Go Back To Bed, Michael.

Can't we just turn off the stereo?

I thought it would be enough for me to simply list the Christmas songs that get my Christmas goose. (I was gonna say "goat," but I've never heard of a Christmas goat. Even though accuracy has never really prevented me from writing before.)


But no. My ire, annoyance, and ear-worm eye-roll  has not been tempered in the least.


So I shall expound.


Okay, Jackson 5. I get it. You saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe last night. Leaving for a moment how cloying it is whenever any adult (or half-grown adult, as in this case) refers to anyone as "Mommy," let's think this one through. Michael, your father was Joe Jackson. Being as he was a confirmed abusive fellow, maybe we should refrain from "telling [your] Dad" anything about anyone's misdeeds. I can't hear that line without cringing over the can of whoop-ass that has just inadvertently been opened.


Staying on the Jackson 5 train, can we all just agree to stop playing their positively suicide-inducing Little Christmas Tree? For the [blessedly] uninitiated, here's a sample:


I hear the Christmas bells
The happy people singing
The songs of good cheer
That only brings me tears
I sadly close my eyes
And say a little prayer
You'll be waiting there for me
I look but all I see is
Just a little Christmas tree
Looking sort of sad and lonely just like me
No one seems to care
They just went away and left it standing there
All alone on Christmas Eve.


Ohhkay. Listen, people, I don't care how many bells or trees you reference, this is NOT a good example of a holiday song. I can't imagine this is anyone's favorite Christmas chestnut. Who is requesting this song? He's saying a "little prayer," so he's clearly a praying kinda guy. Couldn't he just go to a Christmas Eve mass or something? Maybe volunteer at a soup kitchen? Anything's better than staring a small shrub. Also, come to think of it, why is Michael all alone on Christmas Eve? I can't believe that ever happened during his formative years- at least not with those Jackson 4 guys around. Not to mention LaToya and Janet. 


And the biggest offender of the Really Pushing The "Christmas Song" Category Envelope is: Last Christmas by George Michael. I know for a fact that millions of people adore this song. At least two stations in Chicago play it twice as hour (not even counting Taylor Swift's cover) and I've renamed Sirius XM's Channel 17 the Last Christmas station. ("All Last Christmas," all the time!") 


But here's the thing- this song could have taken place on any ol' day of the year: 


Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, You gave it away
This year, to save me from tears

I'll give it to someone special.

Look, this is basically a breakup song that just happened to have taken place on Christmas Eve. Substitute the holiday and you've got a pretty stellar Valentine's Day song. Or St. Patrick's or Arbor Day. Also, may I suggest not giving your heart as a present? Especially to someone who's clearly into December 26th store credit? Besides, wrapping up "Merry Christmas" with a note saying "I love you" (even if you meant it) is not a terrific Christmas gift. A sweet stocking stuffer at best. But if that was your only gift, I don't blame him/her for leaving you. 

I'm already questioning your serial dateitude if THIS year you're already planning on giving your heart to someone [randomly] special. 

Maybe take the season off. 

And now, I welcome your suggestions for truly abhorred overplayed Christmas ditties. This much rage should not be contained in solitude. We must stand strong, and stand together.

Or we're no better than that sad and lonely little Christmas tree.

And Another Thing...

Spinning some Slayer.

Tomorrow is April Fool's Day.

And I am not playing any tricks, nor am I currently accepting applications for tricks to be played upon me. In fact, heads will roll. Real ones. (Not pretend, April-Foolery ones.)

Last year I convinced my family that, while caring for a five month-old, I was ecstatic to announce a new pregnancy. (Ha HAH!) And, if you'll recall, my sister Em- having not the TIME to read down to the bottom of the email- believed this to be the case for a good week.

But somehow, it's just not quite so chuckly anymore. No fake announcements. No ice cubes in shoes. No spiders, dead or otherwise, anywhere in the vicinity of my face or anywhere my face may be tomorrow.

Have you ever seen a [me] pregnant woman cry? Imagine Ugly Cry times Frightened Cry times Frustration Cry times a thousand. And toss in some extra hormones and a few more pounds. Minus a little sleep and anything that could pass for a normal level of internal balance.

You've been warned.

Now, onto The News.

Have you heard the newest Britney Spears song? It. Is. Awful. And not just because I'm *cough30cough* getting a little older, and not even because she has never (ever) been my type of jam. (Mmm, jam.)

It was "penned" by the train-wreckiest gal of them all, Ke$ha.

Give it a li'l listen.

Here's my biggest problem with it: Britney's people spent a good decade trying to convince the world that she's Not A Girl (Not Yet A Woman,) Not So Innocent, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Now it's all like- Hey, I'm a seven year-old girl. Let's modulate my voice into an even younger sound! While we're at it, let's toss in some vaguely threatening sexual lyrics aimed at, to the best of my knowledge, the DJ. (And not to be super judgey, but did we really need another song about a DJ not understanding your need to get out on the floor and, you know, dance like you've been needing to do all day? I'm pretty sure the DJ gets paid hourly. He WILL spin some tunes.)

From the lack of crazy tabloid exposure, I'm gonna assume that Ms. Spears has it together with her kids (no more soda in baby bottles, etc.,) and is by all accounts A Woman. Would it kill her to sound like a grownup, musically?

Granted, my standards are pretty high. My favorite female singer of all time is Etta James (and a close second is my sister, Rachel.) I was a little kid during the height of arena rock, but I learned pretty quickly that Lita Ford was no one's little girl. And the only reason Joan Jett wanted a certain song to play was because she was gonna seduce the heck out of seventeen year-old boy leaning against a jukebox. And Pat Benatar? She could've transitioned from "We Belong" to an "Aida" aria without blinking. (In fact, you EXPECTED her to.)

Okay, no more soapbox. I'll stop waving my cane at the youngsters.

Nora wants to go hear some Tori Amos, anyhow.

I read The News, too.

Am I the only one who thinks Bruno Mars' song 'Grenade' sounds like it could be a B-side from Thriller? Anyone?

(...Aaand I just Wikipedia'd him and saw that the singer/songwriter/producer is heavily influenced by Michael Jackson and Motown. RESEARCH.)

But seriously. It does.

And while I generally leave the in-depth musical analysis to my darling sister Em, I'd be remiss if I didn't comment on at least a few of the [startlingly dark yet catchy as anything] lyrics:

I'd catch a grenade for ya

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

You know I'd do anything for ya

I would go through all this pain

Put a bullet right through my brain

Yes I would die for you baby

But you won't do the same (no no no no)

Okay, now, not to be all Sassy Gay Friend- but What what WHAT are you doing?! None of these are declarations of love. None of them. I would never ask these asinine things of you...yet you're ticked because I won't stand on the train tracks for you? Clearly you have misjudged the level of angst in our relationship. I ain't no Juliet, and I'm sure as heck no pre-teen. 

Here's a love song I'd really swoon for:

I'd fold up the sheets for ya

Put the baby to sleep for ya

Warm up the car with heat seats for ya

Netflix a funny release for ya

I would clear hair from the drain

Salt the steps during the icy rain

Yes I would fry for you-

Some bacon in the flame (wo wo wo)

See that? LOVE SONG. 

Also, Bruno Mars? I think you need to take a page from the Ricky Martin 'La Vida Loca' book and realize that a bullet through the brain does not prove anything- nor, according to Mr. Martin, does it make you "insane." It makes you dead. La Vida Muerta. 

God, between this and Taio Cruz's "Dynamite," it makes me kinda long for simpler, less violently named songs. Like "Sister Golden Hair."

In other Media Sound-Byte News Of Stuff That Bothers Me:

-Hello, Jello? Yes, thank you for your new Mousse Temptations ads, but the next time I reference anything as being "Me O'Clock" I sure as heck won't be referencing pudding. Maybe some chips. But my point is that the "time" won't be defined by eating. At least not entirely. (Can I eat pudding while napping?)

-Hey there, Hoverround. I agree that your electric wheelchair/scooter amalgamations sure look helpful. But perhaps we shouldn't still be offering to send out informative VHS tapes for the first people to call in. Because really, tapes? Lemme crank up the ol' party line and wait for the Pony Express. (I realize that those are two very different time periods. At least I'm aware that I should be aware of that. I'll Wikipedia it in a few.) VHS is old.

(Yes, I realize this isn't the commercial 

that offers a free VHS tape, but I really 

had to include it anyhow.)

-And "iRenew Bracelets?" Do you realize that, at a certain part of your infomercial, it sounds like your spokesperson is saying that the "customers" are unable to stay balanced "without irony?" I realize that he is saying the phrase "without iRenew." I do realize that. But the fact that these Man On the Street people can barely remain standing when you tug on their arms- wearing electromagnetic frequency bracelets or not- smacks of falsity to me. Or maybe scurvy.

And sure, perhaps it's not exactly irony so much as it is bad acting, but maybe it could be construed as irony in the Alanis Morissette-extremely-loose-definition-way?

I miss books.

We Won't Go Until We Get Some.

I am not remotely done with the Christmas songs.

Whilst in the car the other day, Nora and I heard the cheerful lyrics of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. This is one of those songs that, for me, is so completely ingrained in my mind and memory of Christmas that I have fully stopped noticing the words. Until the car ride. Can you imagine if actual carolers came to your door one night? (This sort of merriment may occur in more refined and neighborhoody places- but if someone rings the bell in Albany Park after 8pm, your left hand's on the door and a Louisville Slugger's in your right.)

Okay, with me so far? It's late at night (yes, 8pm is LATE) and people are non-violently in front of your house. They are singing at you- which, as anyone with a schoolyear birth date can attest- can be rather awkward.

And then they want snacks.

Not just any snacks.

Pudding.

Figgy pudding.

(At this point in the song I'm wondering if 'figgy pudding' is the kind of treat that these folks are used to in the comfort of their own homes, or if they're just hoping to hit the snack lottery. Like if I went to my neighbor's house and screamed "Mussels fra diavolo!")

All of the aforementioned is weird, right? Especially towards the end of the song when they start outright demanding it. Give it right here. Merry Christmas.

Side note- (Also, did you know that 'Side Note' is the actual title to this blog?)- ever since my scree on Dominick the Donkey, it now plays no less than four times a night on our XM radio. P.J. can back me up on this, since it's usually he who sprints to change the channel.

And on the topic of radio stations, does anyone in Chicago listen to Lite FM's Christmas Wish shebang? (That is not the real name, I was just feeling jaunty.) Basically, people call or write in with their big Christmas wish and the radio station grants them multiple times per day. (I have tried to figure out a rhyme or reason or schedule for these free-for-alls. I cannot.)

Early in the season, I briefly entertained the idea of writing and begging for a Vespa or a closet with a shelf or two and a lightbulb. Then, once I heard the wishes being fulfilled on the air, I realized why I could never ever ever go through with my paltry demands.

These folks that get chosen? They have STORIES. Most of them have lost their jobs, someone in the family's always ridiculously sick and/or has died, the Mom has run off in more than a few of the cases, and no one has socks.

The only thing we really have in common is that I do not currently possess an abundance of matched, non-holey socks.

And they want one present for their kid. Or something to make for Christmas dinner. This one woman the other morning was the sole breadwinner for her son and his kids ('cause the mother had run off and her son had lost his job.) She was 72.

These stories always make me tear up and make me feel like the spoiled, white, middle class kid that I am. They're wishing for a special meal and I'm whining about carbs.

So to add to the mother guilt and Catholic guilt and American guilt...I can now safely acknowledge my Christmas guilt.

So I donated to the Arbor Day Foundation. (Yes, I am a card-carrying member, thankyouverymuch.)

And I gave to St. Jude's Children Hospital. (I CANNOT handle the St. Jude letters. Ugly cry x a million.)

And we adopted a family for Christmas presents.

We over-tipped our paper route kid and mail carrier and cat sitter.

Basically, I am trying to be generous and thank those around me and attempt to atone for the fact that, the other eleven months of the year, I am a horrid human being who does not eat bread crusts and instead throws them away.

I will strive to be less awful in 2011.

Anyone have any favorite charities that I haven't even realized I should acknowledge and fret over? Please list them below. 2011= Philanthropy Year!

Peej is gonna love this one.

The menagerie's full.

Many of you are hyper aware of my love affair with Earnest Music. (I initially typed 'Ernest.' That would be amazing. And most likely earnest as well. 'Camp' and 'jail' will do that to you.)

My earnestitude hits a whole new high around Christmastime. Holiday songs = country music + rhyming poetry on the scale of I Mean This Message Quite Deeply. But I dig 'em anyhow. A lot. Our radio has been tuned to the Christmas station since two weeks before Thanksgiving. That can cause some serious holiday earworms.

[Side note- If ever I am forced to hear Dominick the Donkey again, I will perhaps become homicidal. HEE haw HEE haw.]

[Side side note- A darling friend from middle school loved this song so much that she put it on a holiday mix CD for me. Twice. Intentionally. Despite this, I was thrilled to count her among my bridesmaids much, much later. But seriously. In the age of digital recording...I really could've easily skipped backwards on the track listing to hear Dominick bray again. Which would never, ever willingly happen.]

But there are certain holiday songs that just GET me. Quite embarrassingly, too. For instance- O Holy Night. Oh sure, it starts off innocuously enough with mention of how brightly the stars are shining and how special that evening is. Yep, I'm thinking- sure is a nice holiday song. Then the chorus hits. [Faaaaaaaaall...on your kneeeeeeeeeeees...] And suddenly I'm all like- wow. The notes are going up and up and up and the singer's gonna unleash a descant in a second or two. And then they do. Full voice. And I WEEP.

And Peej usually starts laughing, because- more often than not- I'm in the car with him when this happens. Or washing dishes at the end of the day. Then POW. Goosebumps and actual tears in the eyes. And then I do my embarrassed sniffle, the one that makes it more awkward that I'm clearly crying over nothing. And lemme tell you- there are few things worse than pretending you're not crying over something trivial while someone laughs [at you.]

Okay, there are many, many things worse than that scenario. But it's still pretty pathetic.

It gets worse.

You know who frequently covers songs like this? Crooners. Full-voiced, multi-octaved soft rock singers. That's right, let's add some more fuel to my furnace of shame. I am bawling to the melodic stylings of JOSH GROBAN AND CELINE DION. (Whom, let's not forget, I can seriously jam out to.) But it really doesn't help my case.

I recently stumbled across this version as well. I do not cry to it. Except with laughter. (Please do yourself a favor and listen to it in its [glorious] entirety. He really lets it wail at the end. Even replaying it in my mind, I'm trying super hard not to pee.)

So there's that.

Another semi-awkward bout with outward emotion always occurs when I watch Claymation Christmas. (Jim Henson Productions equate buckets of tears, apparently.) Man oh man, We Three Kings sung by the wise men and some sunglass-wearing camels is the absolute tops. And Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as jammed out by The California Raisins is epic. (Does it bother me in the least that I'm thoroughly believing the activities of walking and talking raisins? Nope. I once watched an episode of their TV show in the '80s and was incredibly invested in the unfolding story of one of the female Raisins' (Raisinettes?) struggle with self confidence. When she managed to rock out a solo at the end of the show and shared a kiss with the lead(?) Raisin, I remember being really choked up. This is so true.)

However, I'd still choose the O Holy Night dude AND public sobbing (maybe even public California Raisin admiration) over Dominick the Donkey.

Hee haw, indeed.

I'll sleep in March.

Oh, Monday.

In my efforts to protect my laptop, phone, coffee and child from each other, I managed to dump the third over all four things. Five, including myself.

The coffee was cold. She's fine.

Maybe I need to be child-proofed from myself.

(What is that glorious aroma of hazelnut coming from my iPhone case? Smells like...a warranty crying.)

So, yes. Monday. It was a busy and fabulous weekend across the board- and the country. Sadly, we missed my youngest nephew Declan's baptism, but we were there in spirit. And present. And presently, our present is being presented to the incorrect zip code. (P.J. errantly mixed the oldest sister's street address with the youngest sister's zip code. What, we all look the same to you? What's one Massachusetts town compared to the next? Thanks a lot, Cincy.)

The past few days also included the best sushi in town (Yay, Macku! I ate a potentially unwise amount of super white tuna) an evening with P.J.'s coworkers (great band, terrific company, positively cougartastic dancin' on the floor), a birthday party for a one year old whom Nora alternately adores and has a coy-ish thing going on (and a good time was had with his always suprafun parents and their pals), a holiday swaparoo with no less than eight types of cheese and plates that rest on one's FINGERS (I could not invent that kinda thing if I tried), and a brunch/playdate with neighbor pals- a relationship that we are quite thrilled to cultivate, as they are a) cool, b) possessing a daughter of the same age as Nora, and c) fluent speakers of sober English.

Saturday evening was the extraordinarily different experience of having someone pick out my outfit (because I collapsed in a pile of my Momitude and comfy hoodies) and whisk me out for an evening of dancin' in divey locales. (Thanks, B!) I hadn't been to the Liar's Club since my 26th birthday, which was...last year...and it hasn't changed a bit. Except maybe it's a little cleaner? Slightly? Or maybe my standards have completely dropped off the face of the planet. (There aren't any waffles stuck to the chairs- what a classy joint!) Even though the music was- shall we say- a little too current for my dusty tastes, we definitely got the dancing started. (I am always the first on the dance floor. I don't want to brag and say that people pack the floor once I get out there...but it inevitably happens. Granted, this could also be because I start dancing while the DJ is still setting up. It would be pretty hard to start dancing before the person who doesn't need music starts dancing.) And Miss B was so proud of my efforts that she convinced the DJ to play Boston for me. Sure, I was the only one really dancing to More Than A Feeling...but ask me if I cared. Or noticed. (I did not.)

And now, about the kids' music today: (Scoot aside, my walker needs to be parked.) The last time I really identified with trendy music was the early 90s- seriously. Once hair metal started to die out, I Status Quo-ly listened to Nirvana and Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. But my flannel-clad heart was still aching for a modulation of Hysteria proportions. And a couple of years later? I was so done with the boy band/pop princess explosion that I regressed into blues and oldies and classic country just to remind myself of how music used to sound- and I was seventeen.

But really. Taio Cruz? Dynamite? There are just some songs so inane as to permanently damage my frontal lobes each time they are reflected upon. (And with a stupid hook that catchy, it is sadly a DAILY occurrence.)

"I throw my hands up in the air sometimes!" he exclaims. (Sayin' AYO.) Every time I hear that one line I am completely taken out of the moment. I need to step off of the bar and think about how ridiculous that lyric is. Really, Taio? You seem surprised by this. Sometimes you just throw your hands in the air? Is it like an involuntary twitch? ("May I offer you a canape?" "Yeah, this is a lovely catered event, I- AYO!" Trays akimbo.) So I think about that. Then I am always drawn back to Nora's book about a shy little wombat called "Sometimes I Like To Curl Up In A Little Ball." Always. Always always always. Then I get an image of a smallish Taio Cruz curling up into a ball and waving his arms willy nilly against the onslaught of not being able to live his life/rock this club/light it up/move move move.

It's a wonder they even let me through the door.

Back to the weekend.

As the Summer/Fall events transition into All Things Holiday, I often think about how nice it's gonna be once Winter hits. Truly. And this is coming from a girl who takes baths at a trillion degrees Fahrenheit and cannot stand the sight of snow once February hits. But, as friends and I were discussing yesterday, the cold weather season means you actually see people. As counterintuitive as it seems, we never see anyone in the Summer. Sure, we're out and about and there are a trillion things going on...but we've been booked since January. Weddings, family, travel, festivals, weekend thingies. But in March? The only plans people make for March around here are cozy house parties, Scrabble nights, movies, dinners in, blanket tents, etc. Sure, last winter was positively idyllic, what with a glorious maternity leave, snuggly little wee baby, entire seasons of programming at my disposal, and enough homemade food to stock two freezers...but I have high hopes for this one as well.

So to all of my lovely friends and fam- the ones whom I could not get it together in time to see this Warm Season- come over sometime. I hear that Peej has a few movies.

But I'll provide the music.

It's a very real issue.

Oh, this is good.

Remember my investigative journalism regarding Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel? (That's right, I linked back to my earlier post. It was that informative.)

So. We were watching TV the other night and a commercial came on- and it asked me if I hated that chafing feeling. I turned to P.J., perhaps a little too excited. It began in a crazy animated way, with cartooned, dancey figurines having trouble with, you know, walking and other thigh issues. Then- oh, then- the folks were given Lanacane. And they turned into the folks from the ad! That's right, remember the joggy girl? Apparently she was just doing her own chafey thing and was unrelated to the largeish woman or the jiggy guy. The woman, obviously, was still the star. She swished her skirt willy nilly, which- yes- did attract the guy doing the Running Man. I knew it. I knew they were involved. I just didn't know the whole story from one paper ad. I kinda feel like I saw the director's cut.

I cannot stress enough that I am getting absolutely nothing from the good people at Lanacane. I should. I really should. I mean, I've dedicated two separate posts to their product in a little less than a month. But no- this is a freebie. A labor of love. My way of saying- Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel, I believe in your advertising campaign. Keep it up. And keep it coming.

*

Yesterday as Nora and I were driving to work, the radio was playing. Between having safe driving skills and convincing Nora that she was having a great time, I was trying to tune to a non-irritating song. This can be tough. Especially if one is driving during that span of time right before the hour- it's all commercials. Which can be enjoyable. But sometimes I just want to hear something nice and fun and classic rock and nothing at all resembling Creed.

We got halfway there before I realized that I was singing along with a song that, only moments before, I deemed unacceptable. So, in the span of a few minutes, I a) decided to change a song, b) forgot to change the song, and c) fully integrated the song into my driving experience.

It made me think. Perhaps more than it should have, but it definitely did. There's gotta be a metaphor in here somewhere- Maybe about my ability to tune things out?  Or the 'eh, whatever' mindset? Either way, I DON'T WANT TO LIVE LIKE THAT. I spend at least two hours a day in the car, between commutes, kiddo appointments, and errands. That's a lot of 'eh, whatever' time.

Maybe I'll become a superbly productive car individual. Or perhaps I'll take that time and zen out ('cause nothing says "relax" like an infant in the backseat.) There's always the audiobook.

Speaking of the infant in the backseat, Nora has become a stellar little person in the past few months. Mind you, she's always been a great baby, but nowadays she's getting downright kid-like. She's almost eight months old. This is mind-blowing for a couple of reasons. One is that I'm pretty sure I just had her. The second is a matter of unfairness- I was definitely pregnant for at LEAST three times this long.

She has two fully realized teeth. Her ankles cross when she's seated. When she laughs, its imbued with this sense of utter hilarity at something, or with something. Sometimes she's coy. Or furious. Her eyes light up with the intensity of a tween girl's unrequited love when she spies her cats. Meals have become Christmas morning, especially now that she can feed herself and there is virtually no distinction between baby food and really good food. The sign for "more" has inexplicably morphed into a thrice-banged fist, a la a king with a turkey drumstick. Or Mr. Ed. Nora actually plays with her toys. She has preferences and systems that I am slowly beginning to follow. She crawls. She's practically a wind-up car, what with her speed, erratic flight path and penchant for corners.

But early in the morning and right around dusk she becomes my baby again. With her left thumb in her mouth and her cheek tucked against my neck- sometimes with a frog shoved in there for good measure- she snuggles. There's no twisting away to see what the heck is that thing or any impatient gesture of I've GOT this. All she wants in the world is in her parents' bed- her Dad reading her a small mountain of books, various things attached to her mother, a kitten or two sleeping by her feet- and did I mention the frog? Or the otter, the giraffe, the blankies, the smallish bears or the bunny?

Yeah, I think I was wrong in earlier posts. This is my favorite age with Nora.

At least 'til next month.

You might wanna hit the bathroom before this one.

I'll be 30 in three days. This is a very real and very definite thing. So I decided to post about what I've learned over the past thirty years.

Then I realized that I know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Perhaps I know a little bit about the music that has shaped me, be it a favorite song, a theme from a period of my life or songs that just wouldn't leave my iPod. So I made a list. A CD, really. Okay, it's a double CD. (It was almost a triple- some serious cuts have been made here, people. Do not think that tears were absent from this process.) What started out as "Ooh, I'll list some songs that I've always liked" became a military operation of razor-edged precision. There were few [40] survivors. (These forty songs fit nicely onto two discs. I've checked.)

And one last [set of] disclaimer[s]: I only included one, awesomely representative track per artist. I HAD to. This was hard. And I omitted tracks that serve a single purpose (or I really, really tried to), i.e. Jay-Z's "On To The Next One" (thanks, Emma!) for when Nora and I just need to dance a little bit, or anything in the Stabbing Westward category (thanks, Nat!) for when we're a little, say, angry? Also gone are the tracks and artists that, sadly, had no staying power. I loved Tiffany and the Annie soundtrack when I was nine. But that's about it. No Songs I Love To Sing, either. That would be crazy. And lengthy. Sorry Linda Ronstandt/Aaron Neville. And the albums that I love as albums, but without any singular track to define a year (a la The Black Crowes' Southern Harmony and Musical Companion) are out. Maybe I'll do a 'best albums' list for my 40th. It's gotta be easier. SO- without further ado, the songs that rocked and defined my world- and, amazingly, still do. (Chronologically as to when they affected my life, not when they were released.)

Okay. Settle in.

1) 1983- You Shook Me All Night Long- AC/DC (Back In Black, 1980): This is the first song that I remember. (Aside from You Are My Sunshine- my duck mobile blasted that one.) My Dad played it on his basement stereo of our house on the Cape. I vaguely recall red carpets and sonic speakers. Since then, both Kate and I have danced with our sisters to this at our weddings. I guess you could call it the Flynn Sis Anthem.

2) 1988- I Want To Know What Love Is- Foreigner (Agent Provocateur, 1984): It was ridiculously hard to not include any other tracks, or even anything from the Lou Gramm canon. But this was my first and the best. It was included in my favorite episode of Quantum Leap (Temptation Eyes- the one with the psychic? Yeah.) and was Side A of a cassette with two songs that helped me fall asleep each night.

3) 1990- Life Goes On- Poison (Flesh And Blood, 1990): And the last song of Side B. (So basically, you could keep flipping it over and over and never have to fast forward or rewind. I was incredible.) This album was my very first cassette. My godfather Joe gave it to me, and since he was the drummer in my Dad's band, I respected every single thing (musical or otherwise) that he's since told me.

4) 1990- Open Up The Door- The John Hall Band (Search Party, 1983): My parents have had a love affair with John Hall and Orleans since well before I was a flicker in anyone's cosmos (that's 'cosmos' not 'cosmo,' Mom.) Both this and All Of The Above are two of the coolest albums to listen to straight through. This is my favorite, though, as I've always liked desperate love pleas. And at age nine? I was kind of an expert.

5) 1990- Mary Mary- The Monkees (More Of The Monkees, 1966): There was a very real possibility of hair-pulling-out action for Davy Jones. Heck, there coulda been some Seppuku. I loved him. Waaay missed the boat on this one.

6) 1990- Oh! Darling- The Beatles (Abbey Road, 1969): Okay, toughest one here. I chose Abbey Road because my sisters and I would scream this one on the way home from soccer games. (The twins were strangely obsessed with it, too, even as babies.) I love the story of how Paul screamed his lungs hoarse in an alley before recording this track. I always wanted to do that. That was kibosh-ed. Also, I lived really close to Abbey Road as a junior abroad. 'Tis a happy place. (Runner up: I've Just Seen A Face. Divine.)

7) 1991- The Thunder Rolls- Garth Brooks (No Fences, 1991): My Dad used to play this one, really softly at first, then would crank the volume as the thunder amped up. We'd all run in (from wherever we were in the house) and scream. And then sing.

8) 1991- Keep On Loving You- REO Speedwagon (High Infidelity, 1981): Neck and neck with #2 for best love song. Even though it's about a cheatin' woman. And even though I later found out what a 'speedwagon' was. Seriously a sucker for a wit's end love song. I was 11.

9) 1991- Disappear- INXS (X, 1990): Okay, for anyone who thinks that the little things go unnoticed in a young kid's life? My parents let me have a phone radio in my bedroom (the phone wasn't connected, but I dug the idea of having there, anyhow) and this song played every morning as I got ready for school. Anytime I hear this song now, I think about how awesome that radio was and how cool my folks were to let me have it. I know.

10) 1991- Photograph- Def Leppard (Pyromania, 1983): Second favorite band of all time. Favorite song in their catalogue. I become Tawny Kitaen when I hear this one and have to be forcibly restrained from dancing atop cars and counters.

11) 1992- Here I Go Again- Whitesnake (Whitesnake, 1987): Speaking of Tawny Kitaen, David Coverdale didn't stand a chance. He literally spends the whole video staring through the dashboard at his car-prancin' gal and giddily thinks: I got to MARRY her! (For a short time.) This song would later resurface in college when a few friends and I half-heartedly wrote a rock opera based around this song. It would have been massive.

12) 1992- Cowboy Man- Lyle Lovett (Lyle Lovett, 1986): I love every single thing about Lyle Lovett and always have. But since my entire family (including Peej and NJ) concur, I'm in excellent company. And this song? I've always wanted to be some cowboy's Cinderella. Dream= attained. (Sure, he's from Ohio, but I think it still counts.)

13) 1993- Everything I Do- Bryan Adams (Waking Up The Neighbours, 1991): Fine. I had to. I've always loved B'adams (and, uh, Prince Of Thieves- best epic EVER), but my family will never let me live down the time that I auditioned for the 6th grade talent show with this song. And so did Brian Jakacky. And the teachers made us duet. And it was GOD AWFUL. (It's even on tape.) Yet, somehow, whenever this song comes on, I can't help but smile. (I also get a lot of phone messages from my sib with just the song playing on the radio.)

14) 1993- Love Lies Bleeding/Funeral For a Friend- Elton John (Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road, 1973): I hafta thank my Mom for this one. It was on a drive back from the Cape one summer where we listened to this album at least three times. It may be one of the coolest-constructed songs ever penned. It's magical. And it makes me appreciate my Mom's musical tastes- because, to be fair, my Dad is one of the most music savvy people to grace the planet. That's some tough competition. But she holds her own.

15) 1993- Make Me Lose Control- Eric Carmen (Single, 1988): Again with the soft n' lite angsty love. This is a wonderfully screamy love song with a CRAZY awesome modulation towards the end. Just perfect for the girl who, as yet, had not received so much as a handshake from a boy.

16) 1993- American Girl- Tom Petty (Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, 1977): Sure, it's a bit cliché,  but as I was 13, so was I. Reminds me of taking the twins to the pool at Ponterril, eating nachos (it's been a lifelong addiction) and dedicating this song to myself on Live 105.5.

17) 1994- Magdalene- Boston (Walk On, 1994)- Yup, I lied. THIS was the hardest to narrow down. Most people within yelling distance know that Boston is my favorite band on the face of any planet, ever, and has been so since I've had ears. Heck, I walked down the aisle to More Than A Feeling. And Third Stage as a whole gets played- oh- once an hour. But this track? Magnificence. Listen to it the first time with headphones. Peej did. And then [2 years later] he asked me to marry him. Also- little known fact. This is my Catholic name. Littler known fact? I'm Catholic.

18) 1995- Kyrie- Mr. Mister (Welcome To The Real World, 1985): Really, at no point in my life has this song not affected me. The overly earnest lyrics, the travelin' sentiment, the best key change in the business? Musical royalty.

19) 1995- At Last- Etta James (At Last! 1961)- There are SO many Etta tracks that I adore. She is easily my favorite female singer to whom I am not related. But this one was the first (thanks again, Uncle Joe!) and kinda encapsulates every single thing I dig about this woman. My Dad took me to see her in the summer of '95 when I was being all weepy and dumb- and it was transcendent. In related news, I named my first car after her. (She was spunky and black, too.)

20) 1997- Your Love- The Outfield (Play Deep, 1986): This was a cross-country running song. Specifically, on the back of the bus on the way to meets. I hated the races. I loved the bus trips. Also- one of my best pals Jen and I were convinced that the first lyric was about a girl named "Jenny" who was "on a vacation far away." This was false. (Oh, Google, how we coulda used you. 'Cause it was Josie.)

21) 1998- Intergalactic- Beastie Boys (Hello Nasty, 1998)- I've always liked the Beastie Boys, but the Fall that I entered college, this song was everywhere. Everywhere. I'm pretty sure it was handed out with our rainbow-colored lanyards and copy of Non Satis Scire. When I think back to the first few weeks of college, I think of that creepy kid on my hall, my unfortunate predilection toward overalls, and this song.

22) 1998- Always On My Mind (Willie Nelson, 1982 AND Pet Shop Boys, 1988)- The version with Willie gives me chills, but the Pet Shop Boys bring their A Game, too. This song is also a bit of a "check in" with my younger self to make sure we're all still feelin' the tragic love songs. And yes, yes we were.

23) 1998- Poison- Alice Cooper (Trash, 1989): This one resurfaced in college. My bestie Vicky and I enjoyed screaming it out of Etta's [the car] windows as we drove around and looked for mayhem. Before everything closed at 7pm.

24) 1999- 7- Prince (Love Symbol, 1992): Originally, I wanted this to be a contender for the Darwin's Kids (the rad episodic comedy on which I worked for about three years) theme song. It wasn't chosen. But you can't stop me from thinking about the series whenever I hear it. So I think we all know who won.

25) 1999- Do You Believe In Love- Huey Lewis and The News (Picture This, 1982): In a word? Yes. I have always believed in love, especially in three part harmony. My bro in-law Tom can rock a version of this a capella. Go on, ask him. You probably won't hafta ask twice.

26) 2000- Rosalita- Bruce Springsteen (The Wild, The Innocent and The E Street Shuffle, 1973): This was another hard choice. Little bit of trivia- every boy that I've ever truly loved has been crazy for Springsteen. So, I guess I do have a "type" after all. (That type would be "awesome.") Other close contenders: Brilliant Disguise, Tunnel of Love, She's The One...but this perfectly describes the kind of love I was looking for- giddy, carefree, a record deal, all of it.

27) 2000- Why Worry- Dire Straits (Brothers in Arms, 1985): One of my favorite albums of all time, and easily the prettiest, saddest track about love that Mark Knopfler penned. I am getting so predictable.

28) 2001- I'm Sticking With You- The Velvet Underground (Loaded, 1970): This makes me think of London, of new beginnings, of taking on the world...all encapsulated in a pretty little love song. Sigh.

29) 2001- Smile- Weezer (The Green Album, 2001): I think Weezer is the bee's knees. This album was considered by many to be their least impressive album. I disagree. People say the album is one, 38 minute long track? Fine. But I LOVE that track. Also, the phrasing in this song makes me think (and think and think and overthink) about sentence structure long after the song ends. That's pretty cool. Nerdy, but cool.

30) 2002- Sweetness- Jimmy Eat World (Bleed American, 2001): This song was everywhere when I graduated from Hampshire. As much as I tried to not identify with a song just 'cause it was on the radio at a crucial time in my life, I couldn't help it. I was "spinning free." I have no idea what the "sweetness" business was all about, but I was most certainly "spinning free."

31) 2004- Galway Girl- Steve Earle (Transcendental Blues, 2000): Sure, my family hails from Counties Cork and Kerry, not necessarily Galway, but close. Besides, when the person who gifts you a new song is cool enough, you'd change your middle name to make a song better apply. Tragic love song? Okay, I'll try it.

32) 2004- Love Is Only A Feeling- The Darkness (Permission To Land, 2004) They were so flippin' cool. No one could tell if they were earnest or making fun of earnest rockers. Either way, the album worked. And this track was a love song about not really accepting the fact that you were in love. Criteria= met.

33) 2005- Gypsy Woman- Martin Sexton (Black Sheep, 2000):  P.J. introduced me to Martin, and we've been fast friend ever since. Martin has no idea, but oh, we're friends. There were so many to choose from here. Happy was our wedding song. (With Peej, that is.) But a song about a gypsy who stole everything and you still want her back? How could I NOT?

34) 2006- Waste- Phish (Billy Breathes, 1996):  Okay, I've never really dug Phish before. But as I am now married to a bona fide hippie (I don't care what you do now, P.J., you wore tie dye in high school. Hippie.) and have a sinking suspicion that I'm raising a mini one as well. And the lyrics speak to every single thing I think and feel about being at home with them, wasting time, not wanting to spend even one second on things that take me away... Sigh. I guess I like Phish.

35) 2007- Carolina In My Mind- James Taylor (James Taylor, 1968): My family has a rabid obsession for Mr. Taylor as well (Tanglewood, woot!), and this one tops them all for me. I've always appreciated it, but the older I get and the more I travel, the harder it is to be away from those people and things from my youth. Okay, the maudlin portion of the narration has ended.

36) 2008- Book Of Days- Enya (Shepherd Moon, 1989): Bet you didn't know this was our wedding recessional! 'Twas a strange choice, and one that the organist (the one whom we thought had kicked it during the first hymn) raised an eyebrow at. But since we had spent the majority of our wedding planning trying to finish the movie Far And Away in teensy, episodic form before passing out each night (it's barely an hour and ten minutes in length), this was a little nod to how ridiculous[ly cool] we were.

37) 2008- I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend- The Rubinoos (Back To The Drawing Board, 1979):  I listened to this on repeat for the entire time it took me to write my latest play, which was- oh, about five months. I also dig that they sued Avril Lavigne for ripping it off in "Girlfriend," and it got thrown out of court when it was proven that THEY ripped off the Rolling Stone's Get Off My Cloud. I live for this kinda stuff.

38) 2009- Can't Hold Back- Survivor (Vital Signs, 1984) Has anyone heard me talk about this one? This album is perfection. This song starts it off. This was blasted at the apartment on Oakley as well as helped us warm the house on Troy. Nora and I made dinner to this every night during maternity leave and it's currently gracing our summer CD mix for the car. I cannot recommend this song enough, people.

39) 2009- Timebomb- Beck (Single, 2007): This song was featured on an episode of True Blood. It also came at a point when, with my third trimester, brand new home with no nursery (as the LEAST of it's problems), and awfully new marriage...my life WAS a timebomb. (Then, just as suddenly, it became the cover of Goodnight, Moon.)

40) 2009- Just Breathe- Pearl Jam (Backspacer, 2009): Liking Pearl Jam was a given, being that I attended high school in the mid-nineties. But this track was gifted to me as we prepared for Nora's birth. Oh, we had it all planned out: P.J. made a CD of songs for the hospital and it would be this serene, lovely experience wherein we would welcome our child with- what? C-Section? Over in 17 minutes? Well, we'll always have this song. (It stayed in the car until she was around six months of age.)

And I cannot believe that I ran out of room on the discs. Already my mind is a big ol' Regret Stew of songs I should have added, things that may not have needed to make the cut, and, and...I'm not gonna worry about it.

Until my sisters begin hassling me.

Perhaps Monday will be an 'addendum' day. Or maybe I'll just let this be a sweet li'l time capsule of my first thirty years. Something I can look back on someday and think to myself- Really? Whitesnake?

Hopefully I'll have some actual knowledge to impart by then. But it'll probably just be some more love songs.

Delivered via hoverboard.

With my mind.

Thanks for nothing, Evanescence.

As I was driving to work the other morning, iPod Touch hooked up to the cassette deck and wee baby asleep in the back, I found myself enjoying a nice mix of light tunes with which to lull Nora and keep her soundly sleeping. Suddenly, a track by Evanescence blared on (no, it does NOT matter which one, they are all loud)at about 800 decibels higher than the previous songs. What's with your modulation, Amy Lee?

Yes, this IS a sign that I'm getting old: ire towards goth-lite bands.

And then it hit me, I was more concerned about the volume of an embarrassing song than the actual playing of an embarrassing song. Maybe being dangerously close to the end of my late twenties (ahem- four more months) is freeing me up to admit that I love bad songs!

Don't get me wrong, I have a great, obsessive love for many exceptional artists and bands (Etta James, Lyle Lovett, B.B. King, et. al): I collect them on vinyl, see them in overpriced arenas and dissect their lyrics with reverence. But for every James Taylor there is a Kip Winger. For every "She's no lady/ she's my wife" there's a "(Baby)/ Don't forget my number."

And I love them all. All of them.

I will now come out of the soundproof closet and admit that I love Michael Bolton. Love might be too flimsy a term for the feelings I have whenever Michael Bolton hits a key change. His song Said I Loved You (But I lied)- amazing. ('Cause this is more than love I feel inside.) I KNOW!

I've spent too many years turning the volume down in paper-thin studio apartments every time Savage Garden or Rob Zombie pops up on iTunes. No longer! Is it MY fault that bad music (read- terminally unhip) is clearly the most singalongable? Okay, maybe not so much Rob Zombie, but he IS fun to clean to.

And to clarify- by "bad" music, I mean music that was once hugely popular by a demographic with which you yourself would never in a million years identify. And that was a million years ago. Rendering it...prehistorically "bad."

But if it's so "bad," why does Warrant still make me cry? Why does Def Leppard's "Gods Of War" make me wanna wave a flag? And why won't P.J. sing either part of the Aaron Neville/Linda Ronstandt duets with me? (Okay, that last one doesn't really help my case, but still. Why?)

It's not such a stance to play the newest Lady Gaga track at full blast. But it does take a certain type of person to proclaim your preference for Van Hagar over Van Halen. Or, in the case of the Guthries, Arlo over Woody.

Yes, I said it. I prefer Arlo Guthrie.

And, for the first time in my life, I feel no shame.

(Well, maybe a little. But it gets easier, I promise you.)

Does anyone else smell that?

First off, a big ol' thank you to the city of Chicago for hosting eighty-seven festivals and events this weekend. (I witnessed four this weekend: RibsFest in Lincoln Square, the Old Town Arts Fair and St. Mike's Festival in Old Town/Lincoln Park, plus we kinda waltzed past Midsommarfest in Andersonville while waiting for a non-existant Damen bus.) That, plus a nice jaunt over to Foster Ave. beach (perhaps sitting a TAD too close to raunchy teens and/or breastfeeding mothers of three-year olds- quite the combo, no?) left me pleasantly freckled, stuffed to the gills with fair food (and that I mean superior corn dogs and the ilk, nothing "fair" about it) and more than a little drowsy.

And a big NO THANK YOU to HBO's True Blood. Which I now love. But have no business loving. (Pushing Daisies just left me- it's TOO SOON.) However, watch it I did (that was very Yoda) last night with Peej- it's so rare to find a show we like to watch together, and rarer still to find a vampire show that I like. Okay, that last part isn't true at all. I love vampire shows and movies. Have I ever told you about my second favorite vampire trilogy, behind the Blade extravaganza? It's Underworld 1, Underworld 2 and Van Helsing. Sure, the last one has different characters, names and plot points, but they rank the same in my mind. Exceptional.

Where does one go from a topic like that?

Random musings.

a) Esquire just had a great article on what it takes a be a real man- it was hilarious, apt, and cliche-free. That said, P.J. and I both decided it would be awfully hard to do from a female's point of view- the ones we've seen have either been in the Sex & the City camp (Being a woman means you can get away with murder- in Manolos!)or the Feminazi school of thought (Men are evil. And dumb.) And while both of these are, [ahem] at times, true, I think they usually do a disservice to the lovely grey (pink?) middle ground. Perhaps I'll work on this.

b) My iTunes has a rad feature wherein it loads the CD cover image when a song plays. Usually it's spot-on, but these days it phones it in when a genre or song has it stumped. For instance, Alice Cooper's "Poison?" [Awesome song.] Why, it's labeled as part of the compilation "Unity" CD for the 2004 Olympics. With the cover art from a cartoon movie called "Doogal." Neither is correct, nor is either choice remotely close to Vincent Furnier's 1989 horror-show spectacular. (And it IS spectacular.)

c) Finally, this morning I kept smelling burnt toast, which as everyone knows is the first sign of a stroke. Or being poisoned. Or maybe that's the smell of almonds. But I was fairly certain something terrible was going down- that is, until I realized that the scent was wafting in and out as I commuted. Sometimes I didn't even smell it at all. And once I got to work it was gone entirely, leaving me to believe...that today is a horrid day for toasting toast in Chicago.

This is all for today. Except for the fact that two-year old Lily and I depleted Home Depot's paint sample supply ("More squares!!!") and that I've finished another section of the play and am doggedly onto the next...and that tomorrow is the 20-week appointment to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny and determine, once and for all, just how many Schoenys (Schoenies?) are kicking me in the ribs. And nether regions. Plus, as I typed this, two more contractors called me back and set up appointments to "fix" the "house," hinging of course on the ludicrous notion that the JP Chase Morgan will ever let us "buy" this "property."

And that is absolutely ALL that is going on.

For the next ten minutes.

Did you send me a Valentine yet?

I spent the better part of the weekend (Saturday a.m. until...Monday evening) curled in a ball and wishing for a shotgun. Recently having been afflicted with a vicious cross between food poisoning and spinal meningitis (and, having made up a disease, unable to be CURED from such), it was a lousy way to spend 72 hours. Add insult to injury (literally, someone called me fat- okay, I made up that part), it was a whopping 65 degrees outside. Which would, roughly, be an 80 degree temperature hike. Le sorrow.

The best part about being that near death is the amazing dreams you get to have. I fell asleep in the midst of a Demetri Martin standup special (no fault of Demetri's- it was indeed special) and had an incredible two hour dream wherein Demetri and I became extremely close. That is all I will say. When I awoke and realized that I had somehow paused the On-Demand show, I continued watching. This time, however, it was with a fond nostalgia. "Oh, Demetri," I said. "You haven't changed a bit."

And since P.J. has been understudying for a show up at Piccolo Theatre AND preparing for the Foreign Service Exam, I've had the odd sensation of being the last person in Chicago. The last grownup, anyhow. Between spending days with all these people under 6 years of age and writing for about two hours an afternoon or evening...and then yelling goodnight to the cats (yup) and arising to a strange man-shaped lump in the bed (the same one, usually) and having our only face-to-face convos be when, admittedly, I am not at my awesomest...well, it makes a gal start to feel a little socially inept. 

Tuesday, however, reached almost 70 degrees and suddenly it was all 'Hello Dolly' (minus the singing or storyline) to Chicago! Jack and I played at the park, mailed [handmade] Valentines across the country, cleaned my hall closet, donated bags of things to Village Discount Outlet, finally got my wedding gown preserved (they asked if two weeks was okay- I told them there was no REAL hurry), got a bunch o' dry cleaning done, opened every window in a 2 block radius and made Jack run around his neighborhood until he begged to go lie down before dinner. No! I yelled, It's Spring!

Today, not so much. It is froze.

This week brought about the extremely important discovery that noise-cancelling Bose headphones are excellent at keeping sound OUT...but not a great deal of sound is kept IN. Case in point- when one's iPod freezes on a song, refusing to let one change it or lower the volume, it's pivotal to have a set of headphones that won't let even the tiniest bit of Michael Bolton out for the train to hear. (Ever seen a train full of disbelieving, snickery or plain ol' scornful eyes burn pretentious holes into your face? Yeah, throw a little 'Steel Bars' at them.) In this case, three words are clutch: Unplug Headphones. Quickly. 

Cinchy.

Also this week, I've learned that a perfectly normal umbrella that never acts out in the most normal of settings (i.e., dry, in a closet) will choose a thundery commute to lose its handle in a "mud" puddle, blow out and then back in (a la Mary Poppins), drenching the holder with rain and God knows what else from the "muddy" reattached handle, then inexplicably decide to shorten itself by four inches on the pole (regardless of what the holder does or does not do), making the holder look like [s]he's carrying a dwarf umbrella, and THEN miraculously go back to a non-Poltergeisty umbrella...just as the rain lets up.

I guess that's not so much a public service announcement (because you cannot, CANNOT prepare for that kind of thing) as it is a fun anecdote. It seemed way more helpful in my mind.

And I'll end on a highly-charged-this-is-gonna-have-adverse-reactions kinda thought: have you read about the girl who's auctioning her virginity for like 3.8 million dollars? Regardless of the moral implications (it's completely wrong) or the psychological (this is the new "reality" star), I'm most concerned about the legality issue. Is this not the EXACT definition of prostitution?

(Disclaimer: Mom- I'm no longer puking, the dream about Dimitri was G-rated, P.J. didn't get me a shotgun, the man-lump IS Peej, I'm not all alone in a bad neighborhood, I let Jack take a nap, I'm wearing that warm scarf/wrap you got me, I don't wear my headphones when I'm walking alone at night, I fixed my umbrella and I agree that we should feel sorry for the virgin girl for having low self-esteem and an obviously terrible home life.)

Phew.