Category Archives for "Music"
If Nate ever proposes to me again, I hope he does it at a food court.
And by food court, I mean the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.
And I hope Pat Monahan doesn’t mind rolling out of bed one more time and flying his voice and all of his bedheaded awesomeness back to his City by the Bay to provide the soundtrack.
And I hope Jimmy Stafford grabs his guitar and follows suit, even if he’s incapable of bedhead.
And I hope no one tries to substitute Howie Mandel for Jimmy at the last minute because I’ll be paying attention.
And I hope I don’t yell OH MY GOD, YES, PAT MONAHAN, I’LL MARRY YOU by mistake.
But mostly, I hope I’m this adorable when I say yes.
Slap on some glasses and a little more leg hair and this was me yesterday. Diaper and all, thanks to Mother Nature and the present she leaves me every 3½ weeks. When will that woman stop with the same old same old already and come up with an original thought? That beeyotch is a walking argument for re-gifting.
I was feeling grumpy and blah yesterday so while I was hemorrhaging, I went blog hopping and visited my friend Joy who had posted a Straight No Chaser video on her blog. I had never heard of Straight No Chaser and I cannot tell you how refreshing it was to witness real talent instead of the lip synched, Auto Tuned, is-that-hair-for-real-or-did-a-Beatle-and-Donald-Trump-get-drunk-and-have-a-baby-all-over-your-head crap that passes for it nowadays. Yes, I’m talking about you, Justin Bieber. Isn’t it time for your nap? Get a hair cut and go away.
I watched several of the Straight No Chaser videos and they made me so happy that I wound up eating lots of chocolate chip cookies and burping Silent Night.
And now I’m smiling. And not just because I’m gassy.
No weekend regurgitation post today. Instead, I’m leaving you with one of my favorite holiday Straight No Chaser videos. Go have some cookies and get your smile on!
Happy Sunday, everyone!
We’re one week into the school year and if you asked me what I like best so far about the fourth grade, I’d have to say the clothes. I was over the flared jeans 2.4 seconds after they came back with a vengeance a few years ago and my email campaign protesting their revival, directed to those in charge of all things vogue and sent to Chief.Asshat.In.Charge@CanFashionPossiblySuckAnymore.com began in earnest the day my then ten year old Zoe declared that jeans with a three feet wide flare under which she could conceivably hide a Buick were not bell-bottomy enough.
This year, skinny jeans are “in” and I’m so stinkin’ excited because both my girls, the fourth grader and the tenth grader, are wearing them which means I can now drag my old jeans out from the eighties and, provided I perform a little liposuction with a turkey baster and our Bissell steam cleaner beforehand, potentially squeeze my left thigh into them and then hang with my daughters while appearing hip and trendy and not at all like the homeless bag lady they’ve become accustomed to seeing at the dinner table.
Not the acid washed, two toned ones. I don’t want to scare anyone.
I’m talking about my eighties jeans, not my left thigh. Or my right, for that matter. My thighs are not acid washed or two toned, despite whatever shenanigans my veins may be up to behind my back. Or legs, as the case may be.
Helena, my fourth grader, also has several long waisted tops which I absolutely adore and for which I’m willing to pay a million dollars in the form of an IOU written in blue glitter glue to the first designer who comes up with something comparable for a 42 year old premenopausal mom of two who has been known to gouge the eyes out of those poor unfortunate souls in Wegmans who unwittingly catch a glimpse of her belly button as she reaches for a twelve pack of Bounty.
If you ask Helena what she likes best about being in fourth grade, without hesitation, she’ll shriek DEODORANT at the top of her lungs and stick her armpit in your face in case you need a visual aid.
Because apparently, part of hitting the big time for fourth graders is the responsibility of a gym locker into which they throw a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt and sweatpants, together with the aforementioned Holy Grail.
Helena jumped off the bus last week and came running into the house, waving a yellow note while yelling excitedly OH MY GOSH, I NEED DEODORANT. OH MY GOSH. OH MY GOSH and I was all “Oh honey, you don’t even smell yet” and she was all I WILL SMEAR DOG POOP ALL OVER MY BODY IF THAT’S WHAT IT TAKES.
So I read the yellow note with dread because even though we live a mile away from the gym locker in question, I could already smell the sweaty stench of a t-shirt and shorts after they’ve been stowed away in a dingy, metal locker for upwards of three months, having never reaped the benefits of a wash, spin or rinse cycle and let me tell you, it smelled like EU DE TOILET in my head which means it will smell like EU DE BUSTED SEWER LINE in real life.
Helena simply cannot wait to grow up and be like her big sister and I know that rubbing deodorant under her arms is just another cog in the wheel of imminent adolescence but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t stand in that kitchen and, ever so briefly, considered making a deal with God whereby I would stop nagging him for a mid-life crisis already if He, in turn would agree to go all Benjamin Button on Helena so that I could shove her back into my womb and pretend the last five minutes had not happened.
So off to Target we went and we walked into the deodorant aisle a/k/a NIRVANA and Helena stopped dead in her tracks in sheer awe and I’m not exaggerating when I say that the gates of Heaven opened and rained down an M&Ms and Skittles combo upon Helena and then a big, golden unicorn wearing a rainbow copped a squat on her head. It was just that awesome.
Helena wound up choosing this one, presumably because it said “teen” on it since she would be perfectly content to ignore the entire “tween” stage and skip right to her driver’s licence sooner rather than later, even if it causes her mother to wind up bald and drooling, also sooner rather than later:
Speaking of Nirvana and teen spirit, can I take a moment to tell you how pleased I was to discover that my fifteen year old has Smells Like Teen Spirit on her iPod? Not that I was a big fan of Kurt Cobain or the whole grunge movement of the nineties because I wasn’t. Long, greasy hair still makes me throw up a little in my mouth. But I did like that song and now I know that Zoe likes it too, which means we have something in common, which means I’ve got another weapon in my arsenal for those occasions when she wants to date an older, tattooed, pierced felon to prove she’s nothing like me. Little does she know of my dating history. However, I’m saving the BEEN THERE, DONE THAT weapon for something more egregious, like when she comes home drunk for the first time and pukes on her father’s shoes.
As a side note, I’m aware that Lady Speed Stick invented Teen Spirit long before Kurt did but nevertheless, I’d like to put it out there that I wouldn’t mind whatsoever if you guys wanted to name something in my honor. I’m totally for pimping myself out for maximum exposure and just for the record, I don’t care what it is, a deodorant or a tampon or even an erectile dysfunction pill. How about Andy’s Handy Randy Candy?
And by the way, don’t even think about naming Andy’s Handy Randy Candy after your cousin Andrew. I’ve got the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office on speed dial.
We got back home and Helena threw the deodorant at me and immediately whipped off her shirt, scrunched up her face, raised her arms to the sky and shouted OK! I’M READY!
And I stood there with the stick in my hand and looked at my tiny nine year old, standing there in her little white undershirt with underarms smoother than a baby’s bottom, so excited and impatient to cross this next milestone into adolescence and I had to choke back some tears, right before I hollered NO WAY. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME and made a break for it.
And then she chased me all over the house until she cornered me in the bathroom and stuck her armpit in my face, at which point I relented and reluctantly became a grown up.
It took several attempts to show her how to apply the deodorant because she could not maneuver it adequately within the cramped confines of her little armpit, leaving me to wonder how it is that, with little effort, she can make that tiny, seemingly innocuous thing emit a fart sound loud enough to wake the dead.
We managed to smear a light coating on each armpit and Helena spent the remainder of the day walking around the house and sniffing her underarms every ten minutes to confirm it was working.
And when I asked her what she smelled like, she thought for a moment before she declared “Smells Like Teen Spirit, Mom.”
Hear that sound? I think it’s Kurt Cobain, laughing.
Watching the video posted below brought me right back to 1977 in the auditorium at Northwood Elementary. I was ten years old, dressed in my good white peasant blouse and my bell bottom jeans peppered all over with flower patches and my cork heeled clogs and that little gold letter “A” in the corner of my glasses, waiting for my turn to audition for chorus.
I didn’t really want to be there because I was painfully shy and always tried my utmost not to call attention to myself and blend in with the air. But it was a rule that every student had to audition for chorus because our district subscribed to the education policy known as SADISM which also included hiring 600 pound smelly French teachers and mandating group showers after gym class at the high school level.
I watched and listened as all the students before me stood up one by one and sang Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do a cappella so that the choral director could get a feel for their vocal range and place them accordingly on the stage risers. Altos to the right, sopranos to the left, tenors at the top, the bass at the bottom and OH MY GOD, IS THAT GUM IN YOUR MOUTH? SPIT IT OUT IMMEDIATELY BEFORE I HAVE MADAME LESCHENDER SIT ON YOU.
When it was my turn, I swallowed my gum, stood up and fervently prayed that an earthquake would cave in the stage floor and I’d be immediately crushed to death, destined never to sing in front of a crowd or do long division again. I waited but New York wasn’t known for earthquakes and soon the director was tapping her baton impatiently so I closed my eyes and nervously sang my Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do and while I didn’t think Andy Gibb or his brothers were going to come beating down my door, neither did I think that they were going to pay someone to muzzle me. So I waited for the director’s comments and when none were forthcoming, I peeked out of one eye to see her and the entire auditorium staring at me, slack jawed. I opened both eyes and saw the director quickly motion me over to her side where she proceeded to advise me in a whisper that perhaps I would be doing everyone a favor by pursuing mathematics instead. Then she shoved tissues in her ears to stem the bleeding.
I cried and grabbed my macramé purse and Partridge Family lunch box, ran up the aisle and out the door, never to sing in public again.
I took up the flute instead and spent the next two years in the band room, learning my scales and getting a head start on lung cancer because Mr. Gunther was an avid cigar lover.
Aren’t flashbacks wonderful, in a blunt force trauma to the head sort of way?
My former mother-in-law sent me this video and it has totally screwed up my schedule. I was going to get the transmission fluid checked in my car today but now, after watching this video, I need to pack up all the clothes that actually fit me into my purse, go get a passport and then move overseas so that I can be where all the action is. Because cool stuff like this? It always happens over there. It doesn’t happen here. T-Mobile video in Tralfalgar Square, anyone?
We have Grand Central and Penn Station here in New York – last I checked, they’re pretty big and rumor has it that New York has its fair share of artsy fartsy people so, what’s the problem? Next to Hollywood, we’re the movie capital of the world, for crying out loud … we can’t handle a little five minute song and dance video?
What’s the matter with us?
See? I dare you to tell me that didn’t make you smile.
So all you American artsy fartsies … the United States needs you. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country and for Pete’s sake, don’t forget to set it to some great music, videotape it and upload it to YouTube so that we can remain the super power we purport to be.
Who is Pete, anyway? How’d he get so famous?
Oh, and by the way, just in case you’re wondering … I still don’t sing in public anymore. I sing in the privacy of my Honda or when I want to peel the chrome off a car in five seconds flat or humiliate my kids at a red light. But you can bet your bippy that had I been in Antwerp Central Station that morning, I would have channelled my inner ten year old self and belted out my Do Re Me Fa So La Ti Do all over again in all of its nails-on-chalkboard glory.
It would have been totally worth a few thousand pairs of hemorrhaging ears.
Remember the T-Mobile Liverpool Station dance video?
I got this in my inbox the other day:
Unfortunately, I received it the day of, which didn’t allow me enough time to take a shower, shave my legs, do my hair, drill 48 ÷ 6 = 8 into Helena’s head over breakfast waffles, obtain a passport, cross the pond and come back in time for Helena’s first softball practice.
This is one of those rare times when I would have tried my darnedest to embrace the basic concepts of quantum physics and time travel without crying. And if my brain even thought of giving me any flak by hollering YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME immediately before throwing up its innards into my lower intestine, I’d wait for it to finish and then hand it a napkin and tell it to suck it up already.
Its will power, that is. Not its regurgitated grey matter because … well, because that’s just gross.
If I could have done all that, not only would my brain know who’s boss, but I wouldn’t have missed out on being a part of this:
I want to work for T-Mobile. Not because I like their products since I’ve never actually owned or used any T-Mobile devices in my lifetime. But any company who would sign off on a marketing campaign that willingly puts me on camera so that I could channel my inner Janis Joplin and belt my heart out in all of its off key glory to Hey Jude in front of the entire Internet?
That’s just another pot of the coolest beans ever.