Some of you long-time readers (i.e., those of you who are trying everything in your power not to answer those annoying IM reference questions flitting across your desktop) may wonder just how I learn about the hip-hop hits.
It’s easy: from my husband. Yes, my husband is still an evil man.
In fact, he’s responsible for every annoying characteristic I have. My penchant for obscene invectives whenever a pea slips onto the kitchen floor? My husband’s fault. The need to relive my Brownie camp days by singing every song I learned during that week of bark-peeling bliss? The hubby.The person who refuses to look away from the latest Karen Armstrong tome when I try to get him to acknowledge what a pain in the tush Screech was in Celebrity Fit Club? Take a big fat guess.
After much rumination while knitting in the bathtub I’ve come up with what exactly makes him the culprit for all my shortcomings:
He’s not supportive of my dreams.
Aren’t spouses supposed to be THE you-go-girl! person in one’s life? That’s what Oprah and Flava Flav keep telling me. But what I’m getting from my significant other is a vibe that’s less “keep reaching for the stars” and more “why don’t you think about it?”. Angela gets Brad to strap a Marc Jacobs diaper bag across his hunky shoulders with nary a whimper while traipsing across Sub-Saharan Africa. What do I get? Comments like “I don’t think that’s such a good idea” when I’m trying to trap an obese squirrel in the backyard with a Naturalizer shoe box. (Hey–if tarting up a rodent with historical costumes gets you a nod in Radar, then I’m down with it.) He did at least sit through my twenty-minute PowerPoint presentation on the plan, though he politely declined to chair the subcommittee for the Armistice Day tableau.
More evidence of spousal evilness next time….
But I’ve Been To California Dept: Ron Miller, the genius behind the seminal “I’m OK, You’re OK” anthem “I’ve Never Been to Me” passed away this week. If you want a taste of what living in the late-Seventies was like, download this and The Piña Colada Song and you’ll understand why I wore out my David Bowie Heroes album in 1978.