“I am an adult. I don’t have to think . . . or . . . do anything!”

Jump to Comments

. . . And there’s no place better to indulge your adulthood than right here at For the Record, where we don’t post for weeks, and when we finally do, we can’t be bothered with anything more substantial than a list of thoughts and/or non-thoughts that went through my mind this afternoon while giving Caelyn a few extra snooze laps around town.

It’s shallow, egotistical, and incapable of provoking any real thought whatsoever. It’s just what you’ve been looking for.

1. “I miss my blog.”

(Now, if only someone else, someone who’s small and lives in my apartment, felt the same way.)

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m going to do something. I need to write, be it here with you guys or somewhere else, but it’s sure not happening during the day. And I haven’t let myself stay up late enough to do any real writing (aka the opposite of what you’re witnessing here) in a long, long time. Maybe not even since we moved here. It’s time to get serious again.

2. “How loud can the music be before it hurts a baby’s ears?”

Caelyn has lifted her ban on “loud” music, which means two of my favorite bands are back in the mix:

I said in a Drop It Like It’s Hot a while ago that I have to really be in the mood to take in a full Spoon album because they’re on the louder side of what I listen to; that’s a little misleading. They’re one of my all-time favorites, but up until now, they’ve been too loud for Caelyn, which means I had to be really in the mood to listen to a full album at the cost of her getting upset. But today she not only tolerated Gimme Fiction, she fell asleep to it! “Me and the Bean” isn’t from that album; it’s from Girls Can Tell, but it’s still in my top Spoon songs.

“Triggers and Trash Heaps” isn’t my favorite track from Centro-matic’s Fort Recovery, but it is the best option on YouTube right now and it is a good song. So it’s what you get.

I’ve seriously been listening to enough Centro-matic lately that I’ve dreamed that front-man Will Johnson came over to the apartment to hang out with us. Twice. I wish I had the time and presence of mind to give real reviews of these bands and tell you everything I like about them, but I don’t. And maybe, with Centro-matic at least, that’s a good thing, because I’d have a hard time nailing it down.

Will’s songwriting, as prolific as it is, rarely falters. The band’s sound and production style continually evolve, but they never abandon their roots. Defining those roots is a little tough. Somehow these guys manage to hit the best parts of indie rock and alt-country and pop and lo-fi and even a bit of garage grunge all at once and never sound garbled. They work in insanely catchy hooks, even though they’re not really the kind of band you’d label “catchy.” And just when you least expect it, a perfect harmony or a stunningly subtle piano line will float to the surface and make one of your favorite songs new again. Will’s voice is raw and earnest, rough on the edges and yet perfectly gentle and beautiful. His lyrics are mystifying at times, but they’re always simultaneously pensive and angry, passionate and resided, revealing and matter-of-fact. But the music is an emotive force in and of itself, almost with the power to be lyrical without saying a word at all. I know I’m not making much sense, but I warned you before I started. I don’t know what I’m doing here. All I know is that somehow a bridge of a Centro-matic song can bring me back to the first time I fell in love and the first time I walked away from love all in one stream of notes.

3. “I love Fall.”

I know the cooler months aren’t for everyone. But they’re certainly for me. All it takes is a wreath and a Carmel Apple Pie Candle and I’m a goner for the holidays. Everything just seems warmer. The apartment feels homier; the windows glow a little bit brighter. The colors around our place (cranberry, green, gold, deep orange, & espresso) somehow make more sense. And it’s the time of year I feel most sociable, so feel free to drop by for a cup of coffee or two. If it’s cheat night, I just might bake you some cookies too.

4. “I’ve got to find the Beach Boys on vinyl when we go to San Antonio this Christmas.”

When my parents were in town last week, Mom spied some old records in an antique shop in downtown Grapevine.

Mom: “If only I had all my old LPs, we could make some money.”

Me: “Oh, yeah?”

Mom: “Sure. I had all the original Beach Boys and Beatles records. Lots of other stuff, too.”

Me: “I suppose you broke ‘em into pieces and threw them away, huh?”

Mom: “No! I guess your grandmom still has them somewhere.”

Me: “You should let Caelyn have the Beach Boys ones. She and I love those guys.”

Mom: “Well, they are likable guys.”

Sometimes I forget that my mom was really into rock music back then. It’s just pretty much the total opposite of who she is now. When she became a Christian in her 30’s, she decided to give up all rock music because of its connection to her mysterious “past.” We’ve never quite been able to figure out this horrible “past,” because on the most part, Ruthie was a wholesome, church-goin’ gal. All we’ve gotten out of her is that she went to palm readers. Grandmom says she used to have to flip the porch light on to get Mom to come inside from a date with my dad. She also claims that when my grandfather was flying in one of the 3 wars he fought in, Mom came home one day and asked if she could be a “go-go dancer.” Grandmom made her write Granddad for permission. He wrote back with a “no.” But I think she got some tall, white boots anyway. It doesn’t sound so awful, but I suppose the difference between having Jesus and not having him is enough, especially when you thought you had him in the first place. Anyway, when I say she gave up “rock” music, I mean she gave up all music with electric guitars and significant percussion, be it secular or Christian. She hasn’t listened to anything but praise music since Thriller. But she likes to sing along when I’m KLUV-in’ my oldies. And not long ago we had this conversation upon seeing Elvis on TV:

Mom: “Oh, Janean would love this!”

Me: “Didn’t you listen to Elvis?”

Mom: “No! I was into Rock n’ Roll, not country! Your dad listened to country!”

Me: “Dad listened to Hank and Merle and Johnny. And haven’t you heard?”

Mom: “What?”

Me: “That Elvis is the King?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Me: “Of Rock n’ Roll?”

Mom: “That’s not Rock n’ Roll! I’m talkin’ Beach Boys! Supremes! Chiffons! Hollies! Beatles! That’s Rock n’ Roll!”

5. “I wonder if I still know how to dance?”

Chris once told me once that he wouldn’t have learned to dance even if it meant the difference between a “yes” and a “no” to his marriage proposal. Needless to say, it’s been a long time: more than 5 years since I last danced with someone who didn’t need to be held and even longer since I went “out dancing.” I think the last time was at a Dwight Yoakam show at Billy Bob’s early in my Junior year. I had to dance barefoot because I wasn’t really thinking about dancing when I put on my flops. But that’s my favorite way anyway. And I was a lot better then than when I first hit West Texas and realized I needed to learn to two-step and half-step and everything in between if I was going to keep up with my circle, so it wasn’t so dangerous (except during the couple times I danced with Dave, who’s a decent dancer, but I just can’t dance with him for some reason). Besides, my feet didn’t get as close to trouble as the rest of me. I can’t remember why, but some guy got pissed at Jeff and heckled him until we stopped mid-dance-floor and the two stuck back their shoulders and started spewin’ the trash talk. “Woman, you better get him to back off,” the guy snarled. And I did. Then! Between the dance floor and the spot where our group was huddled, this big dude started hitting on me. When I refused his offer to dance and turned to go, he grabbed my arm. Out of nowhere, Kirk appeared, put his arm around me, looked (up at) the guy square in the eyes, and said, “She’s with me.” I wasn’t. But the dude backed down. I guess it’s no wonder I can’t talk Chris into dancing. That and he hates country.

There was some other stuff mixed in there about why Lauren Graham doesn’t remember “Oy with the poodles already!” and how if Rory didn’t tell Lorelai about her first kiss there’s no way Caelyn’s gonna tell me about her’s and how sad it is that there’s a book of essays out on our gals Gilmore and what a geek I am for thinking I should’ve thought of that idea first. But I guess that’s really about as far as I got before I realized that I might just pee my pants if I didn’t go home right away. I even called Chris to come down and get Caelyn so I could race up the stairs. I woke her up in the process, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. And that’s saying a lot from a girl who didn’t use the bathroom at school until the 8th grade . . . except for that time in first grade when I threw up in front of the stalls and cleaned it up myself because I was too afraid to tell anyone. That substitute for Mrs. O’Brien was certainly out of the question. I didn’t even breathe a word of it to my mom, not even after hanging my head out the window to toss my cookies not once, but twice on the car ride home. And while we’re on the subject, anyone want to volunteer to clean up after Caelyn when she catches that stomach bug? ‘Cause if not, we girls just might not ever leave the house between June of next year and, I don’t know. . . . When can kids clean up their own vomit? Six? Good thing we’ve got cable.

11 Comments

Filed under Faith, Family and Friends, General, Gilmore Girls, Music, Parenting, The History of Me