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There's no easy way to say it...
There's no easy way to say it...

It's so hard to say goodbye

So, maybe I'm not built to be a roadie.

I jumped off tour to return to my previous, more stationary life.

In the process, I had to break away from new friends I bonded quickly with. Living together, working together, eating together, kind of showering together, sleeping together (quiet your minds – on a bus in separate bunks) will get you close to your colleagues fast.

I hate goodbyes.

Hellos are so much more exciting and satisfying, filled with newness, mystery and clean slates.

Even when the exit is desired from a specific situation, relationship, job or even a dinner party – uttering the words that traditionally signal "aufedersein" to people that I have a connection with is highly difficult for me.

I stutter at the anticipation of the "buh-bye" moment. I falter to find the words to encapsulate everything I want to say, unlike in an email where I can get everything out in one screen shot. I find myself wanting to hit the send button in order to evade the in-person parting moment altogether.

The more difficult the departure, the awkwardness multiplies and avoidance ensues. I shudder at the ditch dance from lunches with friends, cocktail parties or family get-togethers. I'd rather just disappear.

Although many "so longs" are bittersweet, filled with conflicting sparks spanning the emotional spectrum, the sadness of relinquishing anyone or anything seems to triumph over the joy of whatever lies ahead – at least temporarily.

Although I used to crave the chaos and unexpectedness that comes with change, my almost 36 years have quieted that urge for upheaval. The most transition I desire now is adjusting to taking an extra inch off my bangs.

I am sure this is a product of a childhood filled with constant traveling back and forth between states and households, losing close family members too early and an inborn heightened dramatic flair for everything, but the background psychology is insignificant once the residual baggage rears its subconscious head whe…

The less-than-glamorous side of rock 'n' roll.
The less-than-glamorous side of rock 'n' roll.

I'm a roadie

An oft-repeated scene from pretty much every episode of "Sex and the City" has been on replay in my head and is eerily playing out before me with each keystroke...

Carrie Bradshaw sitting on her bed or at her desk, in her little NYC apartment, wearing a ridiculously high-fashion "lounge" outfit, typing her innermost thoughts, most passionate desires, personal questions and deep thoughts across the keyboard of her Mac, her sing-songy voiceover humming each word as it floats across her computer screen ...

Delusions of Sara Jessica Parker and some sort of unexplainable magnetizing force have brought me here, to this moment, sitting at my suburban kitchen table (a.k.a. "Command Central") in front of my MacBook Pro, donning completely unglamorous sweats, denying makeup and sans clever voiceover.

I am experiencing an unwelcome side effect of my new day job. My latest endeavor has squashed the scribe within me. I have been afflicted with what is commonly known as writer's block.

Or maybe it's not full on writer's block, as here I sit, fueled by black coffee and typing away, but it's more of a singular focus as I learn the ins and outs of my new position while experiencing it and a very real lack of time in my day to role play that I'm Carrie.

Trial by fire is a euphemism for the on-job training I have been through since March. I've been living in hotels on and off, getting a truer taste of the rock 'n' roll life on the road that my husband has lived the last decade of his life.

My new situation is nothing like when I visit him on tour. No, this career consists of days so long I tremble to even write the number, sore muscles and joints, bruises and broken nails.

I am a roadie.

I'll be working on a rock tour all summer long, living on a crew tour bus and throwing up double rock horns as often as possible.

And hopefully ... you will benefit from my experiences, as I learn how to keep fit on a brutal schedule, deal with the challenge of eating healthy when at the merc…

Keep your pits smelling pretty - no deodorant required.
Keep your pits smelling pretty - no deodorant required.

The ANTI-antiperspirant

The salty, tangy bouquet of fluorescent orange, liquid processed cheese product oozing on triangles of warm, toasted corn chips decorated with pickled jalapenos wafts relentlessly into my olfactory system.

My stepdaughter and her gaggle of gorgeous teenage girlfriends sit eating stadium concessions in the row of plastic folding chairs ahead of me in the cavernous convention center while "Pomp and Circumstance" fills the air. We are there to watch the class of 2012 as they are bestowed with their high school diplomas.

The girls are more emotional than on a typical day, as several of them are watching their older by one year, senior class boyfriends take one step closer towards college.

A particularly beautiful, charismatic and clever companion of my stepdaughter is directly in front of me – she is one of my favorites for her wildly funny sense of humor. This young lady is the lucky recipient of amazing genetics: 5 feet 10 inches tall, blonde, brains and beauty. The combination belies the teenage insecurity that is flooding out of her at the moment.

The corners of her mouth stained with nacho cheese, she suddenly turns around to whisper sharply to me, her breath filled with the mock-cheesy Mexican treat and tinged with anxiety, "Linds, tell me you have some deodorant with you."

Her nerves had overcome her and she had begun to excrete the damp product of emotion under her arms that terrifies teenagers across the universe because of course, sweat turns into stink. Or so they tell themselves.

I take the moment as a hippie-stepmom-on-a-soapbox moment and tell her that not only do I not carry deodorant with me, but I don't even use it all.

Her eyes go wide with horror. "WHAT, Linds? How is that possible? How do you NOT smell ... bad?"

I explain that the odor associated with sweating is actually caused by breakdown of bacteria from a type of sweat from our fatty sweat glands – the apocrine glands. That particular substance, mixed with hairs and hair follicles in t…

It's time for these kitchen accessories to return to the spotlight.
It's time for these kitchen accessories to return to the spotlight.

Where have all the aprons gone?

I am rising to an unvoiced challenge: to resurrect the apron as a kitchen necessity and domestic fashion statement once again.

When did the apron stop being as commonplace in the kitchen as a coffeemaker? When did kids stop coming home to moms swathed in floral, frilly frocks? When did wiping your hands on the front of your jeans replace gently smoothing sullied palms along the pleats of a lacey smock?

Perhaps when cooking from scratch was replaced by popping something in the microwave. Possibly around the advent of Oxyclean/Shout! stain removers. Probably when our clothing became so casual it was not worth protecting anymore.

After all, isn't that what an apron is? She is like armor combined with a shield packaged in a sheath of cloth (hopefully printed with a darling pattern) slipped over the neck and tied in a quaint bow around the waist. Better than a tool belt that only carries things, an apron equipped with pockets does double duty to guard you from splatters and acts as storage for any array of ingredients, utensils or electronic devices you wish to have on your person.

How is it even possible that this essential piece of wardrobe has become a kitschy relic of days gone by?

Not in my house.

Throwing one of my darling aprons over even sweats takes my galley style from Sloppy McNasty to classic polished. Or, if I'm wearing something a bit more precious, I count on my cute covering to defend me from splashes and spills.

And not to make anyone feel left out, I do love me a Mapron, Manpron ... whatever you want to call it ... a gent in an apron. Whether he's covered from chest to knee, or from the waist down, an apron-ed torso signals a man on a mission. I smell barbecue.

Feel like the apron has no edge? Channel your inner Donna Reed, your dormant Betty Crocker and add a dash of Betty Page – wear JUST your favorite apron. Suddenly, that quiet little swathe has a bit more allure, a modern update that may add a bit more spice to whatever you've got going on …