But it’s time I dealt with it, and moved on.  So I’m asking myself one final time…

If you were trapped on a desert island and could only have ten songs to listen to forever and ever, what would they be?

What?  You were expecting an existential crisis?

Dude.  Ten songs.  The SAME ten songs. FOREVER?  That’s heavy, heavy stuff.

And so, in no particular order, I have compiled a list of the songs I cannot escape.   The songs I will listen to when they come on the radio or pop up on my iPod, the songs I will stop reading the back of the macaroni box and cock an ear toward in the grocery store.  The songs I will sing aloud if I hear their strains while shopping for shoes.  (Although, not at DSW.  The music as DSW is abysmal.)

So, here they are, in no particular order. It was hard enough to come up with ONLY ten, you cannot expect me to also rank them.

Disclaimer:  I do not offer that these songs are the greatest compositions in the history of rock music.  I do not claim them to be influential, revolutionary, or changing-the-face-of-rock in any way, shape or form.  These are songs *I* can listen to forever.  Over and over.  I’m drawn to them the same way I’m compelled to watch certain movies even though I’ve seen them a bajillion times.  I will not tolerate argument, or entertain “What about ______?“  discussion.  These are my selections to listen to for eternity.  You want to put your $0.2 in, write your own blog.

1. Africa Toto

Oh come on.  Like you didn’t know that was going to be on the list.  Possibly my favorite song ever, if I were able to rank my top ten, which I am not.

2. Ventura Highway America

Broke my heart when Janet Jackson bastardized the guitar riff from the intro for some craptastic R&B debacle.  Broke. My. Heart.

3. While You See a Chance Steve Windwood

I really love the lyrics in this one…When there’s no one left to leave you; Even you don’t quite believe you; That’s when nothing can deceive you…

4. Don’t Stop Believin‘ Journey

Steve Perry at his finest.  Who else could get away with taking a word like “feeling” and making it ten syllables?  Hold on to that feelllllleeeeyaaaayaaayaaayaaayaaayin…

5. Separate Ways (Worlds Apart) Journey

Yes, Journey gets two spots.  Shut up.  Listening to this song in my car at the maximum possible volume is the reason I am slightly deaf in my right ear.  I don’t care.  It was worth it.

6. Summer, Highland Falls Billy Joel

Great lyrics—Our reason co-exists with our insanity—with even better piano.  I love the intro and have been known to restart the song three or four times before letting it play all the way through, which annoys my husband to no end.

7. Carry My Cross Third Day

This is a Christian song by a Christian band, and it is one of my absolute favorites in any genre.  It’s kind of dark, very gritty, lots of minor chords, and it’s written as though Jesus is singing the lyrics, which I’m posting because…well…just because.

As long as I remember
I’ve been walking through the wilderness
Praying to the Father
And waiting for my time
I’ve come here with a mission
And soon I’ll give my life for this world

I’m praying in the garden
And I’m looking for a miracle
I find the journey hard but
It’s the reason I was born
Can this cup be passed on?
Lord, I pray your will be done
In this world

So I’ll carry my cross
And I’ll carry the shame
To the end of the road
Through the struggle and pain
And I’ll do it for love
No, it won’t be in vain
Yes, I’ll carry my cross
And I’ll carry the shame

I feel like I’m alone here
And I’m treated like a criminal
The time has come for me now
Even though I’ve done no wrong
Father, please forgive them
They know not what they’ve done
In this world

So I’ll carry my cross
And I’ll carry the shame
To the end of the road
Through the struggle and pain
And I’ll do it for love
No, it won’t be in vain
Yes, I’ll carry my cross
And I’ll carry the shame

Three more days and I’ll be coming back again
Three more days and I’ll be coming back again

So I’ll carry my cross
And I’ll carry the shame
To the end of the road
Through the struggle and pain
And I’ll do it for love
No, it won’t be in vain
Yes, I’ll carry my cross
And I’ll carry the shame

Yes, I’ll carry my cross
And I’ll carry the shame
And I did it for love, yeah

8.  Reeling in the Years Steely Dan

My love for this one is mostly because of the lyrics.  ...The things that pass for knowledge I can’t understand…There are other Fagan and Becker offerings I love almost as much. Runners up include Peg, Hey Nineteen, and Dirty Work.

9.  Seven Bridges Road The Eagles

So many more Eagles songs could make the cut too, but this is my favorite.  The vocal harmonies are excellent.

10.  Tiny Dancer Elton John

I like Levon almost as much, but it’s edged out by the piano in Tiny Dancer.

Rats.  Are we at ten already?  Fifteen. I need fifteen.  No, no. Ten.  I can leave it at ten.  Definitely these ten.

How about twelve? Can I have twelve?  Okay, okay, that defeats the whole question.

Ten* it is.

*Runners up.  I’m sorry, ten?  Really? I’ve been listening to the radio since I was six years old.  I’ve got thirty plus years of music to pick from.  I can’t pick just ten.   I have to at least mention a few more in passing.

Over the Hills and Far Away Led Zeppelin
Gimme the Night George Benson
Hey Jealousy The Gin Blossoms
The Break Up Song Greg Kihn
Closer to Fine Indigo Girls
Everyday The Bodeans
Everyday I Write the Book Elvis Costello
Synchronicity II The Police
The Pretender Jackson Browne
Leader of the Band Dan Fogelberg
Dust in the Wind Kansas
Love Will Find a Way Yes
99 Toto
Walk on the Ocean Toad the Wet Sprocket
Wonderwall Oasis
Sowing the Seeds of Love Tears for Fears
The Logical Song Supertramp
Renegade Styx
Fly Like an Eagle Steve Miller Band
Maggie May Rod Stewart
You Take My Breath Away Rex Smith  (Bwah! NOT. Just seeing if you were paying attention.)
Keep on Loving You REO Speedwagon
Californication Red Hot Chili Peppers
Driver 8 R.E.M.
Solsbury Hill Peter Gabriel
Bizarre Love Triangle New Order

I’m stopping now or we’d be here for the next two weeks years.

If you intend to practice commerce in today’s society, then you MUST have a website.  Honestly, I’m not going to even CONSIDER your services if you don’t. (Unless I know you in real life and getting in touch with you is sans hassle.)

It’s 2010 people.  Get with the program or get left in the fiber-optic dust.

It costs too much.

No it doesn’t. *I* have a website and I am the cheapest person I know aside from my eldest brother.

I’m horrible with computers.

I’m no html expert, but I can select something from a pull-down menu. Many of the DIY website services offer templates and practical, easy-to-understand, idiot-proof options for designing your web space.

But the economy is bad.

When the economy is bad, that’s when you NEED to advertise and increase your accessibility. Gas costs money, so before I waste mine driving to your showroom/facility/store, I need to know you have what I need in terms of merchandise or services.  And, I’m more particular about what I spend my money on, so you definitely need to push your product.

(Aside:  Why can’t people spell “definitely”? D-e-f-i-n-i-t-e-l-y.  I suppose it could cause consternation, considering it follows that super tricky “just add ‘l-y’ to the end of the original word” rule and all.)

The Net is well established.  We’re not talking Betamax or New Coke, here.  Go ahead and secure your place along the information super highway.  It’s not going away anytime soon.

Trust me, there is a HUGE faction of lazy, check-it-out-before-I-go, prefer-e-mail-to-telephone, order-it-from-my-sofa-if-I-can, suffering-from-mouse-finger-tendonitis clackety-clackers just like me who will visit your website, communicate with you, and buy things.  But if there is no website or contact information at my keyboard calloused fingertips…I can’t buy things.

And, while we’re on the subject of communication, answer your e-mail in a timely fashion.  Stop and think about the original “selling point” of e-mail.  It was faster than USPS mail.  Instead of putting paper in an envelope, and waiting for the mail carrier to pick it up and take it to central distribution where it would be sorted, canceled, and delivered within 3 to 7 days, you could draft a query and have a reply within a couple of hours.  Minutes if the recipient dealt with it properly.  So, if you flit about and waste time like Prissy shuffling back from fetching Dr. Meade, you’ve defeated the purpose of even having e-mail.

I don’t have time to answer my e-mail.

Then you don’t have time to make money.

You should listen to me. Not because I’m a business mogul, or financial genius.  I don’t have an MBA or marketing degree.  I have no PR experience beyond listing the times of my church’s services in the local paper.  You should listen to me for one reason and one reason only: I am the most important member of your business team.

The customer.

January: I declared myself a freelance writer.  At the urging of friends,  I also started two public blogs, which are now visited by almost six people. I got a LinkedIn account I never use or even think about except for the occasional update stating that someone changed their employment history.

February: Again at a friend’s insistence, I got a Twitter account.  Hated it, loved it, obsessed over it, lost interest in it, stopped logging into it—all within a week.

March: Started writing for an Internet marketing firm, after answering an ad on Craigslist.  I call it a firm, but I sort of believe it was just the one “director” guy and me.  He did pay in a timely fashion though, so I can’t really say anything negative about the experience.  They were weird little articles about typewriters, dog food, and baby strollers (not together) for not-enough-money per word. “Paying my dues,” I called it.

April: Began writing for Suite 101 website, and entered contract to produce ten articles in ninety days. I earn a quadrillionth of a cent every time someone reads an article. My most popular pieces are  the riveting What Happens in a Pharmacy and the crowd-pleasing Warfarin Safety,  followed by the feel-good-topic-of-the-year, Handwashing: A Life-Saving Practice.  By end of month had stopped writing for Suite 101, as ran out of topics.  Played “brittle diabetic” card to get out of writing last three.  Ha! Peanut brittle, maybe.

May: Hours were cut at my real job, so I began to panic about alternate sources of income.  Made a few (ok, one) half-hearted inquiries into going back to retail but no one had need of a prn pharmacist.  They were scrambling to give their full-timers hours. Despite needing money, I quit the dog-food gig. Dues schmues. Started working for different Net “writing mill,” for more money per word on topics of my choice (drugs).  Was told NEVER to use Harvard comma in articles. Continued to use Harvard comma out of sheer spite.

June: Opened Etsy account with idea of selling vintage jewelry belonging to my husband’s mother and grandmothers. (Yes I’ve already gleaned it for the good pieces. As if.)  Labored tirelessly over FAQs,  photograph for banner, and title of “shop.”  Ordered packaging from USPS, bought a brand new digital camera for better shots of the merchandise, and scoured the Net for the tiny dress forms to display the goods.

July: Stuffed all Etsy-related crap in box and jammed into storeroom alongside other ventures I began but never finished. (See also: guitar, jewelry making, sewing, cigar-box purse production, learning about wine, cycling, and refinishing a mirror frame.)

August: Bit bullet and applied for second hospital job.  Was hired in October.  Hospital time, in case you don’t know, is much, much slower than real world time. Muuuuuuuuuch slooooooooooooooower.

September: Sent child off to kindergarten. Cried. Looked at scrapbooks from her babyhood while she was at school. Cried more.  Watched Bulldogs flounder around like clowns getting out of a Smart Car.  Wept uncontrollably.

October: Child turned five. Cried.  Bulldogs lost to Tenne-freaking-ssee.  Slit wrists.

November: I turned thirty-nine. Cried.  Also had very sick relative during Thanksgiving.  Fretted and cried.  Never want to eat turkey again, as it is tainted with that memory.

December: Went to doctor with said relative to discuss treatment plan.  Also recommended medication changes for two other relatives, all of which were accepted by the physicians.  Oh, yeah.  I’m a pharmacy rock star.  *sizzle* What?  I’m sorry you’ll have to speak up.  I can’t hear you over the sound of how awesome I am.

As for the last day of 2009, I have festive plans involving un-decorating for Christmas and doing the laundry.  Ringing in the New Year in style (with mountain-rainshower scent.)

We don’t watch every show, because there are some not relevant to our palate, a few that make no sense, one or two that have no entertainment value whatsoever (I’m looking at you Chefs v. City), and a handful with hosts who are just downright annoying. (*cough* Sandra Lee *cough*)

Nevertheless, we’re pretty avid fans of anything A.B. does, FN Challenge (except barbecue—yawn), and Ace of Cakes. (Aside: It used to be, when asked about my “dream job,” I’d say meteorologist—I’m weird, I know—but now I’d probably say working at Charm City Cakes.) But our “must see” favorites are by far Iron Chef America (ICA) and Chopped.

Now for those of you who don’t get cable under your rocks, or spend your TV time watching crap, ICA is the Americanized adaptation of a Japanese TV program featuring “battles” between well-established, celebrity chefs and accomplished, albeit lesser-known, guest chefs. Battles are centered around a certain ingredient, such as a particular species of fish, or variants of a fruit or vegetable, such as cherries.  After a timed session in the kitchen, chefs present their culinary creations to a panel of three judges.  ICA judging panels are typically composed of random third-tier celebrities whose only association with food is that they eat, various other foodies, and food writers like that fat drunk who thinks he’s hilarious but is actually a complete douche bag. The winner gets bragging rights and some level of prestige within the culinary world.

Chopped is designed on a similar premise, pitting four budding chefs against each other in a series of cooking challenges including an appetizer, entree, and dessert.  After each course, a chef is eliminated, or “chopped,” until there are two left battling over dessert.  The twist here is that instead of one secret ingredient, each round is centered on three or four mystery components, several of which have no culinary connection.  For instance, a typical entree round might include shrimp, some random root vegetable from the Middle East, peanut butter, and a tire gauge. The chefs must incorporate all four ingredients into their respective dishes.  The winner here receives $10,000, which is not a bad deal for a couple of crab cakes made from potato chips and shower caulk.  There is also panel of three judges, and their critiques can be…well…brutal, except for Aarooooooooooon  Sanchez, who is, without a doubt, the Paula Abdul of the culinary set. (Your salad looks so nice! You’re a star!)

Anyway, my point (and yes, I do have one) is that competitors on both programs seem to run into the same problems again and again.  And so, in an effort to help any aspiring ICA or Chopped contestants who might stumble upon my rantspace, I’ve developed some helpful hints for success on each program.

Iron Chef America

1.  Pick Bobby Flay.  Nobody ever beats anyone else.  I’m not saying Bobby Flay isn’t a great chef, I’m just saying, if you want to win, picking Cat Cora is a baaaaad idea.  And stay away from Morimoto, too, because if there is fish of any kind, you are screwed. Mario can make pasta out of a dishrag and Michael Symon is just downright scary. Stick with Flay and you’ve got a chance.

2.  Prior to performing in “Kitchen Stadium,” visit a restaurant supply store.  Ask to be demonstrated the uses of each and every gadget in sight.  Pay attention to the little things like how to get the lid off (or on) and where the power switch might be.  And, if possible, ask for remediation with regard to can openers.  I’m not sure how it is that so many quasi-professional chefs are unable to open a can of condensed milk, but there it is.

3.  Stay away from the ice cream machine unless you intend to make actual dessert. Nobody wants to eat spinach sorbet. NOBODY.

Chopped

1. Watch the show.  If I had one piece of advice for ambitious Choppers, it would be this.  WATCH. THE. SHOW.  It’s like the contestants have no clue what’s going on. Durrr what’s this basket…durrr I can’t find the milk…durrr…I grabbed a knife by the blade…If you WATCH THE SHOW, then the rest will naturally follow.

2. Don’t use garnish.  I know, I know, the celery leaves make the plate all pretty pretty princess, but just say no.  Geoffrey and Chris don’t like garnish and won’t hesitate to make you look like an idiot by asking, “Am I supposed to eat this half-a-lemon?”

3.  Practice good hygiene.  This should really go without saying in any kitchen, but on Chopped it is especially crucial, especially if Alex is a judge.  Make no doubt, she is watching you, your spoon, your hands, your mouth and everything in between to see if you commit some unforgiveable germ error.  And for the love of Pete, de-vein your shrimp. PLEASE.

4.  Prior to taping, walk to your home pantry and remove the sugar canister. Bring it to the counter.  Now fetch your saltshaker.  Sprinkle a fifty-cent piece sized pile of salt into one hand. Feel the texture of it with your fingers.  Smell it.  Make note of the obvious scent of sodium.  Look at the crystals.  Now empty your hand and repeat with the sugar. Notice it’s a slightly finer grain.  Perhaps it even smells sweet.  LEARN THE DIFFERENCE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.  I mean, COME. ON.  I am, by no means, a “cook” by any stretch of the imagination.  I am most definitely a kitchen amateur, but in my 25+ years of cooking I have never, ever, EVER mistaken salt for sugar.  Seriously.  How is this even an issue?  If all else fails, and you’re not sure, taste it before you add it.

5.  Refer to Iron Chef America advice item No. 2.  Where it reads, “can opener,” replace with “food processor.”

6. Easy on the hot stuff.  Geoffrey Z. and Amanda have excruciatingly sensitive palates.  If Geoffrey so much as smells cayenne, you’re toast.  And if Amanda reaches for her water glass?  Fugettaboutit.

7.  Stop cutting yourselves.  It’s embarrassing.  I realize it happens to everyone, but please.  Just pay attention to what you’re doing so I don’t have to watch you scurrying around trying to find a Band-Aid and bleeding into the risotto, which, by the way, will never finish cooking in the allotted time.

It has occurred to me that maybe the contestants aren’t as…um…thick…as they seem and perhaps it is the FN production staff just having a bit of fun.  What if we disconnect all but one of that stove’s burners? Hey! Let’s hide the cinnamon!  I know! I know! Turn up the heat in the studio so they can’t stop dripping sweat onto the counter!

Hmmm.  Maybe that’s my dream job.

When I was twelve or thirteen, my best friend was invited to a nice restaurant by another friend’s grandmother.  I was asked to join them, which was, apparently, a very big deal to my parents, as this particular woman was one of wealth and stature in the community.  Not our community, because we lived back with the lowly peasants on the mainland, but she was an aristocrat  within her realm and they felt it was an opportunity I mustn’t miss.

I wore a dress my mother sewed by hand, and the only other thing I can recall is that it was mostly yellow with some sort of floral pattern.  And it had a little jacket, too, I think.  At that time, all of my dress clothes were sewn, not purchased.  A few of my casual clothes (skirts, blouses) were sewn as well.  This was a never-ending source of delight to the children I attended school with, as their clothes were embroidered with horse heads and alligators and names on back pockets.

And so, I toddle off to the engagement, well scrubbed and well starched, with an admonition to mind my manners.  The evening passed without incident, and I climbed aboard my pumpkin and went home.

It was a week or so later when my friend confessed to me that her mother had been told, “Neither of the girls knew how to properly use a fork.”  At the time, I was chagrined by these alleged tine travesties and not at all comforted by my friend having been cited with fork faux pas as well.  But more than anything, I was shocked to learn the woman had actually spoken about it.

I could see, I suppose, the mentioning of it in an effort to correct egregious offenses in etiquette, but I had not, to my recollection, chewed with my mouth open or talked with it full.  I kept my napkin in my lap and started with the outside fork and worked inward, and at no time did I use my utensils for “shoveling.” I spoke only when spoken to, and I maintained good posture.  I could not discern at what point I’d gone rogue with my silverware.

Several years later, I was dating someone who, in retrospect, was an obvious homosexual gifted at putting on airs, but that’s neither here nor there.  This person felt it was necessary to comment on my flatware technique on two consecutive outings, prompting me to think of other functions for my knife and fork.

Really, I’m not a barbarian.  I have appropriate table manners.  Why these two people took it upon themselves to correct me I cannot fathom. I feel it shows far less tact to comment on one’s mealtime shortcomings than to gracefully ignore them.  I mean, beyond puking, farting, snorting, or eating with your hands, most table actions are forgivable.

Perhaps with a little practice, one day, I’ll be properly presentable to the duchess at the ball.  After that, who knows?  Maybe I’ll find a job as a lady’s maid or in a flower shop.

Wouldn’t that be loverly?

My own brain is full today.  Very full.  What I usually do when this happens is text my friends.  Mostly Sara.  A lot.  Random bits of this and that, rants, observations, points to ponder, et cetera, et cetera.  But today, my brain is SO full that my thumbs can’t text fast enough.  And anyway, why should Sara be the only person to revel in my complete and utter insanity?

The problem with letting my brain reach this point of fullness is that there’s no room to organize my thoughts.  It’s like those crappy puzzles you get from the fishing booth at the fall carnival where you slide the little tiles and try to put the numbers 1 through 15 in order.  Except my puzzle has no empty space so you can’t move a thing. You can try popping them out with a knife but you can’t ever get them to snap back together the right way again and you might cut yourself, so it’s better just to let it be what it is.  A random jumble.

And do with it what you will…

My child attends a private kindergarten at our church. The tuition is quite reasonable, but they nickel and dime you to death during the year.  I don’t mind spending the money, because I know she’s getting a quality education with a God-centered curriculum and there’s no price to be put on that in this morally bankrupt world.  I just wish I could pay one big fat yearly activity fee in August and be done with it, instead of $3 for the hay ride here and $6 for the trip to the dairy there.  Mostly because I never carry cash and it annoys me to write checks for single digit amounts.  Not because I’m one of those Oh dear, Lord, I can’t write a check because I opened my account in 1972 and haven’t had the sense to switch to free-checking so I’m still charged 10 cents for every deer- in-the-mist adorned check I write people who freak out if you even look at their checkbook.  It just bothers me to write checks for piecemeal amounts.  I don’t have a good reason for it bothering me, it just does.

The latest financial exercise was optional and included preparing a shoebox full of whatnots to be sent to an under-privileged child during Christmas. They were due today, and somehow, despite my child’s repeated mentioning of it every single day, five times a day, for a week, I neglected to remember to assemble said box.  Upon depositing the child at school, I made arrangements with her teacher to bring the box by at the end of the school day.  I then set out for Target where I spent nearly two hours (fifteen of which were actually box related.)

People on cell phones in public are annoying enough, but listen up, ladies.  If you MUST chat during your entire shopping trip, keep it down.  I neither care nor want to hear the sad saga of your son not making the football team. It is something, I suppose, that little Johnny was asked by the coach to be the team manager, as it may mean the coach has an interest in his being on the team one day. The best, though, is your relaying the heart-to-heart you had with Johnny to your phone pal. Especially the part about how it’s a big responsibility not just anyone could shoulder and it was a special opportunity (No, really, I don’t care who wins best picture. It’s an honor just to be nominated.) And that he’ll probably be expected to be in attendance at every game. But hopefully not this week because we have that thing, so make sure you tell the coach your great big special opportunity starts next week.

It really is no wonder so many teens want to commit suicide.  What with having nothing better to read than Twilight and putting up with retarded parents and all.

In the checkout line, I realized I neglected to obtain a small notebook for my new job (I need a place to jot down computer stuff, hospital policies, etc. etc. Why, yes, as a matter of fact I do have a PDA, but I can’t enter info into it as fast as I can write it on a piece of good old papyrus, so shut it.)  Anyway, I’m already in line behind the woman who, when her debit card is declined offers the lamest excuse for a rejected cared EVER.

I must have forgotten my PIN.

Or…you “must have forgotten” to put some pesos in el banco.  Either way, you’re gumming up the works. And I’m pinned in on the other side by some coupon-laden, latte-drinking soccer mom in a baby blue J-Lo sweatsuit.  Oh well, no big deal, there’s a Staples right next door.  Surely they will have a small notebook to suit my needs.

Or not.

So now, I’m torn between going home (a 20 minute trip one way) or going Super WalMart (SWM) to look for the notebook.  SWM is 15 minutes closer to the church than my house.  I weigh the pros of home (potentially having e-mail from my friend Josh) against the cons of staying in town (wasting entire morning, don’t get to include never-opened Sponge Bob toothbrush from last dental visit in box, no wrapping paper.)  Though it might seem an easy choice, there was actually a bit of deliberation on my part.  See, Josh is kind of magnetic. (Not like the mini-calendar from the real estate agent that you can’t peel off the fridge, but like the tiny bottle from World-of-Coca-Cola with “real” Coke inside.) And SWM is not without its own siren song (read: Bob’s soft candy canes for 88 cents a bag.)  Josh is magnetic, just not 37-mile-round-trip magnetic.  I figure if I just give in and go throw some coin at Sam Walton I can get wrapping paper, tape, etc., and be done with whole thing in time to grab lunch and pick child up from school.

After an oddly not-unpleasant trip through SWM, I return to the car with the necessary items.  Thanks to having finally acquired the Holy Grail of footwear (read: size 11 plain black flats sans patent leather, suede, or bedazzling) at Target, I already had a shoebox.

I’ve tried wrapping a present in a car before, and it is why I opt for the gift bag if I’m gifting on-the-go. But in this instance, a bag would not do. Not only must the box be wrapped, it must be wrapped like a present on TV—bottom separate from top so they can just lift off the lid.  This particular method of present wrapping is a PAIN. IN. THE. ASS. under normal circumstances.  There are no words to describe the process as it is carried out with manicure scissors in the front seat of a Honda Accord.  Actually, there are plenty of words, but I won’t repeat them here.

After lunch, I head toward the church. I’m fifteen minutes early, which surely means I will be first in line at carpool, yes? No. I’m beginning to think some of the mothers just circle the drive and wait the whole four hours in the parking lot.  They have to. There’s no other explanation for being that early.

As I wait, I punch buttons on my XM pre-sets to find something decent. I have the display set up to show song title instead of artist, so I know right away what’s on.  Artist tells me nothing. Billy Joel? So what? Is it a song I actually care about (Rosalinda’s Eyes) or one I can’t stand (Uptown Girl)?  Viewing by title makes more sense, but is not without drawback.

For example, Kelly Clarkson. I despise her. Not so much because I hate her music (I do) but because a lot of her songs have titles that are the same as other songs I actually like.  Already Gone is one of my favorite Eagles songs.  If I Can’t Have You is a great disco song written by the Bee Gees for Yvonne Elliman.  Both Miss Independent and Because of You are nice, smooth R&B songs by Ne-Yo.  Clarkson suckers me all the time with her me-too trickery.  If not for her other craptastic titles (e.g. Behind These Hazel Eyes and Yeah) I’d say she did it on purpose, to lure people with decent musical taste into her putrid pop lair.

Sometimes, the display screen is not long enough for some titles, either, which is also deceptive.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Here Comes The… switched over, expecting to hear, “hotstepper,” but, instead, get  Annie Lennox and her nails-on-a-chalkboard warbling about rain.

The worst, I guess, is when there are commercials on other channels and I don’t realize it at first.  Boy, that Beta Prostate sure is a popular song.  They play it several times a day.

I fetch the kid, drop off the box, and we make our way back home.  In the car, she asks me a ton of questions I either don’t know the answers to, partially know the answers to, or have no clue what she is even asking.  Who won Battle Octopus again? Why do barber shops have those candy cane things out front? How do people in wheelchairs go potty? Can I have some Halloween—I mean fall—candy when we get home? What would happen if the blindfolded shoe ate an apple? Get it? Apple???

I’ve had too many stimuli for one day.  Brain all jumbly and head is hurty.  I need to just lie on the couch with my iPod and listen to this great new group called Benecleanse.

Text Speak

An e-mail is not a text message; I don’t care if you’re sending it on an iPhone- uPhone-we-all-scream-for-iPhone or a Blackberry or a blueberry or whatever teensy weensy communicative gadget has launched this week. If you don’t have the time—or thumb strength—to properly spell out words, then don’t send e-mail. Send a text, leave a voice mail or wait until you are at a full-sized keyboard and reply appropriately.

Sentence Structure and Punctuation

So as not to incite more ridicule on being a grammar-hound from my sister and my friend, Buddy, I’ll keep this section brief. Use complete sentences, proper capitalization and proper punctuation. Subject-verb agreement is preferable.

Do not abuse the exclamation point! No one is that excited! About everything! It makes the reader feel as though they’ve gotten mail from a cheerleader! Save your exclamations for real interjections, please.

Which brings me to the ellipsis.  The function of the ellipsis is to a) omit irrelevant information while connecting related thoughts b) indicate a brief pause in thought processes, or c) allow the reader to finish the thought on his or her own.  It…is not…however…to be used……….as an…..excuse…..to write….in….stream………of…..consciousness….format……. for no apparent……reason.  And, a true ellipsis is THREE dots.  Not seventeen…………….

Replying

This is a big one, and the place where a lot of us get into trouble, sending not-for-everyone comments to everyone on the list.  Oopsie.  No, Dave, I didn’t really mean I think your toupee looks like a badger, I was um…well…I…I…just thought you were a big Wisconsin fan.

Yeah, not so much.

Employing the “reply to all” function is only necessary when your response contains information everyone in the group should have, such as who is bringing what dish to the Christmas party or what time you plan to meet at Starbucks for the book club meeting.  Otherwise, “reply to sender” is the appropriate recourse.

You can avoid creating this situation when you send group e-mail by employing the BCC (blind carbon copy) function when you compose your message.  You alone will see replies to you, plus you avoid giving private e-mail addresses to everyone in the tri-state area.

You can avoid it when you reply by composing a new message to the recipient.  And don’t give me that “It takes too much time,” crap. New message, cut and paste address, done.  Maybe two extra seconds.  Isn’t two seconds worth your not making a complete fool of yourself or being Spammity Spammerson? I dare say it is.

Nicknames

Some e-mail programs allow a nickname to be entered in the contact information. For example, my husband’s address appears as:

<BOO> wbeach@uga.please.just.win.a.freaking.game.edu

You may use the nickname to compose mail or search for an address.  And, while your boyfriend may appreciate WELLHUNG as a nickname, the rest of us do not need to see that.

Two ways to handle this:

1.  Don’t use iffy nicknames
2.  The magical, all-powerful BCC

Emotion and “Tone”

Because some people are idiots and cannot grasp humor or sarcasm in written form, it is best to keep e-mail tone as neutral as possible. NEVER send an e-mail written in anger. You may write it, of course, but DO.NOT.SEND.IT.  In fact, it would be better to compose it as a separate word-processing document than to risk it being distributed from your draft folder by a virus or whatever techno-organism is it you PC people suffer from these days.

We all know not to compose mail in complete capital letters, or at least I hope we do.  CAPITAL LETTERS ARE THE ELECTRONIC EQUIVALENT OF SHOUTING.  Plus they are harder to read.

The e.e. cummings approach is equally disturbing: lower-case letters without proper punctuation all jammed together with no indication where one thought ends and another begins i can’t wait to get a new car don’t you love izzie’s elf wig and the like. Not cool.

However, nothing, I repeat, nothing is worse than ransom-note text.

hEy mAN, wHAt’S uP? LonG TIMe nO seE!

What is that?  Seriously.

Subject

Now of course, if e-mailing a close friend or relative, the subject line is not that important.  You may, in fact, choose to disregard it, or use it to your comedic advantage.

However, in more formal usage, you should employ a direct, clear subject, and, if required, include your name or other identifying information.

Right:  Willie Martinez Application Status
Wrong: Job

Right: Account number 86-75-309 Disputed Charge
Wrong:  I Ain’t Buy That

Right: Order A87023 New Dishwasher Replacement Inquiry
Wrong: WTF?

A well-crafted e-mail message is the result of calm thinking, practicality, and common sense. Which is probably why so many people suck at it.

I blame Tim Robbins for the impetus of the whole awareness phenomenon with his save-the-HIV infected-whales-in-Haiti ribbon or whatever it was on the Oscars back in the 90s. Since then, we’ve been assaulted by a barrage of two-inch snippets of looped ribbon in support of…well…everything.

The media-steamroller that is breast cancer has coated the entire planet in pink. I like pink, it’s a nice, girly color, but do I need a pink iron? No, no I do not. I mean, what’s the point of that? What am I doing? Starching collars for the cure? What if, just for the sake of argument, the businesses donating a portion of their insert-pink-item-here sales to BC research, etc., just donated a portion of their TOTAL sales of regular old white blow dryers and mixers?  I mean, if it’s such a big deal to support BC why not take the money you spend on pink chemicals (which are probably carcinogens anyway) and donate it to the BC cause?

And save your “How dare you make fun of breast cancer!” outcries.  I have friends with BC.  I’m not insensitive to the disease. But is breast cancer awareness really an issue anymore?  I think we’re all pretty freaking aware by now.

BC did well, though, grabbing pink, because girls like pink, and girls have boobies, and boobies are pink, at least in places, so… On the flip side, not so sure I would have gone with brown for colon/colo-rectal cancer even though it makes sense. Brown?  Really?  You’re just opening yourself asking to be ridiculed.

But what if you’re late to the awareness party and get stuck with something non-descript like, say, puce? (Aside: Just for kicks, I Googled “puce ribbon” and, wonder of wonders, there’s a cause to match it. Internet piracy awareness. For the love of…)

Autism can’t pick a lane—is it a ribbon or a puzzle piece or a ribbon made of puzzle pieces?  Diabetes can’t either. Depending on whom you ask, we’re red or we’re gray.  Personally, I prefer gray because it better represents a dried up pancreas. And red is taken, hello?

Which brings me to my next point. Apparently, despite an infinite spectrum of shades, we’ve run out of colors, and now have to share. What’s that about?  It’s no longer about merely signifying your devotion to a particular cause, but now I also have to guess what it is?

Take purple for instance. Alzheimer’s, domestic violence, animal abuse, or pancreatic cancer?  I’m loath to ask. What if it’s domestic violence?  Who wants to have that conversation by the water cooler? Or the cancer that killed Patrick Swayze? (Nobody puts my pancreas in a corner!) Then you have to come up with some kind of placation about fighting and being strong (I’m soooo looking at you, too, Lance. This whole thing is LARGELY your fault.) blah, blah.  Animal abuse opens up a whole can of pet-loving worms in which I am definitely not interested.  Best-case scenario, I suppose, would be my asking you what your pin means, and your saying, “I forgot.”

And let’s not neglect to address being made to feel like inch-high-private-eye if you don’t flaunt your allegiance to a cause. I’m bettering mankind by supporting banana literacy in Tibet.  What do you support?

Me?  I support naps, carbonated beverages, and ice cream. I support the concept of a football team with a defense and an offense. I support staying home when you’re sick and not coughing or sneezing your infectious filth all over my desk.  And I am staunchly in support of Law & Order marathons.

Awareness is getting out of hand. I’m surprised no one has promoted awareness awareness.  Me, I’m a big fan of obliviousness. Which is why I wear my big, shiny, invisible OA pin every day.

…If I travel all my life
and I never get stop and settle down
long as I have you by my side
there’s a roof above and good walls all around…
…I need you in my house, ’cause you’re my home…

I lose it.  EVERY. TIME. Without exception. Which is kind of stupid, right?  I mean, I know what’s coming.  I should be able to prepare and control myself.  Should be.

And so, during this recurrent and ridiculous outpouring of emotion, I thought about other things that make me cry, and I realized a lot of them are pretty stupid.

SONGS
In addition to the aforementioned tear-jerker, there are a couple of other tunes—some of them embarrassing to note—that can (and usually do) make me cry.

Austin by Blake Shelton  Yes, I listen to country music. SOME.  Mostly George Straight, Dwight Yoakam, Hal Ketcham, and Clint Black. And that one Garth Brooks song about getting it on with a diner waitress.

So, anyway, for those of you unfamiliar with Blake Shelton’s poetic masterpiece, please allow me to explicate.   To sum up, it’s basically girl calls boy, girl gets answering machine in Rupert Holmes-esque fashion, girl is blown away by outgoing message as boy is not home. Depending on whether it is Tuesday, Friday, or Saturday, he is at the bowling alley, ball game, or lake, respectively. (And don’t call about the car, he sold it.)  Anyway, she calls back in a few days (ball game) and this time summons up the courage to leave her number only. Then she sits by the phone all weekend until boy gets home from lake and when he calls her, she pretends to be an answering machine message at first, but then her true identity (Kilroy! Bwah, I kill me.) is revealed. Blah blah blah I still love you too blah. *weeping*

It’s bad enough to cry over a country song, and a cheesewheel one at that, but I cry despite my feeling that he would have easily recognized her voice when she left her number, thus eliminating the need for the third verse which is, of course, the one that makes me cry. What a dork.

The Star Spangled Banner by Francis Scott Key.  Yeah, yeah, I’m an 85-year-old WWII vet.  Shut up.

O, Holy Night by Adolphe Adam  Josh Groban version, specifically when he hits the glory note right near the end.

MOVIES

Movies make me cry for various reasons. They are classics and I’m lamenting the loss of such art, the protagonist makes good, boy gets the girl or vice versa, someone performs a selfless act, someone shows respect to someone else, especially an adversary, etc. etc.

Some examples:

The Wizard of Oz:  Last scene, the last time Dorothy says, “There’s no place like home.”

It’s a Wonderful Life:  Early in the movie, after the scene where George saves the pharmacist by telling him the prescription is wrong, and the pharmacist boxes his ear, but then realizes George is right.  And then, of course, at the end when ZuZu says, “Teacher says, every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

Rudy: “Put Rudy in for me coach…put Rudy in for me…” *waaaaaaahhhhhh*

Last of the Mohicans:  “Take me! A British officer!”

Breakfast at Tiffany’s:  Holly finds Cat after she threw him out of the cab (Yes, I realize this involves a pet. Hush.)

To Kill a Mockingbird: “Stand up Miss Jean Louise, your daddy’s passin’”

A Few Good Men:  When Lance Corporal Dawson salutes Daniel Kaffee

Beauty and the Beast: ” No. No! Please. Please! Please don’t leave me!…I love you…”

TV

Mostly what I cry over on TV is commercials. No, I’m not kidding. I’m a chump.

Examples include:

The Publix ad with the older couple cooking together in the kitchen.  Wife looks at framed photograph of them standing in front of their house when they first moved in, then looks out the window at a young couple moving in next door. Cooking continues, couple does sweet things for each other like tie apron, etc., etc. When meal is done, instead of eating it, they take it over to the neighbor’s house.  And then…and then…and then…they take the young couple’s photo.  *weeps*

The Publix ad (shut it) with the young doctor who can’t make it home for the holidays.  Talks to his mom on the phone, all sad…cut to footage of laughing family, setting table, roasting turkey, yadda yadda…cut to doctor on empty subway all mopey…cut to family…cut to doctor…cut to family…cut to doctor opening door to apartment…SURPRISE! Entire family is in his apartment.  All like 40 of them. *uncontrollable sobbing*

The Anheuser-Busch spot where soldiers arrive at the airport and everyone stands up and claps.  (Has anyone seen my VFW pin?)

The one for Cymbalta where no one will take that poor, pitiful big-eyed dog out to play with the tennis ball.  (Yes, I’m crying over another pet. Shut up.)

The Hallmark Channel. All of it.

The episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Aunt Bee first comes to live with Andy and Opie. Opie misses the old housekeeper, Rose, who was more fun because she would fish and play ball with him.  Aunt Bee isn’t good at those things, so Opie is sort of mean to her and she decides to leave.  As she’s leaving, he flies down the stairs and tells her she can’t go because she needs him to teach her those things. *dabs with tissue*

I don’t cry often, but I do cry. Beneath this gruff, cynical exterior beats a tender(ish) heart. As my examples demonstrate, I’m quite prone to sappy sentiment, easily reduced to mush by a happy ending, and a sucker* for a great love story.

*I’m also a sucker for that movie where Meredith Baxter Birney is hooked on heroin, but that’s another post.

I contacted a small group of friends to gather their opinions.  I sent the following message by text to the chosen few:

Worst song ever.  Annnnd go.

The responses were, in some cases, surprising, but mostly solid.

My own selection(s) for worst song ever vary from day to day and includes such memorable stylings as:

Don’t Worry Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin
Kokomo by The Beach Boys (a band I hate anyway, except for God Only Knows.)
Don Johnson’s Heartbeat
Theme from Happy Days (not the Billy Haley and the Comets original, but the one from the late 70s by Pratt & McClain)
Mmm Bop by those stringy-haired teenage flash-in-the-pan freaks brothers whose names I care not to recall and refuse to Google.
Havin’ My Baby by Paul Anka  (When I was younger I got him confused with Neil Sedaka a lot.  Because they both suck, I guess.)
Speaking of which…Bad Blood by Neil Sedaka makes my list as well. (PLEASE go watch this. The choreography alone is worth it.)
Plus any one of Bonnie Raitt’s endless, whining addrags.

On this particular occasion, however, I selected Nikita by Elton John.  In part because it had been stuck in my head for two weeks, and in part because it’s true crap.

My friends provided a diverse array of candidates as well.

In the face of all the horrible recordings of the last few decades, my friend Sara named Abracadabra by the Steve Miller Band.  Citing “repetitiveness” as the reason for her dislike, though I know in my heart it’s that she just can’t stand the …I wanna reach out and grab ya… part.

Brie, my roommate from Rx school, was the first to answer.  And, although her selection wasn’t quite the genre I had in mind when asking the question, her answer was quite valid.  Her choice?  University of Florida Fight Song.

Rachel, lover of classic rock, stalker of The Little River Band, upholder of all things decent in the world of music (read: loves Journey as much as I do) replied with the following:

When bad songs happen to good artists: Philadelphia.

I sent a follow up message to clarify whether she meant Streets of Philadelphia by Springsteen or Philadelphia Freedom by Elton John.  Her reply?

Both.

Then I heard from Chris, my coworker with the incredibly eclectic iPod.  One minute you’re listening to George Strait, the next, Fifty Cent.  Her answer?

That ‘Baby Mama’ song…

Since I was unfamiliar with this particular tune, I felt compelled to seek out the mp3.  Google results provided me with two stellar compositions:

Baby Mama by Three 6 Mafia and Baby Mama by former American Idol winner Fantasia Barrino.

Although I am a STAUNCH hater of rap, I must say, the Fantasia song is the worst of the two. It’s like the I Am Woman of the sideways cap wearing, baggy jeans sporting, throwback jersey having, Lincoln Navigator bass thumping, four-oh drinking, cap bustin’ set.  Not to mention the repeated spelling of B-A-B-Y-M-A-M-A throughout. (See also:  Bay City Rollers.)

My new old friend Buddy, with whom I attended middle school in the 80s, truly surprised me with his first response by singling out a track from one of the most unique concept albums ever.  I totally disagree with his choice, but you can’t argue with Buddy.  I mean, you can, but it’s a waste of time and energy.  He always wins, even if he is flat out wrong (e.g. the “you should pull for UT when they play UF” and “y’all v. ya’ll” debates.)

And, though it pains me to even type it, I must report that he selected Mr. Roboto by Styx.

I can’t even comment on the impertinence, the indecency, the absolute effrontery and unmitigated temerity of his choice.  I also can’t comment on Dennis DeYoung’s lavender jumpsuit.  Well, I can, but I won’t.

As I said, though, Mr. Roboto was Buddy’s first answer.

He later came back with the best answer of all.  The granddaddy of all horrible songs, the epitome of effluvium, the absolute travesty of tunage, the universally hated anthem of sell-out corporate rock, We Built This City by Starship, (Which used to be Jefferson Starship which used to be Jefferson Airplane.  Pick a lane already. You too, Mellencamp.)

As you can see, the definition of worst varies a good bit, and it decidedly individual.  Also keep in mind, with the exception of The Orange and Blue, these songs were hits for these artists.

As bad as I believe a tune to be, someone, somewhere probably likes it.

Which only servers to reaffirm my belief that 75% 85% 90% of the population has no appreciable sense of musical taste.