Raw Drip

I used to think that there were only a handful of songs that could completely transport me to a different time & place, but as I’m getting older I’m finding that my playlist is growing, too.   Now there are songs that remind me of moments with my children, songs that remind me of my family, and some that remind me of myself. The songs that remind me of myself are especially cherished; a cheap and easy way to transform me – on the spot – from everyday working mom into a child, a teen, or a clueless twenty-something.

For instance, whenever I hear the catchy beat of the 70’s instrumental Love’s Theme by Barry White’s Love Unlimited Orchestra, I’m immediately transported back to the favorite roller skating rink of my youth – the Skate Ranch.  If you were a kid in the late 70’s/early 80’s than I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that roller skating was HUGE. It was a singular love of mine and the Skate Ranch was THE place to skate in Orange County.  And every time Love’s Theme pops up on my iPod playlist, I’m instantly a kid at the Skate Ranch again.  I can vividly recall the feeling of teetering on roller skates, hanging onto the wall that ran around the oval shaped rink, and the shimmer of the disco ball spinning overhead.   Even more remarkable, Love’s Theme can open a portal into my deeper memory, unlocking distinct memories of the entire 70’s era including useless information like the fact that the Love Boat aired on Saturday nights at 8 and was immediately followed by Fantasy Island at 9 on my local ABC station.  I may not remember where I left my car keys tonight when I got home, but I can tell you about the episode where Gopher and Julie kissed for the first time.

The songs on my life’s playlist capture mundane moments and make them appear magical, just as well as they allow me to recall Love Boat minutiae. Because song has that way of elevating even the dullest memories into something special, I now associate Take It To The Limit by the Eagles with a long-ago early morning drive east on I-10 through the California desert in my grandparent’s white Ford Maverick.  I can’t recall where we were going, but the vividness of the moment is only brought to life by the soundtrack my brain has permanently meshed with the experience.  Take it to the Limit is a sunrise over the desert, with a rear window cracked open and  the smokey scent of chaparral wafting through the open windows.

I also have strong linkages of songs to specific people. Even a mere mention of Olivia Newton-John and I’m standing in the middle of  Zody’s, shopping for school clothes with my mom as Xanadu plays over the store’s speakers.  I remember wanting nothing more than a feathered roach clip to hang from my hair and a shoulder-baring peasant dress to wear to school.  For the record, I didn’t get either of those things, but I am still a huge Olivia Newton-John fan.

A summer afternoon car ride listening to 80’s radio, brings about memories of singing Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Lepard,  in my first car – an ‘82 Dodge Colt. High school was never my favorite time of life but the unmatched exhilaration of an after school ride, windows open, stereo blasting, best friend singing along with me – the memory of that blissful moment almost helps me to understand why some adults never mature beyond the age of 16…almost.

Whenever I hear Be My Baby by The Ronettes, it reminds me of the long anticipated moment when David & Maddie on Moonlighting finally surrendered to all the sexual tension and (in teen parlance) “got busy”.  The song is so intertwined with this very specific memory that I have a hard time imagining it on a soundtrack to any other piece of film or television.  Like brilliant product placement, the two have become one for me – Be My Baby = Moonlighting.  

Tennessee Williams was quoted as saying, ‘In memory everything seems to happen to music.”   It’s so true. With the advent of social networking and increased music sharing, today’s world is simultaneously expanding and narrowing in on a collective narrative punctuated by musical interludes and interstitials I never realized existed before.  Recognizing this phenomenon now, I feel like I finally “get” the big deal behind The Big Chill to the boomer generation.  It may have been the first contemporary film to capture the essence of an era via its music.

That feeling of history and connectedness that music brings to our lives is something I want my children to grow up with.   So I’m taking a cue from the filmHigh Fidelity and making them a mix tape – of sorts.  I’m making each  of them their own playlist with songs that meant a lot to me when I was pregnant with them and that we sang as we grew up together. Obviously this is a long-term project – something I’ll continue to develop and groom over the years.  It’s a project I undertake with pleasure, as their journey is my own.  

In time I suspect heartfelt conversation will be a precious commodity between myself and my kids.  One of the very last things we may share freely (besides our DNA) will be our memories of their youth – relived through the language of music.  Yes, I believe Love Will Keep Us Together but I’m certain the The Sound Of Music will always give us Something To Talk About.

I’ve always believed that parking lots are deadly.  I don’t have actual statistics to back up this belief, but the combination of people on cell phones in a tight space, maybe (or maybe not) following arrows strewn randomly about the pavement, slow-moving pedestrians, and throw in people who are driving backwards and this all says “danger” to me.

Whenever you get a group of people, particularly women, together you eventually get a parking lot story from someone. I think this is because parking lots are a microcosm of the larger world around us, where all our individual characteristics are magnified by the confined space and higher stakes.  I’ve found that those of us who tend to be more passive in life, are the people who lack the killer instinct for the close parking spots, instead they are the slow, cautious drivers who are happy to sacrifice good parking for the greater good.  Those of us who tend to be more aggressive in life, tend to drive that way, too – barrelling our way through the throngs of pedestrians, backing into spaces to make a quick get-away, and duking it out for the best parking.  Of course, the stupid also have their home in the parking lot petri dish – they usually take the form of the fat guy eating a sandwich while parked in the Expectant Mothers Only parking stall at the grocery store.    Everyone knows only a stupid person would mess with a hormonal pregnant woman.

So, now that I’ve brought it up, you’re probably thinking of your own parking lot stories.  Before you get lost in your story let me remind you that Raw Drip is all about ME…

*****

Dick and I had just bought a new car.  I was driving to the grocery store in our new set of wheels and carefully navigating the treacherous parking lot.  After pulling into an empty spot, I got out and started to walk into the store when I noticed an elderly woman desperately trying to steer her aircraft carrier-sized white Cadillac into the parking space adjacent to mine.  Barely tall enough to peer over the white leather-wrapped steering wheel, she would angle in and get within mere centimeters of my door only to realize she wasn’t going to make it then slam on her brakes, jam her transmission into reverse, back up about 4 feet and try again.  After several agonizing minutes spent watching her struggle and stifling my urge to scream as she came thisclose to smashing my new car, she must have sensed my frustration. She rolled down her window.

Leaning her tiny body out of the open window she yelled, “Hey, sweetie – can you help me out for a minute, please? My dear, departed husband passed away a few months ago and he left me with this car.  It’s just too big for me and I can’t see to park it anywhere.  Would you pull into this space for me?”

Not wanting to see her further frustrated, or see my new car smashed to bits, I agreed and got behind the wheel.  

As the woman thanked me, she said, “You know I hope you don’t ever find yourself in my shoes.  It’s just so lonely without my husband and I have to drive myself everywhere in his car – missing him all the time.”

My heart broke for her.  Suddenly it occurred to me that there could be something worse than enduring Dick’s frustrating and often scary la-dee-driving; someday, he might not be around to scare me to death with his driving and in a perverse twist of fate, I knew I’d miss that.  

“I hope I’m never in your place, either, m’am,” I said patting her arm, tears in my eyes.  And I meant it.

*****

Of course not every parking lot story is so bittersweet.  When I was about 8 months pregnant with Adam, I went grocery shopping at the new health food store down the road from our apartment at the time.  Waddling from my car to the store with bloated, tree trunk legs and matching cankles I shuffled along, intent on checking out the bakery on my perpetual quest for tasty baked goods.  As I was making my way through the aisle of handicapped parking spaces, an Amish woman in a white Pontiac Grand Prix came racing into the parking lot – tires screeching.  As she made the tight right turn around the corner to come down the aisle I was on, she made an abrupt left into the very parking space occupied by my hugely pregnant body.  Looking up from her cell phone, she slammed on her brakes coming to a halt mere inches from my tree trunk legs.  A tiny bit of pee trickled down my inner thigh as my life flashed before my eyes.

Rolling down her window, the bonnet-clad woman yelled out, “Do you know where James Street is?”

Stunned, I silently shook my head no.

Seemingly annoyed with my unwillingness to die and my inability to offer her driving directions, she threw her car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot.

As I caught my breath, a store clerk who witnessed the entire incident rushed over to me.

“Oh my God – are you okay?”

“Uh-huh,” I stammered.

“Did you get the license plate?” the clerk asked.

“No.  All I can tell you is that an Amish woman in a white Pontiac Grand Prix nearly killed me.”

“She wasn’t Amish, she was Mennonite.”

“Was she?  I can’t say I really noticed the difference.  Perhaps if she hadn’t nearly killed me we could’ve sat and had a cup of tea and debated the merits of our individual belief systems.”

“Do you want me to call your husband?” the clerk asked.

“Like, do you think he’s a better driver than she was?  The only difference between his driving and hers is that she had the decency to ask for directions.”

And with that – my most surreal parking encounter to date ended and I left – sans baked goods – happy to go home, gestate and google the word “Mennonite”.

*****

Over the years, I’ve met people who lack the ability to filter.  It’s uncomfortable to be around someone who just lets rip whatever thoughts pop into their head.  It’s even more uncomfortable to be the victim of such a thoughtless individual.

In a rush to a school tour for Adam, I only had a few minutes to run by my local coffeehouse and grab a cuppa and a hot breakfast sammy.  As I came out  of the shop loaded with scalding coffee, a handbag, a bottle of water, and a blisteringly hot sandwich, I noted that the person who pulled into the space adjacent to the driver’s side of my minivan, was parked over the line and crowding my door.  I could see the driver of the offending vehicle in the driver’s seat, talking on his cell phone, so I gingerly opened my door and tried to shimmy into the tiny opening he’d left for me.  I’d almost made it in when my shoulder grazed the edge of the driver’s door and pushed it into the rear passenger door of the neighboring vehicle.  Horrified, I checked out the car for damage just as the angry driver came round asking if I’d “scratched his car”.

“No – it’s fine – I checked.  I’m so sorry. ”

“Well, you should be more careful,” he said gruffly as he got back into the driver’s seat.

“Well, perhaps YOU should’ve been more careful with how you parked, sir.”

He got out and came back around to face me.  He was a tiny, wrinkled man in a tennis outfit.  He was probably in his late 70’s and with each nasty word from his mouth, I could make out a faint New England accent.

“There’s plenty of room to get in without slamming into other people’s cars.  Maybe you should get your fat ass to a gym once in a while,” he said in disgust.

“You did not just say that, did you?” I said in disbelief. 

“Damn right I did!”

“Well, I’ll have you know sir that my fat ass has nothing to do with your complete inability to park.  Blindfolded and unconcious I could’ve parked better than you! Then again, perhaps I’m expecting too much from a fossil, like yourself…”

As you can imagine, the conversation further deterioriated into a round-robin of name calling and fist waving.  

When I arrived at work later that morning, I told my friend and colleague about the phenomenal a**hole I’d encountered.  When I dropped the “fat ass” line on her, she looked mortified and said, “I’m surprised that man is still alive.  I think I would’ve run over him if I’d been there.”  

I had to concede her point.  Clearly Mr. No-Filter is lucky I didn’t see an interest in writing a more dramatic ending to his parking lot story; an ending where the evil dwarf who can’t park is defeated by a dazzlingly gorgeous heroine, who took it upon her shoulders to defeat the villain, thus striking a victory for social justice.  Sadly, the price for her sacrifice is that she’s forced to go on the lamb, hiding out in a desolate colony of Mennonites.  But God, what a great story…

Zoning over some late night TV, I found myself simultaneously insulted and amused by an ad for the Vermont Teddy Bear Company. The ad is aimed at desperate, hapless men who are devoid of original Valentine’s Day gift ideas for their wives or girlfriends. Here’s the commercial, in case you haven’t seen it yet…

 
First of all, the ad is just lame. The sales pitch is weak, and as if that weren’t bad enough, they’ve cast this commercial with an assortment of buxom & buff adult-film star wannabes (’cuz that’s how everyone looks in your workplace, right?) and then given them about the same level of high quality dialogue we’ve all come to expect from the adult film genre.

You might think that I’m offended by the ad’s stupidity, but I actually think its badness borders on amusing. In the same pathetic way you can’t help watching a train wreck, this ad beckons you to watch, ridicule and mock for your own sick pleasure.

What actually insults me about the ad is the implication that women will be easily seduced into ripping off their tight-fitting, low cut “business” attire to perform sex acts on the nearest guy smart enough to have given them a stuffed teddy bear for Valentine’s Day. Seriously?  Do you think anything is that easy?  Are you the guys out there buying all those boxes of “Just for Men”?  

Sigh.

Let me be very clear to all you men out there – Teddy Bear ≠ Sex. Stuffed teddy bears do NOT get you laid. Here’s the thing: we don’t need or even expect originality in our gifts from you, although that can be very nice. What we need is for you to acknowledge our love on Valentine’s Day.  It can be a dramatic gesture or something very simple.  It’s the act of acknowledgment on a day when so many other men succumb to the pressures of the holiday – too overwhelmed to act. You see, we love thinking about you and talking about you as the guy who didn’t screw it up.  And, yes, we get that Valentine’s Day is a made-up holiday invented to confound you and extort money from you and that the only reason you’d allow yourself to get that suckered is if you thought there was some tit for teddy at the end of the day.  But don’t get confused by crappy, contrived stuffed teddy bear commercials.  

Jewelry, flowers or candy are wonderful gifts and even a teddy bear may (though, I doubt it) get you laid. But when you’re talking about a good bang for your buck, there’s nothing like an old fashioned love note that says, “I love you and I’d be lost without you” to really make her swoon.  Let’s face it, admitting how clueless you are is much more likely to garner her affection, her devotion, and her patience the next time you really f**** it up by forgetting her birthday.