Monday, August 9, 2010

Name That Tune ... quick, before I turn the music off!

Name that tune:

On a weekend I wanna wish it all away, yeah.
And they called and I said that "I want what I said" and then I call out again.
And the reason oughta' leave her calm, I know.
I said "I know what I was the boxer or the bag."

I’ll give you the answer at the end of this blaaag.

For some reason, the songs of my single pre-kid days have been sneaking up on me.

In the car:

“Good grief, who in God’s name is this?” I questioned my husband, in regard to the unidentified quivery and raspy voice accosting us through minivan speakers.

“It’s that Pearl Jam guy,” he replied. That would be Eddie Vedder (in case you didn’t know).

In the grocery store:

“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fiiiiiiinnnneeee” … in the produce departmeeeennnnttt.

In 3-year-old’s bedroom:

“Mom, can we play this Dave Mathews c.d.?” Laura asked, handing me the black c.d. Does anyone think it’s weird that a 3-year-old knew it was a Dave Mathews c.d. and not The Wiggles?

This series of 90’s alternative music occurrences of late, freak me out. Have I forgotten? Has it been that long since the days of Pearl Jam, grunge and flannel being socially acceptable and even cool in some regions? Hokey smokes. I’ve crossed over. I’m like one of Anne Rice’s vampires who remain underground too long; they lose their ability to socially progress and become completely insane—and un-cool. Okay, I’m not completely insane and my partial insanity is due to 3 kids, 3 and under, and not because I’ve been unable to integrate into whatever we are calling the 2000+ music era (uninspired? That’s unfair, Michael Buble is cool--oh, and so are the Black Eyed Peas).

Ever since having a constant soundtrack of my own, featuring the “sounds of living with three little people,” I’ve noticed my inclination to rock out has severely diminished. On the rare occasion that I turn on the radio or put in a CD, I either: a) turn it off immediately or, b) if it’s not classical, a squeaky voice intended for kids, or Harry Connick Jr., I turn it off, or c)try to brave it for 5 minutes and turn it off.

Mommy likey quiet time! Uh-oh, this is not good. I can feel my fangs extracting …

No, surely I’m okay. I haven’t been in a proverbial underground that long. Have I? Maybe once my girls get past the ages of 3, 4, or 18, I’ll be cool again (assuming I ever was). I’ll be able to listen to music for extended periods of time. Maybe grunge will make a comeback by then—like Steve Miller and Aerosmith did the year I graduated high school (no, I’m not telling; I’ve given you enough hints already).

I’ll have you know I'm already making progress, I made it through all of Under The Table and Dreaming while in Laura’s room. That would be The Dave Mathews Band (in case you didn’t know).

Answer to “Name that tune”: “Yellow Ledbetter,” by Pearl Jam.

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