What the Wilson Phillips?

2/3 Beach Boys, 1/3 Mamas and Papas. Plus, one cool short hair cut.  It's a recipe for 90's success.

Wore out the cassette.

This isn't a dig. I had that cassette. I wore it out. They sold 10 Million copies. Surprising. They were the best selling female group of all time. Seriously.

So popular. I actually saw them at Disneyland in 1990. Walking around. Took fuzzy pictures of them at a distance. With my cheap 35mm.

Videos of them singing on the beach. With totally plausible video storylines. (You're visualizing now, you're welcome.)

And, then, well, then, they disappeared. Sort of. One of them married a not that interesting Baldwin brother, one was in a Progressive insurance ad.

I didn't think about them again. For years. And years.

Two years ago a BFF and I went to Oprah's Live The Life You Want Weekend. It was awesome. Oprah, Elizabeth Gilbert, Gayle King, Rob Bell and Another Guy I can't remember. Inspirational. Motivating. Life Changing.

Before the sessions started they had dance parties. Katy Perry and Maroon 5 mixed in with Gloria Gaynor. And, Wilson Phillips.

Wait, what?

Yup.

Wilson Phillips, blaring out 'Hold On'.

Just try not to sing along. You can't not sing along. It had been 20 years since I'd heard Hold On and yet the words came right on back. We looked at each other, giggled and sang along. When in Rome. Or, when with Oprah... Over two days the DJ must have played that song a dozen times. Probably more, now that I think about it.

But, the lyrics work for an event like that.

Don't you know things can change
Things'll go your way
If you hold on for one more day

Always on.

Left the Oprah weekend exhausted and ready to take on the world. And, forgot about Wilson Phillips. For a couple days. To torment each other BFF and I would text the lyrics back and forth at random times - it's an ear worm of the highest caliber. Once it's in. It's in. For hours.

Oddly enough I started hearing the song on the radio. I would giggle and sing along. And, of course, text those lyrics over for maximum torment. Or, better yet, text a photo of my XM screen with the song on it.

Every once in awhile the song would come on at a time when I needed to hear it. Maybe a frustrating work day. Or after an argument. Or a meeting at school. Or the day the dog died.



The lyrics work. Who would have thought that a cheesy 90's hit would sort of become my theme song?


Well, that and Brick House, but that's so obvious.

The mom slide...

So, I was the third kid. Third kids are different. They're funny. They're bold. They're totally unsupervised. I was out and about playing with matches and blowing up anthills with ladyfingers and blackcats. Had there been a fourth kid in the family it would likely be dead. Probably in some kind of fantastical bike riding explosion. (Combining my like of fire, my brothers bike crashing ability and my sisters general accident proneness, odds are I'm correct there.)

I've noticed that yes, I got a little looser with the kids - between #1 and #2. There isn't a #3. No need to be looking at myself at the breakfast table. Knowing that she's lying straight to my face but having no way to prove it... Nope, don't need that. Stopped at two. For my own mental health.

In the beginning though, with #1... the house was baby proofed. So baby proof that I was frustrated most of the time at my inability to get the cabinets opened. The food was organic. The clothes are organic cotton. The house surgical sterile.

The second one. Well, she's smart. Very smart. And, she had life figured out pretty early. Nothing was baby proofed. If something pinches your fingers, well, don't put them back in there... Clothes, well, the cute ones. Organic cotton doesn't usually come with the amount of glitter that she requires. Food? Whatever was on sale.

Pretty sure they'll both be just fine.

Minecraft cake.

Tinkerbelle for Tink.

Always homemade for the birthday cakes. Sometimes very ornate, up most of the night cakes. Well, this year... this year they had store bought. Mostly because they didn't really want anything specific. So, I just bought a cake. Or maybe even cupcakes. Oh man, I don't even remember! I do remember being upset about it at the time and feeling guilty. A very good friend, a straight shooter, said, 'Oh, honey, you've got to let that shit go. They're happy with that crappy cake.'



And, she was right. They were happy. No permanent damage done. Probably.

And, now as Halloween rolls around... well, they'll be putting on their Amazon Prime costumes. They seem happy with what they picked. Online. We didn't even go out shopping. I am happy with the level of effort. I guess it's a win.

But, it feels like a slide. The mom slide. There are things that I am just over. So. Over. Took #2 to the Fall Festival last week. She had a blast. I wrote a blog in my head while doling out tickets so she could do the cake walk and go 'fishing'. I got to thinking that this probably happens to a lot of parents. Sometimes you just have to phone it in. But, wait... what if my parents were phoning it in? Were they not really that stoked to watch me play ball or take me trick or treating or play some game or listen to some joke or impression? What about when I asked my mom to 'watch this' at least 900 times every time we were in a pool? Was she really not that into it?

Oh. My. God. My mom guilt has just spun out of control.


I think that I've somehow ruined my own childhood.

Shit.

Phoning. It. In.

The snack that smiles back...

So, yeah, I've written a number of times about my love of television. My memorization of advertisements. I can't help it. The jingles - they stick. I'm not sure that they prompt me to buy any particular thing, but I sure do sing along to a lot of them.

Rocket to heaven?

Tonight, while watching the news, I was horrified to see an ad from a company called Tomcat. Tomcat is a mouse killing product. Tomcat is apparently so great they 'send mice on rockets to heaven'. Yep. True. According to their ad. I'm not sure who the marketing genius was on this one. But, I personally, don't want to send mice on rocket ships to heaven. In fact, if heaven is real, I'd like to think there are no mice there... but, I digress.

Any way, it gave me that sickening feeling. Seeing the little stuffed mouse with X's on it's eyes, strapped to a rocket that explodes. A little too much imagery for me... And, side note - it exploded way before heaven...

It reminded me of the old Goldfish ad. It had a catchy tune.

The snack that smiles back... oh, what a catchy song.... until you bite its head off.

WHATTHEHELL?

I don't want to think of the goldfish smiles as I'm throwing them by the handful into my face. These are not things I want to think about. Not that I'm apposed to mouse killing - I've done it. Lots of them. Snapped their little necks with the classic trap. Tossed them into the trash. No rockets to anywhere. But, still... don't want to see it on my television. With a CATchy song.

The bees knees

Shit. I'm broken again. Again! Seriously.

Toward the end of August my right knee started to hurt. But not really my knee... Sort of the back of my leg on the upper part of my fibula. This was a new pain. Not the IT band, not the sprains, not the shin splints... something new.

Ran on September 4th. Haven't run since. Had three half marathons scheduled between September and December. September didn't happen. November is highly unlikely. Holding out hope for December.

Had anyone told me three years ago that I wouldn't be able to run and that not running would make me cray-zee I would have laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

But, I'm not laughing. I'm grumpy. And sitting on a stationary bike for way too long. Plus, I joined a gym. Because that's where bikes that don't move are located. In gyms. Where you drive to work out. At 5:00 in the morning.

Xray has been done, physical therapy ongoing, MRI done. Results on Wednesday. Fingers crossed. Hoping for running soon. As is the very frustrated doggie. She stares at her leash, then me, then the ice pack. Then rolls her eyes and throws herself on the floor.

I could write for hours about how I am worried I'll become a homicidal maniac in my current non-running state. Or how I'm really worried about the pounds I've added with my limited calorie burn.

But, I can't. Because it's 9:20. And I have to get up at 4:30. To ride a bike that doesn't move.

Oxymorons...

Oxymoron. It's one of my favorite words.

With that in mind, let's talk about clowns. Yes, clowns. I have no idea what the original intent of a clown was. I'm assuming it was an effort at humor. In the least, clowns are creepy. But, really, let's be honest, clowns are down right scary.

Scary. Period.

There is a whole new thing in the US right now. Scary clowns. They're popping up everywhere. Running around scaring people of all ages. Reports of scary clowns in multiple states. Even some arrests. I have no idea what my reaction would be if I came face to face with a scary clown on the street. I'd like to think I'd punch it and run. But, in reality, I'm pretty sure I'd go deer in the headlights and just stand there in total awe of the situation.

But, really... do they need to be classified as scary? Scary clown. While it seems like an oxymoron, it's actually a pleonasm. Yep, I looked it up. In simple terms, it's redundant. Like tuna fish. Why not just say tuna? Why not just say clown? A clown is scary no matter what makeup is on it's face. On it's creepy, creepy face.

Just ask my sister - she's terrified of clowns and balloons. One incident. Creepy clown gets in her face just as a balloon pops.

And, done.

Childhood ruined.

Because. Clowns.



Feel free to visit a previous post regarding my feelings about clowns and jack in the boxes.