Beware: Post fest is coming. I've been muzzling myself again. I figure if I put them all out there at once, no way will you read every one, so my perfectionism will be unnecessary. This nixed post was some time in April when I was supposedly publishing whatever drool I could spew.
I was inspired by my blogging buddy of the Great White North, Guy Wonders, to capture some of the joy of a Southern Spring day. For Guy's take on Spring in suburban Canada go here.
The Doctor has said I need to beef up the walking and I swear he muttered "while you still can" but that was probably just the chatter of my anxiety. So I'm doing five times a week, mostly in my neighborhood which is loveliest in Spring. This weekend was another Virginia stunner. Because I was just too darn healthy (HA!) I have developed a mild but irritating eye condition. The upside is that colors are astonishing this Spring. I go outside and the world looks like a cartoon. I'm a big fan of green and with lush grass, fluffy bushes, and fresh trees there is much to celebrate.
I like to sometimes walk with headphones on but have had to adjust my tune choices because I just love that depressive Southern music. But Ryan Adams crooning about the slow death of his soul, Jason Isbell lamenting another failed co-dependent relationship, and my beloved Lucero's detailed descriptions of sobering up only to sink down again do not jive with the abundance of lilacs, azaleas, tulips and other happy bursts of color in yards and alleys all over my 'hood. For respite I have turned to R&B because they sing about Spring. Well, they sing about sex, but my high school coach said that was the same as Spring. And at least they are happy about it.
R&B also helped me realize that my 7 year old has reached "student of the human condition" status. He has been grounded for three weeks for lying his tail off to me about school assignments. After the misery of having to deal with his sulking and sighing the first couple of days, it has been quite pleasant to have him underfoot making anthropological and philosophical declarations.
Recently I was flipping through radio stations because my parental discretion slipped. While driving I zoned out listening to a satellite R&B station and when I came to, Little Man in the backseat was trying to figure out why Rihanna wants a Rude Boy. I barely caught the dial in time before he asked why the neighbors know Trey Songz' name.
For those of you lounging around listening to opera and Garrison Keillor on the weekends, let me explain modern R&B to you. Much of it is very dirty. Short on metaphor, little left to the imagination, and all about sex. Makes Marvin Gaye look like a celibate monk. Makes Gladys Knight sound like a prude. Makes Teddy Pendergrass, god rest his fine sexy soul, seem kind of prim.
That said, I have enjoyed my month long foreign exchange listening program because R&B is not only good for walks. It is danceable and I am alone in the office for extended stretches that beg for dance breaks. Say what you will about the "Ah-a-a-a-a-alcohol", but it begs for some shimmies.
So, Little Man is in the back seat as I hurriedly switch off Trey Songz crooning about his vociferous and insatiable girlfriend. I jump through three stations and we hear, "Look into my eyes, can't you see they're open wide, would I lie to you, baby?' then "Love to love you, baby" then "I love..." when he sighs and shakes his head.
"Whazzup, Lil' Man?"
"Mama. (sigh) Why are all songs about the same thing?"
"You mean love?"
"Lack of imagination, my boy. I heard a song about animals today. It was a mystery, a who-done-it involving a peacock, a wolf, a Mama Bear, a raccoon or two. Very interesting stuff."
"Now THAT sounds like a good song. Was it on the kid's station?"
"No, outlaw country."
"Mmmm... outlaws..." he said in the same tone as he says, "Mmmm... cookies." I love little boys.