This morning I awoke to the sweet dulcet tones of Mildred wailing as she tried to claw her way out of the water bowl she’d somehow fallen into around 6am. Seriously. I’m starting to wonder if managed to find a kitten even dumber than Lucy.
Thanks for all the sweet comments and notes yesterday, Interwebz. I didn’t mean to get all somber on y’all. It was a moment of weakness. Forgive me. Besides, I just get all weepy and emotional when you people are nice to me. Weepy and emotional isn’t really my thing. So stop it. STAT. If I was banging Justin Timberlake in real life (as opposed to the crazy things we do in my head) I would make him sing you a song entitled, “I’m Bringing Snarky Back.” And then we would have a giant dance-off Soul Train style.
You should really try one of these pills.
Driving out to the house-to-be-if-I-can-just-sell-this-fucking-apartment-and-why-the-hell-isn’t-saint-joe-working-yet-damnit yesterday, Rocco tried to torment me with talk radio. I don’t do well with talk radio for long periods of time. (I feel the same way about free-from jazz, frankly. You can keep your Monk, Mingus, and Davis. I’d rather listen to Fitzgerald, Armstrong, and Simone.) After seven minutes of drivel about “all brain” job postings, I begged him to consider trying the FM band for a wee bit.
So there I am, mouth wide open, head thrown back wailing, “Maybe I’m craaaaaay-zaaaaay. Maybe you’re craaaaaay-zaaaaay,” as we barreled down I-78. As I dipped my head down, gulping in air or my next big note, my eyes landed on the woman in the car next to us. She too, was gulping air. Then just as the words “Maybe we’re…” filled the air, lady in the car next to us threw her head back, clearly belting out “craaaaaay-zaaaaay!” in the confines of her own car.
She caught me watching and immediately clamped her mouth closed. I gave her a wink, and added a little seat shimmying to my sing-a-long. She pumped her fist and waved, as we continued to mouth the lyrics in unison.
It made me a wee bit nostalgic for the days of high-school car pooling. When a great song would come on the radio, and you’d roll down your window, stick out your hand, and try and signal the station’s frequency to the cars behind you with gestures or by yelling out the window at stop lights.
A single finger. Then a fist. Then both hands out the window, one splayed wide, the other in a piece sign. Then a finger jab in the air. Finally one hand, again splayed wide. We’d watch as the passenger in the car behind us bent over the dashboard, spinning the knob till landing on 107.5, immediately nodding in recognition of the blaring guitar while the rest of the kids in the car moved to the beat.
That never happens when I’m listening to my iPod walking down Broadway. Though I do see a lot of single fingers sticking out of rolled-down car windows.