Everybody Cut Footloose (But Not So Fancy-Free, Mister)

I hear there's a Footloose remake coming out.

I never saw this movie.

That's because in college, Jorge broke up with me while this movie was in theaters. During this break-up, he took a "girl" to this movie. Somehow, putting quotations around "girl" make her seem ... sketchy, at least that was my goal. But I think she was just really "a girl." Normal and everything.

I saw this girl later on, after we got back together. I said mean things about her-- having wide hips and being an equestrian. ? (I don't know. I was grasping.)

But to this day, when I hear "Let's Hear it for the Boy," I roll my eyes.

Twenty-eight years later, I'm still rolling my eyes and being snarky over one little, teeny-tiny HELLO--MAJOR event.

Anyway, they're remaking it, starring Kenny Wormald, Julianne Hough, Dennis Quaid and Andie McDowell. I kind of like the oldsters in this, so maybe I'll go see this one.

Of course, I'd have to get a get date. And since I'm married, it would probably have to be that guy who dumped me and saw Footloose #1 with The Equestrian. Not that I would ever bring that up during the movie or dinner or drive home or anything, oh nooooo.

So how about you ... is there anything from your early dating years with your spouse that you STILL bring up? A date that went bad, a break-up, a horrible miscommunication, an awful, tacky gift? (Please don't let me be the only one.)

Then back me up, spill what you can. Because life is too short to forget these petty grievances; let's make sure we get them down for posterity. LOL.

The Annoying Earworm--or the Song You Must Turn Off

Dictionary Definition for Earworm: A song or tune that gets stuck in one's mind and repeats as if on a tape, also called cognitive itch, sticky tune.

We've all experienced the earworm phenomenon. And if you are over 40, I'm betting that the popular Coke song of the 70s song lodged itself in your brain for the long haul. That song always made me feel uncomfortable--giving me the same heebie jeebies as a doll with evil intentions. It was as innocuous as a folk song sung by a Flower Child on a mountain top, and yet it was as creepy as a cult incantation:



Question: What is your most recent earworm--or what is the one song you MUST turn off or your ears will bleed?

My current "sticky tune" is "Moves Like Jagger" by Maroon 5. But I don't mind because I'm a Maroon 5 fan. In fact, the "whistle" intro is now my ringtone. So I don't mind that this song is in a loop in my head even as I am trying to concentrate on writing to you right now.

But we don't always get to choose our cognitive itch; it chooses us. Sometimes it's the theme of your preschool child's favorite TV program or a school's fight song. After writing that, I'm glad my earworm is Adam Levine and not Barney the Dinosaur.

There is one song, however, that I cannot stand to hear even once, and this is the backstory of how I came to hate it.

When I was a young teenager, I'm guessing about 14, the lady across the street from us was going through a divorce. In what I can only imagine was a broken-hearted, bleary-eyed stupor, she played one song over and over and over and over ... surely as loudly as her stereo would go. All day long, for WEEKS, the song drifted in through open windows and doors up and down our street. I felt like I was going to lose my teenage mind. Everyone was talking about it; nobody did anything about it.

At some point, the torture stopped. At least it stopped in real time. But whenever I hear the opening chords of this song, I am back in my driveway in cut-offs with my long stringy hair and disastrous attempts at make up. And I'm looking across the street at that plain white house with every window and door open, hearing this song blare from a mammoth stereo, gritting my teeth in frustration. To this day, when I hear the first few notes, I go to any length, scramble every way, knocking over hairspray bottles, tripping on cords, stepping on the dog, to shut it OFF.

This post officially makes Gordon Lightfoot the performer of my two least favorite songs in the universe: "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," and ... "Sundown." Oh, the torture!

Flashback Friday: Discipline

You know, I did a meme for a while, so I know that it's tough coming up with consistently interesting conversation starters. I do not know how Linda meets this goal week after week. All I know is, once she opens up a topic, she does not leave you without 1 or a dozen jumping off points, which I so appreciate. Here's what's on tap this week; why don't you join in?

Were your parents strict, permissive, or somewhere in-between when you were growing up? Did you tend to be compliant or rebellious? What did you tend to get in trouble for doing? How did your parents discipline/punish you - spankings (and what did they use when spanking), revoking privileges, grounding, time-outs or some other manner? Did both parents handle punishment or did one tend to do it more than the other? (And which one was it?) Is there anything that you have admitted doing since you've been an adult that you got away with as a child? Or is there anything you were punished for that you have since learned your parents had to try hard not to laugh while they were meting out your discipline? If you are a parent, what is something you have done or not done (or vowed you would never do) as a result of your growing-up experiences with discipline?

My parents were, on one hand, strict, and on the other, permissive.

The religious denomination of my youth was very legalistic, so rules were a big part of my life. We did not buy on Sunday. We did not play cards. We did not do a lot of things.

You would think that such rigidity would flow over into things like dress codes, household chores, curfews, etc. You would be wrong.

It was a very complicated upbringing, but it was a loving one, and I was a mostly compliant, rule-following little girl.

Except for this one time and this one rule ....

My parents remodeled their living room and added a sprayed-on bumpy ceiling with little sparklies in it. I was quite fascinated by that bumpy ceiling. Quite. Fascinated.

My mom gave me a serious, stern talking-to about the new ceiling: "It must never be poked with a broomstick. It must never have toys thrown at it. It must never be approached without fear and trembling." OK, I made that last part up, but the ceiling, it was definitely something special. It had sparkles, you know.

But the main rule of rules about the ceiling was, "It must never, ever get wet. If it gets wet, it will melt and chip off, and we'll have to re-do the whole ceiling." I cannot communicate the somber tone of this warning. It was nearly a religious moment itself.

Now, my mom liked to talk on the phone. You remember those crazy phones with the three pound receivers and curly cords that tethered moms so that kids could run around just out of the reach of a swat.

Shortly after the Mt. Sinai exhortation about the ceiling, my mom got a phone call.

To this day, I do not know what possessed me. Like I said, I was normally a good kid. But I went and got a Windex bottle, climbed up on the furniture and began SPRAYING THE CEILING.

THE SACRED CEILING OF SPARKLES!!!!

I can hardly breathe just reliving the insanity of this act.

My mother got off the phone. She looked up, gasped, and after that, much of my life is a blur until about age 25.

Oh, the fear and trembling. Hell hath no fury like the mom of a mushy sparkle ceiling.

She began walking around the house, methodically shutting the windows.

Oh, the horror. She was going to spank me so hard she didn't want the neighbors to hear my wailing.

I was basically dying a thousand deaths.

Here is the honest truth: She yelled and yelled, but I do not remember the spanking (and there have been many in my life). I do not know whether she was just so shell-shocked that she did not have the physical strength to spank me or was afraid once she started swatting she couldn't stop, but I cannot remember being hit. I just remember the yelling and the windows.

That is one moment of discipline I will never forget. And you can bet I have NEVER sprayed a sparkly ceiling again. I live in mortal fear and reverence of sparkly ceilings.

Now I need to step away from this story, gather my wits and take some deep breaths.

And just in case I never said it, Mom, I'm sorry I desecrated the ceiling. If you will forgive me for that, I will forgive you for making me wear your big plastic rain bonnet on the bus to school in kindergarten. I think we're even.

Flashback Friday: Decorating for Christmas

This week Lid asks, "When you were growing up, when did your family put up and decorate the Christmas tree? Was it real or artificial? Who usually decorated it? Were there special decorations? What was on the top? White lights or colored, blinking or steady? How much did your family decorate for the holiday other than the tree (wreaths, dishes, snowglobes, miniature villages, etc.)? Did y'all do outdoor lights? White or colored, blinking or not? Are there special memories associated with decorating for Christmas?"

Here I am, Christmas, 1964, at my little piano which my grandmother gave me. You can see the silver tree in the background; we had that tree for most of my growing up years. My favorite part of Christmas decorating was the wheel of color that turned and shone onto the reflective tree. I would lie on the floor, listen to the whir of the wheel and watch the colors fall over the tree, onto the ceiling and down the wall, over and over. It was magical. Of course, back in those days, we didn't have sensory overload like we do now. I can't imagine anyone but maybe a cat doing that today. Even toddlers are bored by holograms and time travel.



Here I am with my youngest of three brothers, Donnie. He is 56 now. I love him dearly. I don't have many memories of actually decorating except feeling like I couldn't really do it to please my mom. She wasn't as into "hominess" as "prettiness." I get that now. She had to look at it for a month.

My daughter gave me grief this year because I didn't use any of my kids' homemade ornaments, and everything is color-coordinated. Actually, I couldn't FIND their ornaments even if I had desperately wanted to use only those.
And here I am at 13, with our sophisticated fake green tree. I thought it was the bomb-diggity. I loved that orchid sweater, too, my favorite color. I can tell by the hair that I was in 7th grade here, and madly in love with a red-headed 8th grade boy at my school. He lives in Philadelphia now.

Check out that gold crushed-velvet chair. Note the lack of lights. I'm not sure we had them on when I was young. I do remember some large ones outside around our picture window. That was about the extent of our decorating; Mom did not go overboard in baking or decorating for holidays. But I loved my Christmases and have very fond memories of footed pajamas, my bothers and their wives coming "home," and Elvis's Blue Christmas on our large console stereo, not my choice of music, but that's what I remember. I wonder how my kids will answer this question someday? ("She wasn't 'into' our ornaments ....")

Birfdays. Some Are Special.

Here she is, the baby of the family. Born November 7, 1992. It was snowing that day. That's one of my clearest memories. I remember lying there waiting, head on my pillow turned to the left, watching the beautiful snow fall so silently, changing the world. It made me feel cocooned and excited, anticipating the little one who would come into our world that day and change our lives forever.

She is the light of my life.

And every mom knows, they cannot possibly know or understand how much we love them, at least until they hold their own little one who will transform their lives and hearts forever. I hope I'm around to see that miracle.

Love you, Kristin Brynn. Happy 18th.

PS: In that top left picture where she is smiling? She is 3 weeks old and pottying her pants at that very moment. I had to completely change her clothes before leaving the studio.

Flashback Friday ~ The Prom

Linda is in the swing of spring over at Mocha with Linda's Flashback Friday meme. Here's the prompt:

Share your prom memories. Did your school have a junior prom or just a senior prom? What did you wear? Was there a party after the prom? Did you go with a date or with friends, and if it was a date, was it a one-time date or a boyfriend/girlfriend scenario? Did you go to more than one prom (like, being someone's date at another school or year.) Where was your senior prom held? Any particular songs come to mind when you think of prom? As always, pictures are great!

I brought a bunch of pics home from my mom's yesterday afternoon on a whim, came home, read the prompt and realized I have no prom pics in the bunch, so I had to scan one from the yearbook. But here's what I remember:

Sophomore year: Bought my first dress from a bridal store. I felt so grown up. Went to prom with Hatrick the boyfriend, who was a senior. I wore a buttery yellow dress with spaghetti straps. Do you see what was wrong with that choice for me? I'll tell you.

1. Yellow on someone with the coloring roughly the equivalent of buttermilk.
2. Spaghetti straps on someone built like an ironing board.

All night long, I stepped on the hem of my dress and yanked it up at the chest to keep from showing no chest at all. Ugh. Plus, he wanted to dance the entire night, and I hated dancing. He danced quite a bit with other people. I just wanted to go home. We both had acne. Not a good picture, so I'm glad I don't have it here to show you. Lucked out. The theme song was "I Like Dreamin'," but I just wanted to wake up from the nightmare. Seriously.

Junior year: Different boyfriend. White eyelet-like dress with ribbon spaghetti straps. Well, at least this dress fit better, but it was still a shade of white: White. What was wrong with me?? He wore a powder blue tux. Oh yes he did. I believe the song for the night was "Always and Forever."

In my junior year, I was a prom princess, on the court with other juniors, and a senior was the queen. I'm on the far right with my eyes half-closed, looking drunk, but I was not, I assure you. The beautiful girl to my left was my best friend, Kris, who was elected homecoming queen the next year.



Senior year: Same boyfriend. I went all crazy and chose a CREAM colored dress with tons of pleats in it. He wore a burgundy tux with cream shirt. Theme song: "Grand Illusion." That I chose that color of dress shows I had a "grand delusion" that my pale skin would actually look distinct from the dress itself.

End of story. But I did wear a black shirt with a silver metallic thread running through it afterward to go bowling in, which I thought was way cool.

Next weekend, my youngest daughter will be going to her high school prom. You can bet there will be pictures here!

Please go on over to Linda's and link up today; it's way more fun than dancing on your dress all night long and worrying about your frizzy hair and acne, I promise!

Wow. That is the lamest prom story ever. Just be glad you only read about it and didn't live it.

Hodge Podge, Because I Can Be Random at Other Times, Too

Facebook status update today:

Time warp today: clogs, jeans, crocheted top, feathery hair, and on the way to work, Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" on the radio. Felt like I should've been heading to E. 26th Street in a Camaro with a bunch of frayed folders and a note from Kris Gill spilled out on the seat.




Here is a bag I bought recently for $13 marked down from $60 ~ Penney's.



Here is my lunch today:

Grapefruit, protein bar, Caffeine-free Diet Coke with lime to squeeze.



That is all for today. Unless I think of something else useless to post.

"Congratulations, It's a ... Honda"

Yesterday was a momentous day at the Crow household. After a decision process years in the making (not exaggerating about that), we bought a new vehicle.

But we didn't accomplish this without a small story to share, which some of you, my friends, are now going to sit through and pretend you care. You will probably even say "Wow" in a comment. Thank you.

I'll try to be brief:

Narrowed choices down to Honda because of the lifetime warranty, the "We will take your grandkids to Disney World and buy them a puppy every year for as long as they live and the United States is a nation." You can't beat those Honda warranties, and I'm sure there is no fine print we missed. So if in 2050 you see adults with Mickey Mouse ears on surrounded by tons of puppies, you'll know Dennis at Honda keeps his word.

• Went to Honda to test drive, one more time, the Element (Oh, how I love the orange) and the CRV, the coolest minivan ever, and yet, still a minivan.

• Good points of Element (if you're me): Lots of room, great panel, rubber on floor instead of carpeting (for those Indiana winters and the slush that ruins car floors), unique "stadium seating" where the back seat passengers sit higher than the front seat passengers, built in cooler, fun to drive, etc.

• Bad points: Clam shell doors that require you to shut the back door first. Back seat passengers can't get out first; fronters have to let them out. Seats four instead of five.

• Bad points of CRV: Yawn.

• I asked Clyde, the first sales guy: "Do you still have the orange Element?" No, they sold it the day before. Color me "Crestfallen Orange."

• Meet Jorge and Lidna. The two most practical people you'll ever meet in the entire world. We decided on the CRV.

• Then came the part of the trade-in, and I realized "This is goodbye to my beloved Camaro." Color me "mad."

• As the paper work starts, I glance up to see a beautiful brand new orange Element drive by the wall-sized glass windows and basically park in front of me. I literally started pointing and saying, "Orange! Orange!" Clyde jumps up and goes out to get the scoop. Yep, just in, brand new, and mighty purty. For about 60 seconds, I was completely confused. Test or sign? Test or sign? Decided "test," and I stuck with CRV decision. Ooh, now I'm double mad because of, excuse me, frickin' test.

• The whole time we signed the bazillion papers to take that CRV with us (By the way, they videotape that part of the transaction. When I asked why, Dennis said "The simplest way to explain it is we want to avoid a McDonald's hot coffee lawsuit." Oh. That clears up everything. (What? Is he going to throw liquid on us if we don't go through with the purchase?!") I kept dreading gathering my stuff out my car and leaving it for the last time.

• Paper work done, we head out to the lot where the CRV is now running and cooling down, but my beloved car is sitting there next to it dying of heat exhaustion. The last thing I heard was the Maroon 5 song over the showroom speakers

It's not over tonight
Give me one more chance to make it right
I may not make it through the night
I won't go home without you

• I didn't want to go home without my little car. But I did, and told myself all the way home, "It's just a piece of metal," to which my alter ego would reply, "Yes, but it's the car Jorge gave you as a fortieth birthday present, and you have loved driving it every day since. It's the reason you learned to drive a stick shift. It's one of your two most valued (really, only 2 possessions of value) possessions. Next you'll be trading in your beautiful, flawless Yamaha piano for a Honda HRX Ultimate lawn mower. Or toaster.

• So the end of an era has come, and although I do not have buyer's remorse because I think we made a good decision, I am still sad. And that is my story, to which I'm sure you're sitting there thinking, "Wow. She is a nut."
  
  Have you ever been emotionally attached to a car before??

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