Category Archives: Mind Songs

I want a jungle room!

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I woke up this morning thinking that I was supposed to remember something about today when it occurred to me: it’s the 33rd anniversary of Elvis’ death. Festive! I love fat Elvis, and not just for his music. It takes a certain something something to be able to rock out a sparkly jumpsuit.


And capes! Wearing a cape when one is not, arguably, a superhero, really sends a message to the general public. A cape, I think, really escalates an outfit, especially one of the jumpsuit variety.


In general I love singing soulful and impassioned renditions of such musical masterpieces of Suspicious Minds and Kentucky Rain, and I felt that my performance would probably be greatly enhanced by playing the actual music, so I ran out to the car to find my most-loved Elvis CD. To find it, I had to dig through CDs by the following artists: Neil Diamond, Blue Rodeo, Kanye West, James Taylor, Eminem, Jay-Z, Gordon Lightfoot, Barenaked Ladies, and Hall and Oates. Rounding out the weird factor was a mixed CD called Pure Disco and the Starsky and Hutch soundtrack. I looked at those CDs for a minute and thought of arranging and photographing them for some kind of modern art piece, entitled, maybe, Study of Really Strange Mind Songs.

As an aside, I was at a pool today speaking with a lovely mother who mentioned that she had held a karaoke party and I was instantly filled with envy. Karaoke! I am AWESOME at karaoke! I want to go to a karaoke party. Of course, my 9:00 bedtime is generally unsociable and tends to preclude such events.

Anyway, I was indulging in the housewifely task of floor washing and singing, and as I passionately accompanied Elvis (“Maybe IIIII didn’t treat yooouuu…quite as good as I should have DUM DUM DUM! Maybe IIIIII didn’t LOVE YOU…quite as often as I should have…”) Mark quietly stole over to the CD player and stealthily ejected it. When I asked him about it, he said “I just kind of think that it was OVER, Mom.” Huh. That says a lot, really.

Hey, did you hear Michael Jackson died?

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I know. Shocking isn’t it?

Kidding, of course, I’m not THAT out of touch – you’re out of touch, I’m out of time, but I’m out of my head when you’re not around – but I do find it very difficult to relate to people I saw interviewed on the anniversary of his death, whenever that was. I saw tearful people confessing that they had a hard time accepting it, that they had to move on but sometimes it’s just hard to get out of bed, and I thought, really? I just cannot relate to that at all. I mean, perhaps if someone very close to me had died, but Michael Jackson? I mean, I like to car dance to Billie Jean as much as the next person, but I cannot really say that celebrity deaths affect me in a particularly emotional way. Or any way, really. Usually, when I hear a celebrity died I either immediately assume it’s due to a drug overdose, or I am confused because I thought that person already passed away (i.e., my thoughts on Dennis Hopper’s death).

However, MJ’s death (can I call him MJ? I’m not even really a fan) did mean that there is one less celebrity alive who I actually recognize. I was at the hair salon today, getting my inch of grey roots covered (“The hair is actually white, not grey” my stylist informed me) and of course I read that hair salon staple, People magazine. I would guess that at least ninety percent of the people in People are, at best, vaguely recognized by me. The other ten percent comprise people I recognize, but somewhat wish I didn’t, i.e. Mel Gibson. How’s THAT for a nutjob? I heard the transcript from one of his infamous phone calls on the news and I could barely understand it, so bleeped out was the conversation. It was like watching an episode of Hell’s Kitchen, the bleeps so numerous I actually was not able to get the gist of the conversation, such as it was, except that it rated pretty high in the crazy and angry category.

Speaking of celebrities: apparently there’s a baseball player named Corey Hart? When I saw that, at first I was confused: are people listening to Corey Hart again? Perhaps I should look out my Boy in the Box record. Ah, but it’s someone else. Not the Corey Hart whose glossy face lined my rosebud papered bedroom in the eighties. Canadian girls who were teenagers in the eighties: I just heard that Corey Hart married Mitsou! Remember her? I thought he was supposed to marry me. Along with Corey, I also had well-within-wedlock fantasies about Tom Hooper from the Grapes of Wrath and, just to round out the musical Canadiana, Jim Cuddy!

Alert! Gratuitous photo of me and Jim Cuddy, twenty years after crush was first established.


If you are thinking that you’ve seen this photo before and that maybe I should give it a rest: join the club founded and chaired by my husband.

Another crush of my youth, strangely enough, was the long-dead Jim Morrison. Remember Denis Leary’s bit about the Doors movie? “I’m drunk, I’m nobody, I’m drunk, I’m famous, I’m drunk, I’m f***ing dead. Big fat dead guy in the bathtub, there’s your title.” Thank goodness I got over my thing for troubled, alcoholic, tortured artists, in order to marry my non-alcoholic, non-tortured, although long-suffering husband. It’s MAGICAL being married to me!

So here’s the question for you: who did you have a crush on in your youth? Do you still find said crushes attractive?

DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, or What I Did On My Summer Vacations

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So the other shoe dropped.

The weather suddenly turned, the sky grey and the wind chilly, and I felt like perhaps this was my own doing; like I had expressed passionate emotions to an indifferent date; I was like “Let’s spend our lives together, I love you, baby” and the weather really just wanted to be friends, saying, “You’re a nice girl and all, but I’m not really ready for commitment right now.”

Then the kids. Holy smokes, the kids. By Friday I was vacillating between thinking that I was possibly the Worst Mother Ever or, alternately, that I had given birth to the Worst Children Ever. Looking back on it, I am pretty sure that it was not them, it was me. We were all having an off day but hoo boy! I was bitchy. I was bitchy and completely despondent and overwhelmed about things that are not really overwhelming or despondency-inducing. Like folding laundry. Or packing for our overnight trip to my parents’ cottage. Packing a small amount of clothes and toiletries – for one night! – was pushing me over the edge. I was also slightly enraged that I Am Always The Person Who Packs, this rage despite the fact that I would never, never allow my husband to pack anything other than his own personal effects.

Fortunately Saturday found me in a non-bitchy state of mind and we had a very fun time at my parents’ cottage. THIS is my idea of camping: plumbing, hot showers, and a kitchen, with a fridge full of delicious things and also coolers. Their cottage is very close to the Lutheran Bible camp I went to as a child, and you can hear the bells ringing, calling the children to meals, chapel, and vespers. The bells, along with the cool weather and the late-night sunsets, really take me back to those days of lanyards and campfires and swimming in the icy cold lake. One year I memorized the lyrics to Parents Just Don’t Understand at that camp; I still get it stuck in my head when I hear someone say “Here’s the situation.” (“My parents went away on a week’s vacation and they left the keys to their brand new Porsche! Would they mind? Mmm. Well. Of course not.”)

Speaking of pop culture from when I was thirteen, I read today that Darryl Hannah had turned down the role of Vivian in Pretty Woman because she thought the movie was “degrading for the whole of womankind. They sold it as a romantic fairytale when in fact it’s a story about a prostitute who becomes a lady by being kept by a rich and powerful man.” And here come some words I never thought I would say: Darryl Hannah, you’re my hero. That is EXACTLY how I have always felt about that movie. Even at thirteen, I found that movie offensive and terrible. I could go on and on how Pretty Woman epitomizes everything that is wrong with society, but I will spare you the diatribe, as I’m still fairly relaxed from my night away, despite the fact that I Am Always The Person Who Unpacks. But that’s a whole other story.

School’s Out For Summer!

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Ooh, I hate that song, along with most Alice Cooper songs – although I do think that Alice Cooper, himself, seems like a very cool guy, as far as celebrities go. While I’m on the topic, I also hate the musical stylings of Tom Petty and that atrocious Kim Mitchell, I Am A Wild Party being, in my opinion, the worst song ever written.

The boys marked the last day of school in different ways – Mark had a Sports Day, and Jake had a pre-kindergarten graduation which of course was very cute and filled with “Everyone is special!” messages. Hilariously, the kids sang a song entitled “We are Special Kids” to the tune of “We Will Rock You.” Side note: my husband feels about Queen the way I feel about Tom Petty, but I think he would have enjoyed the cute factor.

They also wore caps and gowns which I think is quite cute, if a bit ridiculous. A few months ago, the school had a professional photographer come into to take graduation portraits of the children in caps and gowns, which, frankly, crossed the line between cute and just plain stupid. I voiced this opinion and was chastised by my mother for not ordering any of the prints. I don’t know; I think graduation portraits should be saved for an actual graduation, which I do not think applies to simply going to kindergarten. I did keep the proofs though. Jake is awfully cute.

Mark seemed to really enjoy his Sports Day, but dissolved into sadness at dismissal. “I’m never going to be THIS happy again” he stated, which gave me a Citizen Kane-esque chill. What if it’s true? I mean, there are books and movies with that kind of plot line, the end of innocence and so on. Fortunately after we got home I applied the well established depression remedy of videos and chocolate cupcakes which was effective. In no time they were very loudly playing in the backyard, much to the delight of my neighbour, I’m sure, as she dozed in the sun in her lounge chair.

One of the biggest parenting mistakes, I think, is to not allow your children to be sad. I think that it’s a huge mistake, when your child is sad, to try to cheer them up endlessly with Pollyanna, look-on-the-bright-side, silver lining-type chatter. Sometimes it’s good to just wallow in sorrow, watching TV and eating treats. It’s like when you’re in the midst of teenage angst and you and your boyfriend break up, the last thing you want to hear are cheerful “There are lots of fish in the sea!” type comments, because all you want to do is be sad and listen to sad music (“I can’t live, if living is without you, I can’t give, I can’t give anymore…”) and eat ice cream straight from the container. It’s natural to want your child to be happy, but being sad is part of life and I think sometimes we all just need a cupcake remedy.

Peace, Love, and Happiness

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Last week the 1973 version of Jesus Christ Superstar was on television, which I watched with interest as I saw Tim Neeley reprise his role on the last tour of the play, a few years back. Almost immediately, I had the song “What’s the Buzz (Tell Me What’s Happening)” stuck in my head, and it stayed there for several days. After a few days of this I started to consider various hippie slang that should – by all rights – make a comeback: What’s the Buzz, of course, along with its counterpart Don’t Be Such a Buzzkill, as well as the ultimate complimentary term, Far Out! As I was watching, Tim Neeley hit a very high note, and I realized that Adam Lambert’s style is completely imitative.

Is nothing original anymore?

Clearly that is true about style, given that I have noticed, disconcertingly, that it seems to be fashionable to tightly roll up your pants. Tightly rolling up your pants! I was someone who tightly folded, then carefully rolled, my acid wash jeans back in the late eighties, and the thought of that particular style coming back to the forefront is distressing to say the least. It wasn’t a flattering style then. It is even less so now. Youth of today, take a stand against this, for the good of the nation.

Back when I was an angst-ridden teenager, around the time of the rolled jeans, I thought that it would be amazing – far out, even – to come of age in the late 60’s, early 70’s; all that revolutionary thought, the electricity of change. They sure did know how to make a good rock opera back then: all the hippie singers and dancers arriving on that decrepit bus, the funky music, the obviously high and very sweaty cast. What a time to be alive, I used to think, with my rose coloured outlook and my youth and my idealism.

As an adult, however, I now look back on that time with revulsion: the promiscuity, the venereal disease, the hallucinogens, the lack of hygiene. Maybe because it’s my birthday next week, and I am officially entering what used to be known as middle age, and back then in the era of peace, love, and happiness, I would be someone who would not have been trusted, a total square, despite my very strong dedication to a life of peace, love and happiness. Maybe I’m just being a buzzkill.

Random Weekend Thoughts

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I’m the opposite of sharp and witty today. I think I’m going to blame the fact that in five days I’ve been to four different places to buy groceries (the grocery shopping has been epic this week) and the fact that my brain is filled with so much useless knowledge such as where, exactly, the Playmobil farm animals are kept in relation to the dinosaur drawer, exactly how many containers of pasta sauce and of ripe bananas are left in the freezer, and the entire lyrics to Parents Just Don’t Understand. Oh, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, your 1987 ditty haunts me.

So, a few random and disjointed thoughts:

1) Now that the torch relay is long over, the kids have a new Olympic-related game: pretending to be short track speed skaters, which manifests itself in noisily running around the house at top speeds and surreptitiously toppling each other over to get in the lead. I’m kind of looking forward to the closing ceremonies.

2) I’ve been one giant sunbeam of optimism since coming home from vacation, and I feel a bit like I’m irritating everyone I run into with my positive outlook on life. Nothing is bothering me, because I’ve just been on! vacation!

3) NEXT WEEKEND IS THE END OF FEBRUARY. This means that Mark’s birthday is fast approaching and I need to start thinking about his birthday party. Children’s birthday parties are the bane of my existence. Last year I planned a superhero-themed party complete with bat crafts, Mr. Freeze dancing, and a basement obstacle course, and I feel that was the pinnacle of my party-planning career. It’s all downhill from here, people.

No. I don’t like Pina Coladas.

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Music. It speaks to us. It’s like when you fall in love for the first time and you listen to “What a Wonderful World” and you identify with every single lyric – I DO see trees of green AND red roses! – and then maybe you break up with that love and you hear “Against All Odds” and the lyrics are like purposeful daggers to your broken heart. How can he just walk away, when I stand here taking every breath for him? Sob.

Or maybe you go Mexico and you hear “Margaritaville” and it captures the foggy, unfocused essence of your vacation, or you’re having a night out with your girlfriends and you hear “We are Family” and it’s like the soundtrack of your life is playing?

Sometimes, however, a song comes along that you cannot identify with in the least. I’ve mentioned before that I am the exact opposite of the desired person in Rupert Holmes’ song “Escape”. “Escape”, for those who don’t know, is actually the Pina Colada song. Who knew? I certainly didn’t; I always thought that its proper name was the Pina Colada song.

The 1970’s must have been a strange time to be on the dating scene, no? I mean, there was all that casual/ anonymous/ unprotected sex, and the penchant for mustaches and chest hair, and those truckers who had bumper stickers that said “Grass, Gas, or Ass: Nobody Rides for Free”, and the obsessions with zodiac signs (which I kind of get, I mean, I’m superstitious that way). The fact that long-haul truckers practically had a cult following says something about that era. Strange times to be dating, I imagine.

And so the Pina Colada song made it onto the charts. Did it top the charts? I have no idea. I do know that it is one of the most sing-able songs ever written, and also it has a very weird theme: a guy is bored with his “lady” and answers a personal ad, and it turns out his “lady” was bored of him, because she placed said personal ad. Clearly, communication was not a big thing back then.

Reasons why I would be un-dateable in the ‘70s, according to desirable qualities as stated in the Pina Colada song, and separate from my dislike for chest hair, mustaches, bumper stickers, and obviously, the whole casual/ anonymous/ unprotected sex thing (thanks to My Mom the Style Icon for the topic idea. If I was sure that my mom wouldn’t find out and murder me, I would totally send you a picture of her in a 12 inch mini dress.)

Do you like Pina Coladas? No. I dislike anything with coconut flavour. Actually, I dislike anything coconut related. Shredded coconut, to me, has the consistency of dried out dental floss and if there is one way to ruin a good cookie or dessert, it’s by adding shredded coconut to it.

Getting caught in the rain? No. I have very fine hair that goes completely limp in humidity. So you can imagine what I look like after being caught in the rain. Also, I don’t like walking around in wet clothes. Two kids = deflated bosoms = very depressing wet t-shirt contest.

If you’re not into yoga? I practice 5-6 times a week. I get up at five in the morning to practice yoga, so I guess you could say that I’m “into it”.

If you have half a brain? I have a whole brain. Unfortunately a large portion of it is taken up by useless information, like the lyrics to this song.

I’m not much into health food. This one makes me laugh. Yes, I like health food. This is not the ‘70s anymore wherein people who enjoy health food are walking around with unshaven underarms, hemp ponchos, and Birkenstocks, munching on mung beans and wheat germ. Normal people can like health food.

I am into champagne. I’m a red wine girl, myself.

If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape. Okay, stop it right there. I’m not even addressing dunes of the cape. I’m addressing making love at midnight. It’s a miracle if I’m up past nine thirty, let alone getting jiggy with it at midnight. Seriously, my husband is sexy, very much so, but if he woke me up at midnight he would be facing my groggy and somewhat comatose rage. He would not, as they say, be tapping that.