Going through our CD collection …

My family decided to drag me kicking and screaming into this century by getting me an iPod for Mother’s Day. And because it was Mother’s Day and she had to be nice to me, my fourteen year old daughter set up my account on my computer, while my seven year old hopped all around the room, asking me what songs was I going to get, what songs was I going to get, WHAT SONGS WAS I GOING TO GET ALREADY?

And can I just say … I love that thing. I don’t know how I lived without it, much in the same way I wonder how I ever watched TV before TiVo entered my life. Between TiVo and my iPod … I think I just might cop a squat, order a lemonade and hang out in this millennium for awhile. And yes, Helena, if I could I would marry it but Daddy may have some reservations.

Much to the consternation of both of my daughters, I listen to my iPod all the time now. As if it wasn’t bad enough when they were a captive audience in the car and I’d belt out a song off key at the top of my lungs and flail my arms around, now I’m actually doing it in public. And sometimes when I’m really into it, I’ll move my body to the beat, otherwise known as dance. And this happens in front of real live people, some of whom they actually know. Thank you Jesus for allowing me to fulfill my God given duty as a mother to embarrass the hell out of my kids. Amen.

I’ve also developed an odd habit of shouting instead of talking when listening to my iPod because I can’t hear myself above the clamor of the rock concerts blaring into my brain. I’m not aware of this phenomenon while it’s happening so when I speak to my girls and they roll their eyes and ignore me, I assume they don’t hear me and I raise my voice a few decibels and repeat myself. Like recently in the waiting room of the doctor’s office where I yelled to Zoe MAKE SURE YOU TELL THE DOCTOR ABOUT THE WART ON YOUR FOOT. It’s instances like these that cause my girls to melt into puddles of embarrassment and humiliation, whereupon they immediately stomp up to me, yank the ear phones out of my ears and admonish me to act like the middle-aged mother they’ve come to know and tolerate and not some hip teenage rocker wannabe.

Yesterday I dived into our eclectic CD collection to see if there were any songs worth bribing my daughters to download onto my computer so that I could listen to them on my shiny new best friend. And yes, I did say daughters, as in plural, because my computer savvy seven year old also manages her own iPod account and is constantly irritated with me because I still cannot navigate Webkinz World without supervision.

While perusing our CD collection, I must admit … I was a bit startled to see what Nate and I had amassed.

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Nate was and is a big Beatles fan, so these didn’t surprise me. Actually, I was pretty impressed.

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Helena can’t understand why I would ever want to listen to last week’s dinner. I’ve got nothing but fond memories and respect for that overweight, aging rock’n roll icon with a bad attitude who belted out words and stories that made baseball seem interesting to me. He made me want to run out into the night like a bat out of hell, going nowhere fast and find paradise by someone’s dashboard lights. He left me all revved up with no place to go. All puns intended. I love that man.

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Nate and I went to this concert while we were dating and just had a blast, dancing and singing and screaming alongside people our own age. They really put on a spectacular show and they didn’t need a billion watts of laser lights or amped up sound to do it. Just their music and vocals. It doesn’t get much better than that. Except when Nate and I drove back to the Wegman’s parking lot where we had dropped off my car. We made out like crazy in that parking lot and this CD makes those memories of that new-found love we were falling into come rushing back to me.

Did I mention my fourteen year old sometimes reads this blog? If she’s reading this post, I’m willing to bet she’s feeling a bit queasy after reading that. Since the alternative is going downstairs and doing those dishes that are patiently waiting for her, I’m thinking she’ll stay put and get over it. And in hopes that blogs are conducive to subliminal messages … ***GO CLEAN YOUR ROOM***

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*CHOKE* How’d these get in there? THESE ARE NATE’S. AND YES, I AM WORRIED ABOUT HIM. People, let’s move it along … nothing to see here, nothing at all … let’s move it along quickly please.

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Whew. That’s better. I feel much better now. It’s amazing how a little eye bleach and Peter Gabriel can make you completely forget the last ten seconds of your life.

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Ah, yes. My size two, contact-lens, funky hair, high-heeled, make-up wearing, it’s-only-2:00 AM-where-do-you-want-to-go-next clubbing days. Excuse me while I take a moment to pay my respects.

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My boyfriend. Don’t tell Nate.

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Another one that makes those memories of falling in love with Nate wash over me like waves. I would go over to his house for dinner on the weekends I didn’t have Zoe and we’d spend hours playing this CD over and over. And over. I loved it and I loved Nate and I loved falling in love with him to this music. This CD will always bring me back to that time.

****ZOE, FOLD THE LAUNDRY****

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You just can’t have enough Achtung Baby. Or anything by U2. You just can’t. It’s a law, somewhere.

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And likewise with INXS. Much to my chagrin, this is the only CD I have. I don’t have any with Michael Hutchence. Go ahead and flog me with a wet noodle, I deserve it. But I’m going to rectify that with my brand new shiny iPod, don’t you worry about it.

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Hmmm, looks like Nate has a thing for new age music.

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And piano music. And that’s OK, because I like these too, but where’s the Beatles and Peter Gabriel lovin’ man I married?

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Nope, not here.

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And not here either. Don’t get me wrong … I like that he’s in touch with his sensitive side but I’m starting to miss my manly man. Nate, Nate, wherefore art thou, Nate?

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There you are! Hi Nate! I was getting worried there for a second. WHEW.

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AACCCK!

For the love of God, where’s the eye bleach?

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