Rocco likes to randomly scream out newspaper headlines in the morning while I’m checking my email and writing posts for my douchey little blog. Surprisingly, it’s really hard to hear him although we’re a mere thirteen feet apart. This usually helps me block him out and stay focused on the task at hand. I worry about missing something important though, so I’ve developed a little system to make sure I perk up for the good stuff.
It’s similar to my approach to incoming calls on my cell phone. If I assign everyone a specific ring, I don’t have to find Webster to see who’s calling. I can decide if I’m interested in the call based solely on the ring. (Not that I would ever, EVER avoid YOUR call. Hell’s no. Ahem.)
Basically Rocco has different ringtones for the different type of article he’s sharing with me. I know the story involves one of my celebrity obsessions if he coos out the headline in a mocking, sing-song voice. I know another state is recognizing gay marriage if he sounds jubilant. When the headline is prefaced with a defeated sigh, I know he’s about to tell me something pertaining to the economy. If he sounds indignant, it’s a political article. If it’s an article on new and innovative cancer treatments, his voice is more hesitant and he knows its best to email me the link.
We played the usual game again this morning as I tried to convince myself traffic to the site was improving. There’s an article on new ways to target cancer stem cells (my favorite quote: “Standard chemotherapy is effective because the chemicals are applied in such large doses that they kill all cells. But this approach is stressful for the patient.” Stressful? Umkay.) There’s more health care reform mess in the press. Nine women were abducted in North Carolina.
Then in one serendipitous moment, the air conditioner clicked off, the Shugie Otis song ended, and Rocco called out a headline in a voice previously not assigned to a specific article type.
“Lady Gaga is Nude: Wants to Turn the World Gay,” he proclaimed.
He paused as I spewed green tea all over my keyboard in fits of hysterical laughing.
“Who is Lady Gaga?” he asked with great curiosity.
“A singer. Sort of. Well, maybe it would be more appropriate to call her a performer. She does those ‘Poker Face’ and ‘Disco Stick’ songs.”
“Is she any good?”
“Again, that’s kinda a hard question. Let’s just say she’s had some commercial success.”
“Well she certainly knows how to get talked about. And she’s got a decent body.”
Am I the only one who misses ugly musicians? Give me a gal with summer teeth and actual songwriting ability over these look-alikes any day. (Now if that statement doesn’t prove I’m a fuddy old hypocrite, I dunno what will. This from the gal who spent her tweens cooing over musical geniuses NKOTB.)