"I am music, and I write the songs."

Performing artists come and go. The hottest, most sought after vocal performer one day can be nearly forgotten the next. Fans are fickle, it seems. We want what we want when we want it, and if you can't deliver, sucks for you.

But some deliver. Big time. Some artists develop a staying power that transcends generations. Last night I witnessed one such artist as I watched Barry Manilow rock the Maverick Center in Salt Lake City, in his One Last Time tour. It was epic. He owned the stage, moving with ease from keyboard to piano, to working the catwalk, enticing 50-year-old women to respond like teenaged girls.

For four decades, Manilow has entertained us with songs he mostly wrote himself, giving him the right to claim, “I've been alive forever, and I wrote the very first song,” which he closed his show with last evening. He sang virtually uninterrupted for two hours, leaving the stage only once to change from a red jacket to a white one, so he could be dressed exactly like the 1975 version of himself, shown on the large screen above the stage, singing perhaps his greatest hit. We watched the 31-year-old Manilow sing, “Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away...” until halfway through the song, when the 71-year-old Manilow returned to the stage and finished the song along with his younger self: “Oh Mandy, you kissed me and stopped me from shaking, and I need you today, oh Mandy.”

Knowing he wouldn't have time to sing every hit, I had told Gerald that if he sang “Even Now” and “Weekend in New England,” my life would be complete. Okay, maybe not my life, but at least my evening. He sang both. I was all in. Near the end of the performance, he sang a medley of a dozen or so hits, one after the other. We with each new song, the audience responded with audible expressions of joy; we wished he could sing every one of them in its entirety.

I was just a kid when he recorded “Mandy,” and I grew up with his music. Those songs are a part of my childhood and teen years. When he looked up at his 31-year-old self on the screen, he commented, “That guy had absolutely no idea the ride that was in store for him. I am filled with gratitude.” I'll bet.

What is it that allows a few artists to transcend generations and develop a loyal fan base to support them for decades, while others are merely one-hit wonders?

It's just a quilt.

I try not to get too attached to material things. And I succeed mostly. Things are just that: things. They come and go. They wear out. They break. They get lost. It's part of life. But sometimes, it's harder to let go. When the crystal cake topper from my wedding shattered into hundreds of pieces on one of our cross-country moves, I cried. When I had to part with my all-time favorite (but truly threadbare) pajamas, well, let's just say it was a "moment."

And then there was this quilt. Here's the story:

Remember how I'm not good at very many things. It's okay. You don't have to feel sorry for me. I'm very good at a few things. I'm a good teacher and public speaker, a good writer and an even better editor. Oh, and I'm really, really good at eating! And shopping! So no worries.

But I am not good at anything else. I can't cook, bake, sew, or do crafts. I can't sing well or play any musical instruments. I can't garden or read maps or do anything that requires visual/spacial acuity. My handwriting is entirely illegible, and I couldn't spell my way out of a paper bag. I lose all games, whether trivia, cards, boardgames, or word puzzles. I can't draw, paint or do anything athletic. Have I forgotten anything? If so, you can assume I'm not good at that either.

SO OBVIOUSLY I DON'T MAKE QUILTS! ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?

Except this one time when I did. Well here. And here. You can read about it if you like.

It was the hardest thing I've ever done, and it wasn't one bit fun, and for the life of me I don't understand why people do these things.

Then two years later, Shulamith decided to have yet another baby, a girl this time. So of course we thought the new baby should also have a "Joanne" quilt. She shouldn't be left out.

And off to the "Twilight Zone" I went once again. Let me be clear. It wasn't any easier the second time. It was just as difficult and frustrating and ridiculous. Oh my poor, sore fingers from those dang pins! But I did it. Both Shulamith's kids now had quilts, and I figured any future Webster-Monson boys could share Swen's and any future Webster-Monson girls could share Kennedy's. Boom. I'm out of the quilt-making business. Hallelujah!

Then this.

One snowy night last fall (see, it's taken me months to write about it) Shulamith and I needed our hair cut. We didn't have time for anything fancy, so we just went to Fantastic Sam's -- quick and easy. I went first, and by the time I was finished, Shulamith's kids were both tired of the whole beautification process and ready to get out of there. So I told her I'd take them across the parking lot to Chick-fil-a and wait for her there. By then it was fully dark and dumping snow outside. We bundled up Swen and put Kennedy in her infant carrier. I put the carrier over my arm, grabbed Swen with my other hand, and hurried to the car, hoping to keep Kennedy reasonably dry. 

When Shulamith finished with her hair, she ran across to Chick-fil-a, and the first thing she said was, "Where's Kennedy's quilt?" I had no clue. Now you may be thinking, how could a grown woman lose a bright pink baby quilt while running across a parking lot. Wouldn't she notice if it fell to the ground? I've wondered these very same things. And I have no idea.

And so the story ends. We try not to think about it too much, but every once in a while, as we drive past Fantastic Sam's, one of us will say, "It's really sad about Kennedy's quilt." Yep, it is.

But then again...it's just a quilt.

My kids totally crack me up!

My children totally crack me up sometimes. I'm sure all moms think their kids are the funniest, but mine are flippin' hilarious.

Our world traveler, Isaiah, is in full swing this month. He's in New Orleans this week, then home one night, then off to San Francisco for a week, then home one night, followed by a week in Quebec. So glad he focused so hard in French class (NOT!). Four days after Quebec he's off to Toronto for a week, followed by a week in San Diego. If this schedule sounds grueling, keep in mind it's apparently his choice.

Last month he spent 10 days in Australia, and that trip included his office's Software Development Manager. To backtrack, Isaiah's degree is in Computer Science. He spent four years learning to write code. But the job he has now is not in development, but rather IT support. He images computers with appropriate software and then travels onsite to events and conventions to set up and maintain those computers. Though the company would not have hired him without his CS degree, he claims he had the skills to do this job before even graduating high school.

While in Australia, the Development Manager repeatedly suggested to Isaiah that he apply for one of the Dev positions available. "It would be such a great career move, Isaiah." Developers make more money for sure, but they also travel far less, like less than a quarter of what Isaiah does. And that is apparently a huge drawback for Isaiah.

In his words: "I'd be a boring 'I wanna die' office worker!"

Then there's Shulamith. She is my problem solver, my own personal "Olivia Pope." Last night I participated in a debate on Sidelines, a company I freelance for. I didn't know when I started how long it would take, but in the end, it took over three hours!. As Shulamith and I texted periodically throughout the evening, she would say, "Is that STILL going on?" We discussed whether it was worth giving up an entire evening when I could be doing so many other productive things like watching TV, and her opinion was that it couldn't possibly be worth it.

But then I reminded her that I don't get "Rep" for watching TV. What is Rep, you might wonder? I'm not really sure. It represents this numbering system. Every time you post or comment on a post, they give you more Rep, and your Rep score grows and grows, raising you to new levels, one after the other. I'm currently at Level 5, for example, with a Rep score of 4,074. But what does that mean? Honestly, I have no idea. I just love to write, so I love Sidelines.

As I'm explaining to Shulamith that I get tons of Rep for participating in this debate so I can't quit and watch TV, she texts back, "Don't worry. I will give you Rep. I just gave you some. You are now a Level 3. Congratulations!"

You may not think they're that funny, but my kids totally crack me up.

Can these characters just get together already?

 Not gonna lie; I'm an incurable romantic. Truth be told, I don't want to be cured. It's not that I live in a fantasy world filled with ne'er a struggle. I don't. I know "happily ever after" (if that means constant, uninterrupted bliss) does not exist, if the two individuals involved are humans, that is. Nevertheless, I do love a love story. I love it because, even through the inescapable struggles, I'm convinced our truest happiness comes through our relationships. So when I watch a TV show, and I observe two people interacting, and I sense their chemistry week after week after week, yes, I want them together. And I'd rather not wait an entire season, or six or seven, for it to happen.

But wait I must, all too often. For some reason, writers like to make me wait. They take pleasure in my pain. In perhaps my favorite TV show of all time, The West Wing, I waited seven seasons (yes, I did say seven!) for Josh and Donna to finally get together. Patience? Ya think? More recently, as I pushed my way through three seasons of The Killing, whose dark, despairing plot is like the train wreck you can't stop watching, in literally the final five seconds of the final episode of the final season, hope is restored as Linden turns her car around and returns to Holder. Ahhh!

A couple nights ago I watched the 16th episode in the 3rd season of Nashville, and finally, finally Rayna and Deacon face their honest feelings for each other. Of course, now he has a terminal illness, so they can't just be happy for heaven's sake. And then there's Scandal, ah Scandal, where week after week, we watch Fitz and Liv in the most frustrating epic of ill-fated love ever. For just about every imaginable reason, they cannot be together, yet at the end of nearly every episode, those dang writers tease me, just a little, and extend my hope one more week.

Now I understand literary drama. I get the need for conflict. If there is no conflict, there is no story. But I don't have to like it. It isn't easy for us viewers who feel like we know these people. When their lives shatter, our hearts shatter just a little.

Am I alone in my distress? Any other romantics out there? What shows make you crazy waiting?

"You might have to raise Seth after all!"

Shulamith and her husband Mathew are our appointed guardians for Seth, should anything happen to Gerald and me. But now that he is 14, with just a few more years when he would need a guardian, I imagine they feel they are pretty much off the hook. I would have agreed, until last night.

To backtrack, yesterday afternoon, Shulamith and I decided to thoroughly clean our laundry room. It had been way too long, and the room was filled with dust and lint. My allergies went off the charts. I was coughing and sneezing, eyes watering, nose running. Not a pretty sight, but oh you should see our gorgeous laundry room. Well here, see for yourself.

A thing of beauty, right?

So all was well until early in the evening when I began to itch. And itch. And itch. I didn't think much of it until I actually looked at my skin. I had broken out in giant hives everywhere! Huge welts and bright red skin covered my body. It was disgusting! Gross! Shulamith had some hydrocortisone cream, so I put that on and took a Benedryl tablet and went to sleep.

A few hours later I awoke to the most horrific panic attack I've ever experienced. Now keep in mind, I'm the queen of anxiety, and I thought I knew everything about it, but I've never experienced anything like this before. My chest was tight and achy. My back ached. It's as though a band surrounded my torso, squeezing. I was terrified. I woke up poor Gerald, who never gets sufficient sleep, and made him get online to check symptoms. Truth is the symptoms of a heart attack and the symptoms of a panic attack are identical. One site even said, "Since there's no way for the average person to differentiate between a heart attack and a panic attack, if you have heart problems, chances are it's a heart attack, and if you have anxiety, chances are it's a panic attack." Well duh!!!

In the middle of all this, Gerald says, "Now I'm having chest pains." What? It's contagious? So here were, two completely healthy individuals, both in the middle of panic attacks, albeit mine considerably worse than Gerald's. So Shulamith, if you thought you were off the hook with caring for Seth, you might want to rethink that. Because your parents are losing their minds.