This Is Going To Be One of “Those” Posts

Steal Your FaceYou know those posts.  Of course you do – they’re the ones you know you probably shouldn’t write, fully aware that it’s probably going to offend or piss someone off, but you do it anyway.  Because you can’t help it.

I got a comment on my waffle recipe last night from A Free Man, an American gentleman living in Australia.  I followed the link over to his blog and read a really wonderful post about the day every week he spends solely in the company of his 20-month-old son (and from the “creepy pregnancy widget” in his sidebar, I gather that he and his wife are expecting a new addition to their family in about 3 months).

At the end of the post, though, he makes note that during college, he joined a fraternity full of Dead Heads and then observed that The Grateful Dead’s American Beauty album is the only one worth owning if you’re not a “stinky hippie.”

I read that and laughed until I choked.  I am SO telling Beloved he’s a stinky hippie tonight when he gets home.

No, telling him he’s a stinky hippie won’t piss him off.  If anything, he will happily agree with that assessment of his character.  You see, despite his clean-cut appearance, I married a Dead Head, and as such he is not overly fond of The Grateful Dead’s studio albums; he prefers their live stuff.  Considering as often as they toured and performed (and yes, he was one of those “Let’s take a week off and follow The Dead around and see every show!” types), there’s a LOT of live recordings.

And we own them all.   Each.  And.  Every.  One.

And they are on his iPod.

On “shuffle.”

Now, Beloved has an 80GB iPod and there is a great deal of other music on it, but more than half of it is The Grateful Dead, or a variation thereof.  While he may prefer their live recordings (as of this writing, I believe there are 36 “Dick’s Picks” – recordings of live performances – most of which are double discs; some are 3 or 4 discs), he has all of their studio recordings.  And all of Jerry Garcia’s solo stuff.  And all of Jerry Garcia’s collaborative stuff.  In fact, I think he has every recorded burp, gurgle, sniffle, moan and fart of Jerry Garcia’s.

My only problem issue with this is that on many of these recordings, since they are live, they’re performing the same songs.  And because his iPod is on “shuffle” we often listen to the same songs.  Over and over.

And over.

And over.

Have I mentioned I’m kind of lukewarm about The Grateful Dead?  Listening to 37 versions of Dire Wolf over a 5 hour period will do that to you…

Disclaimer: While most of the music on my iPod is collections of the “Greatest Hits” variety or single songs purchased off of iTunes (I don’t waste my time or money on music I don’t care to listen to), I do own every single album that Elton John recorded between 1970 and 1977.  So when you listen to my stuff on shuffle, there’s a lot of Elton John in it.  (But at least it’s all different songs.)

Another Disclaimer: You know I like to kid you about your Dead tunes, dear.  I still love you anyway.

Have a lovely weekend, y’all.

RTT: Gardening, Baby

Random Tuesday Thoughts

As I was planting our vegetable garden this past weekend, I told Beloved, “This does not come naturally to me.”  Okay, I may have snapped that at him, as he hovered over me correcting the way I did everything.  And it doesn’t – I’m a city girl who hunts and forages at the grocery store…from a long line of city girls who have hunted and foraged at the grocery store.  I’m lucky my one, lone house plant has not died (it used to be three lone house plants, but…well, two of them died).

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Things I’ve Learned This Year About Gardening:  buying a small plastic container of “starter” onions will result in you planting 2 dozen onions in the small space allotted to vegetables in your back yard, leaving you feeling incredibly guilty about throwing the other three thousand away.  Who knew they could fit so many damn onions in that itty-bitty container??

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Jolly and her honey have decided on a name for the new baby:  Garret Van.  Unfortunately, I have had trouble remembering it – at least his first name.  I’ve taken to calling him Little Conversion Van, which tickles Beloved to no end; he wants to know if they have a daughter if I’m going to call her Recreational Vehicle.

*shrugs*  Only if her middle name is Vehicle.

Hey, if you think I’m bad, Beloved refers to him as “Jolly’s Little Garrote.”

Thankfully, Jolly has a good sense of humor about it all.  (As if she has a choice – she knows how we are.)

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Beloved came barelling out of the bedroom this morning while we were getting ready for work, shouting, “I don’t believe it!  They’ve got Lee Majors selling hearing aids on television!”

Yeah, well, that’s what you get for watching Saturday Night Fever at 7:30 a.m. on AMC.

Actually, I believe it.  It’s certainly more apropos than Lindsay Wagner selling Sleep Number beds, Sally Field selling osteoporosis medication and is certainly more believable than Dennis Hopper hawking financial services for aging baby boomers.

But, you know, I’ve just got to wonder just how expensive those hearing aids are…

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For more Random Tuesdayness, visit The Un-Mom.

The Very Model of Fame

Celebrity SpotlightThis week’s Spin Cycle is all about celebrities.

I’ve already written about my mother’s appearance on the David Letterman show, so I won’t bore my long-time readers with reposting any of it – however, if you’re a new reader, you can read the story of how Mom got on the Letterman show and watch the video if you want.  Both are pretty entertaining.

I have a couple more celebrity tales – one amusing and one personal; I’ll give you the amusing one first.  I’m saving up the personal one for when I’m in the right frame of mind.

Anyhoo, my maternal grandparents owned a small market research business when I was growing up.  You know, back in the days before the internet they were the people that had people call your house during dinner to get an opinion about a politician or television show, or sent someone to your house on a Saturday afternoon with a free bar of soap only to return a week later with a 47-page questionnaire on how you liked it, or were in charge of the people who tried to grab you either entering or leaving the mall so they could “ask you a few questions.”  Companies would sometimes have her pay people money to do things like watch an episode of whatever show was popular at the time so they could ask them questions about the commercials that were shown.  It was a pretty successful business with my grandmother handling the clients and coordinating her staff while my grandfather, who was agoraphobic, stayed at home and took care of the money side of it all.

The most interesting, to me anyway, of the “get paid to do this” jobs was the attendance of the sneak-preview of a movie that was about to be released.  I never actually got paid for those – my grandmother claimed it was unethical because I was related to her – but she roped me into this one by telling me I would get to see someone famous in person.  At 17 or so, I wasn’t going to pass that up, even though my grandmother refused to tell me who the someone famous was.  The film itself was boring – it was all about very young women trying to break into professional modeling and what a hard life it was.  Being a short, chubby teenager, I didn’t have a lot sympathy for staggeringly beautiful, rack-thin girls that got to jet around the world and wear designer clothes for a living.

However, as everyone was filing into the theatre, I took my seat before I realized I was about six rows behind the famous person my grandmother had hinted about – that very famous person was, at the time, dating a supermodel who happened to be a producer and consultant of the film and both were already sitting in a roped-off section near the front of the theatre with a few other people and flanked by security guards.  I grabbed my grandmother’s arm and squealed, “There he is!  LOOK – THERE HE IS!!”

My grandmother leaned forward and peered into the gloom.  “Who?  That man with the leopard skin pants who needs to comb his hair?”

“Yes!  Yes!” I gushed.

“Don’t be silly – that’s not Rod Steiger.”

I just stared at her for a moment before I said:

“Nona, that’s Rod Stewart.”