Who Even IS Luke Bryan?

Yesterday after work I went to the gym like I do and I saw a friend down there exercising. I went over to talk to her and in the process, lost an end of the rubber earpiece thing that attaches to my earbud.

I dropped to my knees frantic to find it. I retraced my steps all the way back to the locker room. I wasted a good ten minutes of exercise time because I was desperate not to listen to the music the gym was playing — country.

If you know me, you know I am the absolute opposite of a country fan. I would rather listen to Ben Stein on repeat for a month straight than be forced to listen to country music.

Unless it’s old school like Johnny Cash or Patsy Cline. Does this make me a hypocrite? I think not. There is a VAST difference between yesterday’s country and today’s. There just is, so don’t try to fight me on this.

Most people in my life enjoy the stuff. I have countless friends who love it. DH’s family — every single blessed one of them — seem to only listen to it. It is on every one of their car radios, and playing at every single bleeping family event.

A few years ago, two of my sisters-in-laws and a couple nieces even drove me to Tennessee in the hopes of a massive conversion. It was country music everywhere, all the time, for a week straight.

Did it help?

No. In fact, I believe it pushed me even further away. Which is as possible as pigs sprouting wings.

I know what you’re thinking. Especially those of you who love the stuff and can’t see where I’m coming from or are insulted by my little anti-country music rant.

You’re thinking, “Suck it up buttercup. Everyone else likes it, so you need to join the club.” And to that I would ask the question my dear parents bestowed upon me every single time I wanted to do what everyone else was doing.

If you told me to jump off the Brooklyn bridge, would I?

No, I would not. Because I know jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge would most likely kill me. And so would listening to country music.

After enlisting the help of my friend and the gym trainer, it couldn’t be found. Finally, I threw my hands up in the air and gave in. I wasn’t going to go home because I couldn’t listen to my own music. I wasn’t going to abandon my daily workout because I was going to be forced to listen to Today’s Country. No.

I had to put on my big girl spurs and get to doing my thing.

There are two types of people in the gym: the ones who workout to the music de jour. And the ones who listen to their own music. I never understood how anyone can workout without their own theme songs, but who am I to judge? It’s what makes the world go ’round, right?

To each his own.

One thing I discovered about myself yesterday was that music is a very large part of setting myself up for the energy and the motivation to exercise and to exercise hard.

Was my workout up to par yesterday? No. I was cranky and severely annoyed. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t feel like exercising. I did it, but I wasn’t happy. I even got off my elliptical 1.3 minutes sooner than usual because I just couldn’t take it anymore. Also, the blood running out of my ears was making a mess.

I have gotten to a really good place in my relationship with the gym the last few months. I have worked hard to create a habit that I actually enjoy. I have worked hard to get to a point where when I enter the gym, I don’t curse, make ugly faces, and sigh deeply over the fact that my body — inside and out — isn’t perfect and that I even have to spend my time doing this thing called “exercise” at all.

You know, kinda like the fact that spinach and brussel sprouts can’t taste like Big Macs and donuts.

My earpiece thingy may be lost forever, but I will replace it, cement it where it belongs, and never, EVER be without my own music again whilst at the gym.

And if there is a freak incident and it does happen again? I will have a back-up. On top of a back-up. On top of a back-up. On top of a…get my point?

What Do You Mean, MAN Shopping?

CptandTennille8Trck1When I was a kid, I was absolutely in love with The Captain and Tennille.  I’m talking, if my mom or dad didn’t insert their “Love Will Keep Us Together” tape into the 8-track player in their car every single time I was a passenger, I would have pouted, cried or screamed.

My favorite song was “You Better Shop Around.” I don’t know why. I hadn’t the slightest idea what the heck it meant. I was 8. Shop around for what? New sneakers, Colorforms (which, by the way, I always, always wanted but never got)? Like I said, I was 8. Why would I ever imagine that your mother would be telling you to shop around for a man? And if you had told me that? I never would have guessed that you can buy a man in a store.

Another song that I adored was “American Pie.” Still one of my favorites. I can listen to the lyrics today and because someone told me what the song meant once upon a time, I understand it. Kind of, because although it is possibly one of the best tribute songs ever written, it’s still a little hard to decipher.

But when I was a kid I thought Don was saying “good old boys drinking whiskey and wine.” Because I heard of whiskey, but never heard of rye and if someone said to me, “hey Mo, they aren’t saying wine, they are saying RYE,” I would have thought they were dumb because you can’t drink rye. That’s a kind of bread.

Also, when they drove their Chevy to the levee? I pictured a large parking lot with a burger stand in the middle of it. The levee was dry?  Pfft. It was a sunny day. I had it all figured out.

Oh, so fun to reminisce. But did you know that The Captain and Tennille recently divorced? When I heard this, I had to know the reason because inquiring minds want to know and also I was a little devastated and needed closure.

In a nutshell, The Captain has Parkinsons and it has interfered with his keyboard playing so Toni left him. I’m not so sure I believe that. I mean, I did read it in the online People edition though. If it’s true, then I have this message for Ms. Tennille: Hey woman, love will not keep you together. You need to write a new song.

This was a writing prompt from Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: A song you loved when you were younger but now listen to the words…

Mama’s Losin’ It

One Moldy Oldie

Soul Asylum. I think that’s their name.

There are many, many things I am too old for.  I’m too old for drama.  But I will not discuss that here because this blog is for fun and inspirational subject matter.  I’m too old for My Retail Job, even though I have to admit I’m having a blast among all the aches, pains and “you’re a mature woman” comments.  I am too old for roller coasters, which pisses me off because I would go on one a thousand times in a row if my brain didn’t scramble into a million pieces after the first 30 seconds of the first ride.  And as much as I love my new sport of running, I may be too old for it because my knees feel like they have been through a war.  Maybe even 2 wars.

Last night I met a friend of mine for dinner about an hour away from where I live.  A very old friend.  She’s not old, our friendship is old.  We were having a great time, having great conversation as always.  Halfway through dinner she asked if I wanted to go with her to meet some of her friends at this theater outside of town to see a band.  Who am I to pass up a good time?  PLUS it was an opportunity to meet new friends.

We trekked on over the border into the next town to see this band.  You may remember them.  Soul Asylum.  I was never a grunge band follower.  I am classic rock and moldy oldies all the way.  After singing half a dozen songs, they sang ONE song I vaguely recognized.  But every person in that room had gray hair.  If they didn’t have gray hair, it was colored I’m sure.  So, I didn’t feel out of place.  A Justin Timberlake concert I would feel out of place at.  This concert?  I just felt old among the old.  And the music was just too effing loud.  I mean, how is a mature woman supposed to have an intellectual conversation with all that noise?

Me and my old friend
Me and my old friend.  And that would be Sprite in my cup.  I swear.

Me and my new friends
Me and 2 of 4 of my new friends.  And my Sprite.

Sure, I had a good time.  Sure, I danced to music I never heard of or even liked.  Sure, I had a drink.  Ok, half a drink.  Ok, a quarter of a drink.  Because after about 20 minutes into being there, I hit a wall.  Not literally.  But the “holy shit, I need my bed NOW” kind of wall.  As much as I was enjoying these women, my new friends among my old one, I felt a very strong urge to put my head on a pillow.  In fact, if there was a pillow somewhere in that place, I would have had my ass in a corner on that floor.  Even amongst all the racket.  And it wasn’t even 10pm yet.

And the band?  They have to be at least my age.  Where, may I ask, do they get their energy?  I guess from their hair.  Because they had plenty of it.  Hair.  Good for those guys.  But I will bet any amount of money that they went home, slathered a crapload of Ben Gay on their joints and fell into a deep coma.  Because that’s what I did.  And I’m not too proud to say so.  I mean, who needs pride when you pee your pants every time you sneeze and, well, never mind.  Anyway, I think I’ll stick to James Taylor.  He gets me.

Rapping It


I was in the car the other day and a popular 1980’s rap song came on the radio.  It led me to start thinking about the differences between my rap music and the kid’s rap music.

Today’s rap music teaches our children about drugs, sex and really bad words.  The newest rap song about shopping in a thrift store is really, really catchy.  The only problem is they say the “F” word 5 times.  “Shit” is spoken 4 times.  And “damn”, “ass” and “bitch” are thrown in there for good measure.  Oh, I forgot they also use the other word for “penis” (in case you don’t know, it rhymes with lock).  But dang, that song has a good beat.  I hate to admit that I kind of like it.  Although I’m not thrilled about the kid listening to it.  When you hear it on the radio, every other word needs to be bleeped out.  Really, what’s the point?

Our rap music talked about aliens who like to eat heads, cars and bars.  Fighting for the right to party.  Telling us to bust a move.  And my favorite:  Wonder Mike wanting to say hello to all the races.  They were cheesy, but we could listen to them without giving our parents a damn heart attack.  I’m sure we had some rap that wasn’t very appropriate, but I never heard it on the radio.

Then there’s the song called Gucci Gucci.  Is it about having expensive, high-end designer clothes?  I don’t really know.  I do know the chick who sings it likes to throw “bitch” around a lot and talks about medication for the treatment of ADHD and narcolepsy.  I have the feeling it’s about a whole lot more but the obvious generation gap doesn’t allow me to know what the bleep bleep she’s talking about.

Oh, and all you parents out there.  If you hear a rapper rappin’ about “Molly,”  it isn’t his new girlfriend.  “Molly” isn’t quite a cute little blonde chick.  No.  “Molly” is the newest word on the street for Ecstasy.  How do I know?  I received an email from anotha’ motha’.  We momma’s gotta stick together.  I should make a rap song about that.  Maybe I will.  Peace out.

Every Day I’m Shuffling


In keeping with the “music” theme, I want to discuss iPods, MP3 players and smart phones. Specifically the shuffle feature.  As you all know (because I’ve made it perfectly clear) I love music.  Not only do I like to sing to it, but I like to listen to it.  While exercising, cleaning the house, driving the car, shopping.  (Shop Rite has some great music.  It does make the act of grocery shopping a bit less painful.  But just a bit.)

I would love to love the shuffle option but I don’t.  The concept is awesome on paper.  I have about 450 songs on my iPhone.  Yet somehow the device plays the same 50 or so.  Actually, I think it’s less than that.  With a random one thrown in there to keep me from bitching.  But mostly the same songs over and over and over again.  I often have to resort to hitting the “next” button a million times before I land on one I haven’t heard in a while.  And when I say “a while” I mean in the last 2 weeks.  When I peruse my playlist there are some great songs that I haven’t heard in ages.  But who wants to sit there and handpick every song?  Ain’t nobody got time for that.

So anyway, I thought it was my phone.  But then the same thing happens on my iPod and MP3 players.  Sometimes I even hear the same song two or three times in one listening session.  So my nice relaxing walk turns into a walk of frustration.  I may love it, but I don’t need to hear “These Boots Are Made for Walking” every 10 minutes.  What it should be is “these boots are made for smashing you to smithereens if you don’t play a damn different song.”  And one I haven’t heard within the last 14 days would be simply divine.  Thank you very much.

So, hear this all you digital music gadgets — you better shape up.  Please don’t make me resort to pulling out my Walkman.  Because I will dig up my old cassette tapes.  And it won’t be pretty. Unless you like Purple Rain.  Damn, Prince sure could rock those heels!

Call Me….Maybe?


My mom went to a Catholic school as a chid (even though she wasn’t Catholic at the time but that’s a story for another day).  Their priest, Old Monsignor Pierce said that Elvis Presley was evil and ordered the children to go home and smash all of their Elvis records.  I can only pray that some old priest will demand the same for Justin Bieber, Carly Rae Jepsen and Nicki Minaj.  Where’s Monsignor Pierce when you need him?

I know I’m being a little over-dramatic, but every single time I have to listen to this shit when the kid gets in the car with her girlfriends I want to throw myself out of the vehicle — while it’s moving.  I swear the radio plays the same 12 songs.

It’s my opinion that most of the music of today has no substance.  In 20, 30 or even 40 years from now I can guarantee that you won’t hear much of it anywhere.  I can’t see how it will have staying power.  Not like the great music of the past.  (Although I have to admit I have a bit of a crush on Justin Timberlake and Usher but there is an exception to every rule.)

While I’m at it, I have to make a comment about Nicki Manaj.  I cannot understand how someone whose speaking voice sounds like 2 tons of cotton swabs were shoved up her nose can have a good singing voice.  I’m not really an “American Idol” groupie anymore, but if it’s the only thing on, I may watch it for a few minutes.  All I want to do is jump through the TV screen with a box of tissues.  Surely she’s got snot up there from 1994.

And the names?  Chiddy Bang.  I wonder what his favorite movie is.  Flo-Rida.  Let me guess.  He’s from Miami.  LMFOA.  I guess when people stop using text speak, this band will become obsolete as well?

I remember when the kid was into The Jonas Brothers a few years ago.  DH and I set up 3 computers so we could get her concert tickets for her birthday.  We were one of the lucky ones.  6 months later, if you so much as mentioned the name Jonas, she would gag.  And I never hear them on the radio.  Ever.  Where’d they go?  Into the graveyard of has-beens.  Pretty soon we’ll see them appear on a cheesy reality TV show with Cindy from The Brady Bunch.

I’ll tell you what is good music.  Anything by Simon & Garfunkel, The Beatles and Joe Cocker.  And that’s just to name a few.  I could be here all night naming them all.  It’s a tough choice…Led Zeppelin or Miley Cyrus?  Miley!  Yeah right, when the Levee Breaks.

MoMo and the PaPa’s


I love to sing.  I will sing to my heart’s content.  In the car, in the shower, at the store.  Out loud and proud.  All the time.  The older I get, the worse it is.  I just seem to sing more and more.  As if it were my last chance to do so.  My family hates it.  They claim that my voice “hurts their ears.”  Oh, such silliness.  I’m afraid they are just jealous because they don’t have the same God given talent.

I would really like to share my God given talent with you.  So, here’s a little treat.  A video of one of my favorite songs.  And aren’t we all doing a little California Dreamin’ by now anyway?

When I first saw the Screaming Goat, I was reminded of myself a bit.  So, I could not leave him out.  He’s my main back-up man (goat video courtesy of SickesTVids).  Besides, everyone else is doing it.  Why can’t I?

Now I’d like to talk about singing the lyrics incorrectly.  I know I’m not alone.  It makes the kid crazy when I do this.  And I do this often.  I’ll give you some examples.  See if you can guess the songs these lyrics are from:

  • I love that girlie water, oh Boston you’re my home
  • Take a load off granny, take a load for free, take a load off granny and put the load right on me
  • I belong with you, you belong with me, in my happy home (Happy Home.  You’re my Sweetheart.  Totally sounds the same, right?)
  • Wake up like a douche another runner in the night (how does a douche wake up exactly?)
  • I wish that we could get together and start a family (a cute little ditty by Melanie about a missing key and roller skates)

Here is one I mess up bad.  The following are the lines to another one of my favorite songs — “The Boxer.”  I have been inaccurately singing this song all my life.  And even though I now know the correct lyrics, I still sing them like this because it’s ingrained in my brain at this point.

  • In the quiet railway station where I’m running scared
  • Laying low, Seeking out the court reporters where the ragged people go
  • Just come on down from the war on 7th avenue
  • Where the New York City winters are a greeting me
  • Greeting me, going home

I know Paul would be proud of how peaceful this song makes me feel, but not so proud of how I slaughter the hell out of it.

Ok, so now I would love to hear what songs you murder?  I know you do it.  Everyone does.  Come on, share.  It’s fun.

Hotel Living At Its Finest

I love hotels.  No really.  I do.  I don’t know if it’s because someone makes my bed or because I can call room service when I get hungry.  I just love them.  I love the smell of the soap.  I love the fluffy pillows and down comforters.  I know.  I’m weird.  DH would much rather chew off his own arm than stay in a hotel, so we don’t do it often.

When my annual scrapbooking retreat comes up, I’m so delighted.  No laundry, no cleaning, no cooking.  And I get to stay in a hotel.

I’m not a picky hotel-stayer.  I don’t mind the humming of the A/C or the sound of the elevator shaft, or the noise of the ice machine.  I don’t even mind if there are people skipping, running or beat boxing down the hall.  But staying in a hotel does have its risks.

I shared a room with 3 friends.  2 to a bed.  That doesn’t bother me.  My bed-mate was a good friend from high school so she’s seen it all.  After scrapbooking all day and late into the night, we returned to our room completely exhausted, I just wanted to go to sleep.  And I did.  It was wonderful until about 2:00am when a large bang woke me.  Followed by plenty more of the same.  What the hell?  Is someone irish dancing on the ceiling?

I sat up and listened for a minute only to hear Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” really, really loud.  And it seemed to be stuck on the same verse.  With the bass turned to it’s deepest.  Then the sound of laughter.  Deep, man laughter.  Lots-of-men-laughter.  I was patiently waiting for the sounds to wake my roommates.  What the hell did these girls take before going to bed?  Ambien with a side of whiskey?

I waited for what seemed like an eternity for the noise to stop.  Surely, these men were raised properly and not by wolves.  Surely, they would realize the error of their ways.  Every expletive was running through my head.  I think I was in complete disbelief.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m pretty laid-back.  In fact, I can be a bit passive.  I don’t like to cause a scene and I don’t like a confrontation.  But my patience had just about worn thin.  So I got out my iPhone flashlight and made my way across the room to find the hotel phone.  In my hoarse voice, I shouted at the poor front desk woman that the party above my head needed to stop immediately.  Her reply?  “I guess you are trying to sleep, huh?”  No.  Actually.  Not really.  I like being a ball buster at 2am for no reason whatsoever.  She was very nice. I was just pissed off.  Sorry for the ‘tude front desk lady.

Of course, the sound of my voice woke my roommates.  Finally.  They weren’t too happy that I woke them.  They didn’t know what the fuss was all about.  Are you kidding me?  I am not known for having good hearing. DH and the kid are constantly telling me I am deaf.  But come on.  If I can practically make out the words to their conversation, surely even the hotel across the street can hear these clowns.

It took about 5 minutes, but the noise finally stopped.  I mean, really stopped.  Dead.  In it’s tracks.   I wonder what the front desk chick told them?  “Yo dudes, if you don’t stop the party the wacko lady downstairs is going to pretty much go postal on you so let this be your only warning.”  I like the thought that these tough grown men could have possibly been a little bit afraid of me.

The next morning at breakfast, I looked over every single man that walked in.  I believe I found them.  They looked something like this:


I knew I had my men.  They sure were lucky I wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight.  Next time, it won’t be so pretty.