She’s been in a country phase lately, and she asked me to put some Johnny Cash and John Denver on a cd for her very own self so I did. When she has a friend over, she listens to “Country Roads” and mournfully says, “My Grandma Marilyn moved in West Virginia! This song makes me miss her and Michigan so much,” while her friend pats her back and Maya suppresses a coy little smile.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=htKjUcFkVy8

The best thing about the video, besides the adorable kid, is the fact that she’s standing on a bed that used to belong to her Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa Aldrich, and among the hundreds of blankets are a blanket that Grandma Marilyn gave us, a little afghan made by her Great-Grandma Aldrich, a little afghan made by her Grandma Sheryl, a fleece blanket made by her Nana, and a little quilt made by my very first best friend, Julie. Priceless heirlooms, every one. That’s the way that country girl rolls.

Way back when I worked at the Christian bookstore, I read a book called Highway to Hell or something like that and it was all about breaking down the evils in pop music so you would know what doors to the underworld were being opened in your soul every time you belted out some Whitney Houston in the car. I’m not lying. The only thing that stuck with me out of that book (I think it was out of that book, but it could have been any other book I read during that time of zealotry) was that pretty much any song that talks about dancing is actually talking about m@sturbating and/or s3xing it up.* It’s true. Look at Madonna’s “Get into the Groove” for a minute:

Only when I’m dancing can I feel this free
At night I lock the doors, where no one else can see
I’m tired of dancing here all by myself
Tonight I wanna dance with someone else

She’s so happy! And, well, sad because she can’t feel free without, well, you know. Um…and this was clearly written before she decided it was ok to unlock the doors so everyone could see. I think I just proved that book’s point. *ahem*

Anyway, the feckless part of this is that I like to use my “knowledge” to ruin Bryan’s perceptions of songs. I can’t help it because it’s funny. When we’re in the car, it’s not uncommon for me to lean over and say, “You know, Ted Nugent’s “Fred Bear” is actually about touching yourself with a toilet brush. In the woods. With an old man watching. I read it in a book, so I know it’s true.” He’s not a hunter, though, so that info actually made him like that song more. So that was nice of me.

Do you ruin things for people you love all the time? Did this post ruin your breakfast? If so, post your own Friday fecklessness anywhere you can! You are not alone!

*The Divinyl’s “I Touch Myself,” on the other hand is really about dancing. She dances when she thinks of you. Isn’t that sweet? She honestly does.

It was lovely to see you again in West Virginia. Mike and Tracy love you and PJ, and we can see why. Congratulations on selling your house. I understand why you’re sad about it, though. A house is a very emotional thing, especially when you built it yourself and brought a baby home to it. I hate to see such a sweet person sad even for a minute, so here is something to cheer you up:

I hope this picture of Bizarro Jon B0n J0vi and Bizarro J0an J3tt going to prom gives you a good chuckle.

Sincerely,

Bizzaro Jon Bon Jovi’s Little Sister

P.S. I know he sings really well now, but back then he would put his earphones on and sing along to whatever, and the heinous sound made me cry in terror. It sounded like famine, disease, misery, poverty, and painful death. He could play the guitar, though.

Dear Mike,

You can’t tie a dirty sweat sock around my nose, wait until I fall asleep and put horseradish in my mouth, flick me on the back of my head with your sausage fingers that feel like a small lead pipe, pull the arms of my sweatshirt in such a way so you can tie the ends together and then I can’t move my arms, stick your nasty feet in my face while you giggle with glee and I scream in horror, and you can’t eat all the good cereal in one sitting all the way from West Virginia. So there.

Love,

Abby

P.S. Thanks for working so hard on your singing cuz now you rock the house in a big way. I can’t even believe it, but it’s true. I love you! Don’t hurt me. I only posted this for Melodie and you know you want to bring her joy.

]]> http://sundayswithstretchypants.com/index.php/2009/08/for-melody/feed/ 7 http://sundayswithstretchypants.com/index.php/2009/06/he-was-my-first/ http://sundayswithstretchypants.com/index.php/2009/06/he-was-my-first/#comments Fri, 26 Jun 2009 13:54:10 +0000 Abby http://sundayswithstretchypants.com/?p=910 My hairstyle might say Leather Tuscadero, but everything else says Michael Jackson, all the way.

My first concert. My first bedroom poster. My first celebrity letter-writing experience. My first fan club. My first cassette bought with my own money. My first reason to stay up late to watch Friday Night Videos. My first reason to carry a portable tape player around with me. My first reason to dance in front of the mirror. My first love.

The first thing I ever won was tickets to the Jackson Victory Tour. Packy’s Pizza in Chesaning had a drawing and very late one night while my sister and I were babysitting, we got the phone call. I don’t know who called, but my sister answered the phone and had to wake me up to tell me. I was too tired to be excited, but I think I shit myself when it finally sunk in. I went to the Silverdome with my dad and I didn’t even mind that it was all the Jacksons. It was the shit, man. I still have this picture disc and it’s never been played:

The first time I scraped together my very own money with the intention of buying something specific besides candy, I bought Off the Wall on cassette. I already had Thriller and Victory and I was at the point where I needed MORE! I had the glove, I had all of the pins, I had a concert t-shirt, I had his new music, I fiercely coveted the red leather “Beat It” jacket and tried it on every time I went to the mall. There was nothing else to buy, so I bought Off the Wall. And I carried my first portable tape player around and played it outside until I knew all the words.  And then I put Thriller back in and danced on a picnic table in front of a window until my neighbor saw me and I got embarrassed.

I remember fighting with my cousin over the words to “Beat It!” She said it said “funny,” when clearly it said “funky.”

I remember watching the news and learning about an old celebrity who had died. I don’t remember who it was, but my parents were both kind of like, “NO! I can’t believe he’s dead!” I very clearly remember that seeing my parents react like that made me realize that Michael Jackson would die some day and it would be on the news and I would be an adult and I would be so sad.

I loved him in the maniacal way that 8-year-old girls love celebrities and I don’t think even my love for Eddie Vedder compares to how I felt about Michael Jackson. Nobody compared to him back then. Even my brother, with his heavy metal leanings, learned how to do the Moonwalk and then taught me and my sister. And today I’m teaching it to my kids.

I had one of those holy-shit-I’m-as-old-as-my-parents-were-when I-thought-they-were-so-old and-now-I-realize-that-they-weren’t-so-old moments yesterday.  Has that ever happened to you? Jarring.

*sigh* The girls and I were in the car yesterday and Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” came on the radio. Of course I turned it up and started singing because that’s my favorite thing to do. Then I heard Lena singing with me and it made me think of driving around with my parents on Saturday nights listening to “Solid Gold Saturday Night” on the Pacer radio (If you’ve heard that radio show, I bet you can’t just read the words “Solid Gold Saturday Night.” You have to sing them, don’t you?  It’s ok, I do too.) I used to sing along with my parents all the frickin’ time! Even when I didn’t know the words. But those songs were well and truly old, right? Songs from my youth can’t possibly be considered well and truly old by my children. I thought about that and then I googled it. And now I frickin’ hate the google. Always telling me stuff I don’t wanna know. Know-it-all douche.

I was 6 when “Don’t Stop Believin’” came out. My mom was 6 when one of my all-time favorite oldies came out:

=

So, by my math, Journey=Chuck Berry. Think about that! I’m just going to assume that my math is wrong and keep going ahead with the idea that my parents are old now and they’ve always been old, while I, on the other hand, have always been young and will continue to be young. Seriously, tell me there’s something special about songs from the 50s and their “oldies” quality. It’s not the same as when a child of today hears Journey. I mean, it’s not the same, is it? Is it?

Here’s a mellow sample. He does less mellow, too.  And his own stuff. It’s all good. That reminds me, I saw a comedian once say, “I think it’s unfair that Neil Young can sing, play guitar, and play harmonica all at the same time and everybody loves it and he’s a serious artist and everything, but if he were to add a pair of cymbals to his knees, then he’d just be a moron.” Here’s my brother, sans cymbals:

You probably guessed I would choose Eddie Vedder, right? I would have, except I don’t think the song of my life should be a love song and Eddie would have a really hard time writing anything other than a love song if I were the subject. Because he loves me. He already wrote that great line in Black for me “I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life, I know you’ll be a sun in somebody else’s sky, but why, why, whyyyyyyyy can’t it be, why can’t it beeeee miiiiine?” Any more than that would just be embarrassing.

Happy Saturday.

So, I think Bryan might have bought Pearl Jam for me for my birthday and it sat on my desk for days and days until I finally had time to listen to it on a drive up to Michigan. Except I couldn’t read the liner notes because I get carsick when I read. All of the days leading up to my chance to really listen to it were filled with looking at it forlornly and fondling it and then being interrupted by the children. And they were kind of little back then so, though I did make them listen to Violent Femmes, they railed against any kind of deeper-voiced stuff. They weren’t fans of Pearl Jam and I wasn’t a fan of whining so I didn’t get a chance to listen to it very much.

I remember whole days spent in my room listening to new music over and over and over again, while reading every last sentence in the liner notes. If the lyrics were included, of course I would have to learn every single lyric first and then begin reading the liner notes. And then make up a dance routine. That last part only applies to Cyndi Lauper and Madonna tapes, or my sister’s filthy Prince records. In the 90s, it was Tori Amos and Pearl Jam and, instead of a dance routine, I would make up an I’m-too-good-for-the-world-and-all-that-is-in-it routine, which may or may not have consisted of eye-rolling and pouting in front of a mirror. In flannel. Whatever.

I’m going to buy the kids cds from now on and just rip the music to their mp3 players. No I’m not. But I wish I would because I think they’re missing out on getting to know the bands they love. I think. I don’t know. Maybe kids these days would rather look up a band’s myspace instead. It just seems wrong to me.
Kids these days and their electronic internet. They don’t know what they’re missing. My instinct is to ignore their Christmas lists and buy them cds from their favorite artists, so they too can enjoy the wonders of the liner notes. But my gift-giving instincts are usually wrong so I won’t do that. Probably. I’ll just spend the days counting down to the reissue of Ten, and then when it comes out, I’ll lock myself in my room with a cd player and the Fisher-Price record player and, perhaps, some reading glasses, and I won’t come out until I feel that Eddie Vedder and I are, once again, psychically connected through the liner notes.

*sigh* We watched Girls Rock last night at the Wexner Center and I cried all through it because it was awesome. And then I yelled at Bryan because, well, he’s a boy and he didn’t even have to learn that he rocks. And it’s not fair! But then, Dawn’s Girls Rock post makes a good point about boys and their struggles and whatnot, so I guess I won’t yell at him today. For being a boy.

The movie inspired my girls to play the drums (Liberty), play guitar and drums (Lena), and play guitar and drums and sing (Maya). And Bryan and I were inspired to pay for stuff that would enable those endeavors. Finally, the girls are doing what they’re supposed to by living out my dreams so that I can live through them. Er, maybe it’s not supposed to be about me and my dreams? I can’t remember. The world is so confusing after seeing Girls Rock.

Anyway, Kids Know Stuff is giving away a Washburn guitar soon and now I wish we could win it. Except it’s kind of ruined because it has either Hannah Montana or Camp Rock paint splashed all over it. I’m sure a kid would like it, but whatever.

We’re going to the Wexner Center to watch two more movies today: Jump and Children of Heaven. I’m sure Jump will inspire a jump rope purchase. I just hope Children of Heaven doesn’t inspire me to make the children share one pair of shoes. I’m easily swayed by visual media.

Maya watches the Mr. Roboto video more times per day than necessary. And she sings along. I blame my brother. Maybe he didn’t introduce her to Styx, but some of our shared (obviously mutant) genes must have been lying dormant within me and I inadvertently passed them on to my precious baby. Too bad there’s not a pre-natal screen for that. At least we would have been prepared and we could’ve tried to keep the gene from becoming active. My theory is that Maya’s mutant Styx gene would have remained dormant if she hadn’t been next to me listening to her uncle’s voice on the phone the other day. Obviously, it’s an auditorily-activated gene. Sick.

In other news, more of this needs to happen:
Muslim McCain Fans Confront Intolerance at Rally