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Tuesday, April 26, 2005

It's All In My Head

Some of you folks may have noticed that occasionally my titles here at Home Fires are titles or lyrics of songs. I have an illness and it's nearly as bad as the one mentioned in yesterday's post. Okay, fine. You got me. It's worse.

My brain is a wasteland, that's the obvious part, but I wonder, how many lyrics can one cram into their head before oldtimers kicks in? How many songs do you know all or most of the words to? I couldn't venture a guess.

In relation to the post below, my mother gave me another annoying little trait, singing. It wouldn't be a bad trait if either of us didn't suck so badly at singing. Since neither of us could carry a tune in a bucket, we really shouldn't be singing in public. Ever.

When I was little, I remember thinking my mom knew every song ever made. While I watched back then, I had no idea, I was picking up another nasty little habit. Thanks Mom!

My kids were the first to point it out to me. There we were, in the pharmacy when I belted out, "Sweet love. Hear me calling out your name." Ironically enough I was stopped before I sang the next line of that song, "I feel no shame."

Lane 1 rolled his eyes at me and asked why I was singing the "oldies" out loud in public. Of course I corrected the boy letting him know Anita Baker is so not an oldie. I don't think that tidbit of info really helped my situation.

Later, in the car, "I can let my hair down. I can say anything crazy." went just fine, but once I sang, "with nothing but a t-shirt on," Lane 2 chimed in with an "eeewww Mom!"

Sometimes I sing and don't realize I'm doing so until it's too late. It always seems to register about the time I make eye contact with a handsome stranger. How can I work on finding a part time lover, if I am singing in the key of cat's cry as it's tail is being crushed by a rocking chair?

Fine, so I'm not looking for a part time lover, that was just more lyrics popping out of my stupid head. But I did get caught singing happily with my window rolled down in traffic this morning. "I'll adore you. I'll treat you like milk, I'll do nothing but spoil you."

When the man in the car next to me looked like he was going to pee his pants from laughing so hard, I killed the volume, looked him in the eye, crossed my arms over my chest like a gangbanger and said, "What, what, dawg."

That only made the man laugh harder as the light turned green and my kids shriveled down in the backseat. At least the man and I were amused.

High-tech Redneck

My broadband internet has been acting all sorts of goofy for a few weeks. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. All morning I was without internet. My fart around time was cut virtually in half and trust me, I'm a little annoyed. I've called my cable company more in the last few weeks than I've called my own mother. I don't want the help-line people to know me by name, unfortunately, it's too late.

After a long talk with some guy who called himself Mr. Willson, who I forced to call me Mrs. Menace for no other reason than because his stooopid name reminded me of Dennis the Menace, it was determined that not only is Bubba up the road takin' cable ag'in' the law, he also didn't reattach my wires proper like. That meant, every time the wind blew, my connector came unconnected. It's friggin' April people, our windy month here in the windy city. Bubba, 'bout got himself an ass whoopin'.

Bubba is the rich redneck on the block. He has himself one of them one-ton pickup trucks with a cherry picker in the bed. I don't know what Bubba does fer a livin' but I reckon old boy ain't got 'nuff money to buy him some Blue Collar Comedy, so he done swiped mine.

As I type this to you, I have no internet. How I plan on posting this, has yet to be determined. Stooopid cable guys are still playing with their pole outside.

When I look at them through my window like some old looky-loo lady, I can't help but think, these guys never grew up. I guess they call that the Peter Pan syndrome. They just seem a little too happy to have their tool belts strapped to themselves. I watched as they whipped tools in and out of the pouches just the same way Clint Eastwood pulled his 45 out of his holster or like Lane 1 did with his Little Tikes tool belt set... when he was 3.

Stooopid Bubba and stooopid cable guys!
Six hours later and I've got internet. It's about damn time!