rock group (mostly because of their socks over genitals shenanigans) and beyond excited I’d get a first hand glimpse at how true rock stars lived on the road.

Photo from thechilisource.com

This particular concert, I was assigned to the artists and dressing room set-up.  Upon completion of loading the dressing rooms with black shag rugs, endless cartons of cigarettes and what seemed like 4,000 cases of water, I came around the corner where I was greeted by Chad Smith (the RHCP drummer who has a striking resemblance to Will Ferrell) in his birthday suit who’d just been depantsed by Anthony Kiedis.

Wishing I had my sexy eye mask at this particular moment in time.

Act cool I kept telling myself as my mouth hung open to my knees.

Trying to tear my eyes away from a rock star with his pants around his ankles, I heard a soothing voice behind me say, “Welcome to the circus, Sweetie.” It was the RHCP’s personal chef, whom I would be assisting for the remainder of the day. His name was Jaime Laurita and he was big time in the celebrity catering world (he had published a cookbook, Plenty, with Sarah McLachlan I later found out) and he needed to get to a Whole Foods fast, as the Peppers were now eating organic (I had no clue WTF that meant).

At the time, I knew nothing beyond preparing ramen noodles in my hot-pot and opening a bag of Cheetos (little did I know the nearest Whole Foods was four hours away in Chicago), so I offered information that a Wal-Mart was three miles over yonder.

Idiot college kid at your disposal. Lucky Jaime.

My statement was met with a blank stare. (I wasn’t sure if it was because I suggested the worst place in America to buy groceries or because I’d used the phrase ‘over yonder’.)  I was quickly schooled by my adviser that Iowa City had a food co-op (again, WTF?!) and I took Jaime there to load up on tofu (seriously, WTF?), fresh produce and cooking oils before heading back to prepare lunch for the band.

As soon as the aroma of tofu filled the air, the RHCP dudes came calling. Trying to act like I assisted a celebrity chef in preparing food for rock stars on a daily basis (while dying inside like a 13 year-old-girl), I almost squealed out loud when Anthony Kiedis came over to ask us a question.  As I turned toward the lead singer, he stopped and s-l-o-w-l-y looked me up from the tip-top of my head down to my Dr. Martens adorned feet and back up again.

In what felt like four hours of a stare down (mostly all of 92 seconds), I remember thinking I wished I’d had a cuter outfit on. And while I can’t quite remember exactly what I was wearing, I’m sure it was something along the lines of…

Read it and weep Anthony Kiedis. Too hot for you.

Chef Jaime turned around as Anthony sauntered away and said, “Girl. He just ate you like a gah-rape.”

Years later can you imagine what I was thinking about as the Red Hot Chili Peppers head banged around at the halftime show of the Super Bowl?

Here’s a clue…it wasn’t grapes.

CBXB