Do You Know

One of the things I love about my husband is that, in addition to his great taste in music, he also has a vast and impressive knowledge of musical cheese.

Last night we were cooking dinner and he started humming a song. It was familiar to me, old, something my parents listened to. What was it? What was it? Then it hit me, and my mouth fell open. That was one of his most impressive - no, his most impressive - foray into the realm of musical cheese.

I said, in awe, "Where did that come from?"

"Someone sent me an email with 'do you know' in the subject line. That song has been stuck in my head for the past 48 hours."

Ouch.

That's my man. I absolutely positively do not know how I can out cheese him on this one. If you are brave, very brave, you can watch the video of the love theme from Mahogany on youtube.

Also, if you are going to be a straight male humming the love theme from Mahogany, you would want to be hot, very hot, in order to pull it off. You can keep humming babe. But, also, if this continues much longer, I am bringing out The Way We Were, memories of the way we were.

Peace Out

Yesterday was just one of those days - one of those days where I wanted to hide under my desk because the powers that be had gone mad and I was afraid that someone was going to start flinging poo. I was seriously even beginning to doubt whether our concert at Red Rocks could level me out. Herein, some observations:

(1) You must put a concert at Red Rocks on your list of places to go and things to do. For those of you who may not know, Red Rocks is an open air concert venue made out of the natural red rock formations in the foothills of Colorado. Supposedly, the rock formation offers excellent acoustics; this, in my opinion, is debatable. It is, however, without a doubt, the most beautiful place you will ever see a concert.

(2) If you see the Sultans of September concert, featuring Michael McDonald, Boz Scaggs, and Donald Fagen, you will not be the oldest person at the concert.

(3) Donald Fagen provides fodder to my theory that all people named Donald are intelligent and nuts.

(4) Red Rocks serves margaritas.

(5) To answer your question, he did "Love, look what you've done to me" from the Urban Cowboy soundtrack. Remember the scene where John Travolta has just cheated on his wife and he is standing in the living room of the other chick's highrise apartment with the giant picture windows and it is dawn and he is staring out at the early morning lights over the skyline of Houston? That rips me up every time. Urban Cowboy - terrible movie. I don't know why I own it and watch it. Actually, yes I do. Texas. There is no Red Rocks in Texas, I will give you that. In Texas, at open air venues, there is always a side event that involves betting on what time the temperature will dip below 100.

(6) In my next life I am coming back as Carey Mulligan, only I am not going to act; rather I am going to be one of Michael McDonald's backup singers. And one of Daniel Craig's Bond women.

Picture of Red Rocks from commons.wikimedia.com

My bestie belongs to a book club and she asked me to join. I went to the first meeting about a month ago. These ladies are mostly friends and neighbors of my bestie, but I have met them all before at parties at her house.

The book club was strange. I was well aware that there would be no discussion regarding the book. That part was not strange. What was strange was that, for a book club that self professes to avoid discussions of all things literary, there were only two bottles of wine. That would take care of me and my bestie, but what would the other ladies be drinking?

Also, the hostess never turned on the lights. Once it got so dark inside that we couldn't see each other, we moved outside, but she didn't turn on the porch lights either. Problems paying bills? Going green? I do not know.

A few days later, my besties told me that she was sorry that the ladies weren't nicer to me. I get nervous in those developments where all of the houses are the same model, but I was chatty and friendly and I even made them fudge, so I don't know what I could have done differently. I did notice they were all a bit strange, but you can trust me here when I tell you that it was them, not me.

It was my besties turn to host next, but because she is going to be out of town, we all agreed that I would host. Because that date also fell on a birthday of one of the girls, I planned to get a chocolate cake from Keegan, often discussed here. Keegan - the former host of Food Network Challenge that makes the best chocolate cakes ever. His chocolate cake ranks right up there as one of my top three favorite things to eat of all time. Above coffee. Margaritas are still number one. I just realized that two of my top three favorite foods are drinks.

Anyway, I predicted to my husband that everyone would decline the RSVP to book club this month. And indeed they have.

Herein I use my least favorite word after panties - whatever. This Friday my husband and I shall go to Keegan's restaurant and have chocolate cake and champagne and toast to the fact that I am not hanging out with the electricity fearing and wine hoarding Stepford Wives of Colorado. I feel like I just narrowly escaped something.

Turning a Corner

My son is high maintenance. He's not high maintenance like I was. (What? Ironed pillowcases make for a better night's sleep, and my mom loved to iron.) He's high maintenance to the extent that it is impossible to run him out of energy. We once took him on a 6 mile hike that was up a mountain both ways. After the hike, he was cartwheeling to the car. Also, he never ever stops talking and requires constant input.

Sometimes I will go sit in the bathroom for a moment of peace. He will come sit right outside the door and continue talking.

Some days all the activity and talking and input leave me feeling raw. By the end of the day, if my husband tries to touch me or talk to me, I will jump out of my skin.

I thought things would calm down when he got older. Still, at 9, he bounces off the walls. Literally. Sometimes he will just start running with all his might and bounce off the wall. And still, at 9, he narrates his life. Even when he is playing his computer games or watching t.v., he's talking.

But in the midst of it all, he is sweet and smart and funny and empathetic. Nevertheless, I couldn't do it again.

Yesterday, I brought him running with me. This never works. There is much mushroom kicking and stick throwing and tree climbing. Nevertheless, he really wanted to run with me. Okay, I thought, we will try this again.

And he ran with me. We ran fifteen minutes straight without stopping. Just running. My son was running right beside me. Then he had run as far as he could go and was ready to turn around. He reached out for my hand and we held hands and walked through the park - IN SILENCE. We were just walking. Holding hands.

Reese Witherspoon Owes Me

Let's not debate here about whether Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones is a good song. Let's just agree that it is by the Rolling Stones and, therefore, deserves a certain amount of respect. One might be inclined to turn it up if one was listening to the radio and driving around and feeling particularly mellow. It's a fine song for that.

Recently, I caught Fear on cable. It has been several years since I first saw it, and I remember lusting after the real estate in the movie. I decided to watch it again. Fear is a suspense/thriller with a young Reese Witherspoon and Marky Mark. Marky Mark ends up stalking her, but prior to Reese realizing that he is a bad seed, they go to a fair at night and ride a roller coaster. On said roller coaster, Mr. Mark gets to third base with Reese and she has a Meg Ryan deli moment.

All the while, through the whole scene, Wild Horses is playing. This afternoon, when Wild Horses came on the radio at my desk, all I could picture was Ms. Witherspoon having a moment. She owes me big time for that. That is not okay. She also owes my $9 for Four Christmases.

Credit Where Credit Is Due

My son's iTouch stopped working.

And darkness descended upon the universe.

First there were some sobs. Then he threw himself on the floor and began wailing with all his might and pounding his fists. Why, God? Why?

The only thing to do was to laugh at him. But then I remembered the bike incident. When I was about his age, I had a nasty bike accident. I ended up with large, deep skid marks on my upper thigh. Gravel was embedded within my ripped and bleeding skin. I could not stop crying. My mother took me to the ER, and still I cried. The doctor tried to be soothing. "You're going to be just fine," he said. Through sobs I explained, "Have you seen the hole in my Guess jeans?" All was not going to be fine. These were the super rare striped ones with the zipper on the side.

So I tried to be soothing. I Googled "My iTouch will not charge" and followed all the helpful advice, such as "plug it in." Yet plugging it in did not work. We exhausted all possible combinations of plugs and computers, and the iTouch would not charge.

At 10:00 the next morning I was at the Apple store. When a 9 year old wants to play iPeePee, it's best not to delay. Here are my observations:
(1) Doesn't anybody work anymore? Everybody is just hanging out at the Apple store at 10:00 on a Wednesday.
(2) If you are going to buy someone an iSomething for Christmas, I recommend you do it now.
(3) The staff at the Apple store are so friendly. Also, apparently, there is no employee policy prohibiting nasal jewelry.
(4) Most importantly, they will just replace your nonfunctional iTouch. Just like that. What? Yes. If you bought your iTouch within the past year, they will replace it. Get out! The customer service was outstanding. Good for you Apple. Good. For. You.

Gold Shoes Are A Slippery Slope

My mother had a thing for gold shoes. It was so very Dallas and motherly of her. I swore that I would never EVER wear gold shoes.

So, here's a few thoughts while I am wearing my gold shoes . . .

You are on notice here that I sometimes do things that I swear I will never do. Accordingly, please stage an intervention if you ever see me resort to the following:

1. Going to a place of work other than a home office in drawstring pants with a shirt tucked in, thereby accentuating the diameter of my girth;
2. Sporting a muumuu. It is not business attire. Wearing one to work does not make it so; or
3. Trying to be supervisorly while farting and wielding a hand with chipped nail polish.

[My gold shoes, for the record, are very retro and glam. Says me.]