Author: Aimee

Writer. ENFJ. Color Me Beautiful Winter. everydayepistle.com @everydayepistle

Welcome to the Wild West

image used with permission from Dan Dreyfus, dreyfusphoto.com

Life on the blog is life on the wild frontier. Bring your bravado. There’s no established etiquette, no paved roads, and often no rules.

How many posts per week? One, two, seven? How long should they be? There are no rules.

Should every post be announced on Facebook or is that annoying to your friends? What about your friends who only know about a post if you announce it? Should you ask them to subscribe? There are no rules.

What about RSS feeds? You can’t see them. How do you know you can trust them?

What about a Facebook page for your blog? Rihanna’s page has more than 42 million likes. What’s the harm in suggesting your kemosabes like yours? What good is it if you never reach 42 million? There are no rules.

Should you tweet? What qualifies me, a lone ranger, to have a Twitter account? What qualifies me to have a blog? There are no rules.

Speaking of lone ranger, should you join a blogging network? Seems helpful to form alliances with fellow cowpokes, but this desperado is right fond of her freedom. Will a network support or hinder it? There are no rules.

image used with permission from Winsdown Farms, winsdown.com

What if someone knowingly borrows your ideas or words without a link back, credit or notification? Should you challenge the outlaw to a shootout at sundown? Hope they ride off into the sunset never to copycat again? There are no rules.

What about photos? WordPress suggests using your own pictures or grabbing photos off the net and crediting sources. Copyright, anyone?

What about excerpts or ideas from other writers like Hope Edelman, Hara Estroff Marano, Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel, or Erica Jong? Is it okay if you credit and notify them? These authors didn’t seem to mind when I did it. They sent me kind emails, not cease and desist orders.

What about YouTube, that roving band of gunslingers wearing 36 black hats at least? Should you wait for the lawyers to draw lines in the sand?

And what comes of all this? Is blogging really a job if you don’t get paid? Is the next step to write a book? A screenplay? Secure a sponsor? Wrangle a doggie? Settle down in some quiet little town and forget about everything?

We drive on into the unknown for love of the great wide open. For breathtaking sunsets on the edge of civilization. There’s a lot to learn. Some of it we make up as we go. Have to because the landscape itself is in a state of flux.

image used with permission from Dan Dreyfus, dreyfusphoto.com

So sidle up to the saloon and raise a toast. To the west, young woman, as far as this horse will take you.

By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. Hebrews 11:8 NIV

Happy trails, pardners. Before you go, check out Don’t Fence Me In by David Byrne of Talking Heads. You may find yourself humming it all weekend long.

Special thanks to my friend Kari for use of the photos of her beautiful horses.

Posted on by Aimee 2

The Lost Art of Tying Shoes

strap-on-and-go velcro

Visiting with one of my professor friends last week when she asked if my six-year-old could tie his shoes yet.

“No,” I said. “And it’s because of that blasted velcro.”

She heartily agreed. Her child, the same age as my son, can’t tie his shoes either. They haven’t had to learn. All their shoes are strap-on-and-go velcro or pull-on-without-socks Crocs.

We reminisced like a couple of centenarians.

“We didn’t have the luxury of velcro.

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know how to tie my shoes.”

“These kids nowadays have it so easy.”

We laughed at ourselves and decided the boys will learn before adulthood to tie their shoes. Probably before year’s end. Pulling the bunny ear through the hole seemed to come so naturally to us. It won’t mystify our children forever.

Four days later, I entered the Apple store with my husband and our helpless child who can’t tie his shoes.

It was time for a system update. Our PC was gasping its final cyber breaths. You PC people are cringing as you read this. Don’t blame me. It was the intuitive, irresistible brilliance of the iPhone that lured me back to Mac.

Our state was having a tax-free weekend so the store was packed. When our turn came, I proceeded to ask elementary questions of the young, hip salesperson like, “Well, how do I make my email come up when I click the button that looks like the postage stamp?” and “Can’t you download all that stuff for me?”

angry bird

Then I remembered my child. He was no longer standing with us. Momma Bear panic kicked in. My head turned frantically in search of him. Where was my cub?

Within two seconds I had a visual. My cub had hooked himself up at an iPhone display where he was doing major damage on Angry Birds.

Happy as a clam. Oblivious to things like time and space and parents. Adeptly navigating the technology alone.

So he can’t tie his shoes. He’ll learn. Today there are bigger fish to fry.

“Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland.” Isaiah 43:18 NIV

Ever feel like the technology’s taking over? So did I. Back in 1983. Hang on to your time machine. We’re going old school. Very old school. Presenting the rock opera (my son loved watching this by the way) Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.

Posted on by Aimee 16

Put Your Own Mask On First

this is not my rooster. we met this rooster in Historic Jamestown, VA.

It’s 6:00 a.m., Sunday morning. The little rooster has awakened with the sun. Blame it on his grandfather’s dominant dairy farmer genes summoning him to get up and milk the cows.

There are no milking cows at our house, but this Sunday we are due at the early 8:30 a.m. service for my husband to sing. Two and a half hours is plenty of time for three people to get ready for church.

My son wakes us, crawls into our bed, squirms, crawls out then disappears to play. His father is immovable, somehow skipped by the early-to-rise dairyman genetics. The time is now 6:30 a.m. I get up and begin the routine.

Shower. Try to wake my husband. Prepare breakfast for my child who is starving. Feed the dog. Try to wake my husband. Read a book to my child who is lonely and bored. Try to wake my husband.

The time is now 7:30 a.m. My husband gets out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. My child is on his second breakfast. We giggle at the table as we hear his dad warming up his voice in the shower.

“Ah, ah, ahhhhh!” he sings. We giggle some more.

I let the dog out. Try to convince my child to get dressed. Check to see if the dog has done her business. Check to see if my child is anywhere near his clothes. Clean up from second breakfast. Let the dog in. Praise the dog. Hunt for my child who has disappeared again to play.

Get third breakfast out as my husband still needs to eat. Ask said husband to please help our child get dressed and ready. Clean up from third breakfast.

The time is now 8:00 a.m. The final stretch. Departure in 15 minutes. I run upstairs to get dressed and put on some makeup.

“But, Daaad!” says child. “I’m trying to read this book!”

“You have to get dressed NOW,” says husband. “We’re going to be late!”

I’m tempted to leave my mirror with a half painted face to intervene. But the wise words of the trusty flight attendant ring in my ears: Put your own mask on first, then assist those traveling with you to put on theirs.

slow children at play

If I don’t get ready, none of us is going to make it. I reach for the hair dryer to complete the blowout.

“Daaad!” says child. “I want my book! You are so mean, Dad!”

That’s it. Exit bathroom. Break up squabble. Comfort and dress child.

The time is now 8:15 a.m. My child and my husband are clean, polished, dressed and sitting in the truck waiting for me. I’m standing in the bathroom with unstyled hair and no shoes, wildly slapping on mascara.

Next week, come hell or high water, before anyone else eats, bathes, dresses, reads, or requires me in any other way imaginable, I’m getting ready first. One must get into the lifeboat before one has any hope of helping the others.

Indeed, the “right time” is now. Today is the day of salvation. from 2 Corinthians 6:2 NLT

Someone Saved My Life Tonight, sugar bear.

Pin It

Posted on by Aimee 15

High-Rise Jeans

Jackie in jeans

Presenting another rare and short Saturday post.

Yes, I know if I keep posting on Saturday it will no longer be rare. I’ll commit to keep it short though.

THE big news today is an item of clothing. I discovered the most comfortable jeans at J Crew yesterday. And they’re high-waisted.

Now before you shudder and think mommy jeans, take a look.

Here’s the link:  http://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/denim/bootcutandflare/PRDOVR~51329/51329.jsp

They’re comfortable, they don’t fall down around my hips, and they’re smokin’ in jezebel wash.

Granted they’re a bit pricey. J Crew cardholders, use the email promo to save 20 percent. Missouri friends, enjoy tax-free purchases this weekend.

I have my favorite Lucky low-rise jeans too. But they give a little with wear, leaving me with the dreaded muffin top. Will be interesting to see how these beauties perform.

J Crew has been known to fuel a trend or two. Perhaps comfortable, good-looking, high-rise jeans will show up in other favorite stores. We can hope.

She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25 NIV

Before I go, the stuff of fashion lore: The darling salesperson who helped me said when the high-waisted flare jeans were introduced, New York J Crew stores sold out within days. And since New York is the center of the universe, regional stores (like St. Louis) had to ship their stock to the Big Apple. The regional stores have been replenished, but the jeans are selling like hotcakes.

PS: I’m not being paid to promote these jeans or J Crew. I just like you and like them and thought you two should meet.

Posted on by Aimee 9

That’s Not My Name

may I offer you a card?

Hello. My name is Aimee. Pronounced like Amy, but not spelled like it. Spelled like it sounds. A-I-M as in the toothpaste with double E’s at the end. It’s French for beloved. Folks misspell it all the time.

My most free-spirited college BFF recently spelled it Amy online. Ouch. So did the kindest boy I dated in high school. Ouch, ouch.

Another good friend from high school spells it Amiee. So close I can’t bear to tell him. Well, now he knows. Makes me feel a little Pure Prairie League coming on. Or Counting Crows. Wow. Did you even know the Counting Crows rendition existed until this post? Neither did I.

I haven’t seen these people in years, they’re all married with kids, and the spelling of my name is not a priority in their lives at this time.

We joke about it. My college friend has agreed I can call her Betty if she can call me Al. I have to wonder if she’s lived in California too long.

My kindest high school boyfriend explained he was so concerned about spelling everything else right in his comment that he misspelled the most important part. Aw. Great save, man.

People in my not-so-distant past have a habit of misspelling it too. How excusable is that? And if you add my last name, there’s no end to the butchery of what my husband calls Americanized German.

Whetstine. Pronounced like a damp mug, a wet stein. Members of my own family still get it wrong and I’ve been married 15 years.

More than one person has asked me if Aimee was the name I was given at birth. No, I changed it when I was 15. My real name is Joleisa.

Yes, of course it was my birth name! Had you there, didn’t I? As the story goes, Amy was a popular name when I was born in 1970. My mom saw it spelled Aimee in a magazine. The rest is history.

And it’s not that unique. Lots of people spell it that way. Like Aimee Mann. Okay, that’s all I can think of right now, but there are lots of others I’m sure.

A-I-M

In a particularly legalistic time of my life, I wanted everyone to get it right. So I took preventive measures when I sensed a misspell coming.

“It’s A-I-M-E-E. Like the toothpaste with two E’s,” I said to my victims. “W-H-E-T-S-T-I-N-E. Like a damp mug, a wet stein. Get it?”

That was working really well until I overheard my then two-year-old, the verbal parrot, muttering as he played with his toy trains, “My name is Aimee. A-I-M-E-E. Like the toothpaste with two E’s.”

Maybe the correct spelling of my name doesn’t matter all that much. Maybe it’s a luxury like privacy.

Spelling doesn’t seem to count these days unless it’s your resume, Scrabble, or Scripps National Spelling Bee. It’s not like we’re being graded. Those pesky misspellings are harmless. They just sting a little.

Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you.
      I have called you by name; you are mine. from Isaiah 43:1 NLT

hello my name is

If Toni Basil and Debbie Harry morphed, joined forces with a male J Crew model on drums and backup, entered The Matrix, and made a music video, you’d get The Ting Tings’ That’s Not My Name. Thanks to this dynamic duo for the song that inspired the post title when I first heard it on Muzak in FroYo. It rocks.

Posted on by Aimee 37

A Secret Kept

quiet zone

Once someone told me a secret. And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. But trust me. It was a doozie.

It wasn’t a secret that isn’t really a secret like, “I’m a perfectionist.” Or a secret that is odd but inconsequential like, “I loved Riverdance.” Which I did.

Or even a secret about a stupid wrongdoing like, “I stole a bath mat from the hotel where I stayed on a j-school trip to New York my senior year of undergrad and felt guilty about it in my late-20s so I donated it to Goodwill as penance because I was too embarrassed to mail it back to the hotel.” Whew! Run-on, girl. Feel better now?

No, not that kind of secret. This secret was destructive. If it went public, it would wreak havoc on unsuspecting lives. It had to be resolved between the transgressor and the transgressed against. Now I, the confidant, was in the mix. 

Time went by. Things happened. Life continued. No one said a word. I held that secret for about three years. As far as I know, I was and may still be the only one the person told.

It burned like hot coal inside, charring my resources. A heavy anchor, pulling me down, down, down.

“What is it, Aimee?” a friend finally said.

“It’s a secret,” I said. “I think I’m the only one who knows.”

“You have to share it,” she said, “or it will destroy you.”

She was a safe person, a third party who didn’t know the others involved. I told her the truth. And the weight I carried lifted, buoyed up by my sobbing. It still hurt, but it no longer crushed me.

“You have to tell your husband,” she said.

“No,” I said. “He knows these people. I can’t tell him.”

“He loves you. He can help you bear it.”

stationery anchor

So through tears I told him, and she was right. He helps me bear it to this day.

A secret kept is a powerful thing. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can carry one without paying for it.

You don’t have to broadcast it on Jerry Springer, but you have to shine a little light on it. Bring it out into the open. Take away the weight of its secrecy.

Let someone safe—someone who loves you, bear it with you. Or help you face the transgressor. Or sob alongside you. And feel it lift, then fall away.

You have set our iniquities before You, our secret sins in the light of Your presence. Psalm 90:8 NIV

The Newsboys’ song Million Pieces is apropos. Not sure what’s with the fuzzy quality of this video. Chalk it up to “artistic treatment.” Love the song anyway and couldn’t resist the flying pink elephants. This is not your floor/You’re going higher than before…

Posted on by Aimee 6

Family Business

look, ma. no tooth!

This is a rare and unplanned Saturday post. It’s quick so don’t blink.

First, THE major development: the child lost his first tooth today. It’s been noticeably loose for almost two weeks and finally popped out this morning at breakfast. The toothless look becomes him. So do the freckles.

The other development: while playing on WordPress this afternoon, I discovered another widget. It’s that Facebook page link over there to the left. Click like to declare your like of everyday epistle. 

That’s assuming you do like everyday epistle. If not, what are you doing here? Get off my blog!

Just kidding. Stay as long as you like and enjoy your weekend, folks.

Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin… from Zechariah 4:10 NLT

Posted on by Aimee 4

Club MOB (Mothers of Boys)

girl power wonder woman

This week my son had a little tiff with one of his classmates who happens to be a girl. They’ve been like cousins since preschool and usually get along swimmingly. By the way, she’s drop dead gorgeous. So what’s all the fuss?

“Mom, she says things that aren’t true about Pokémon,” said my son. “And she stuck her tongue out at me four times yesterday!”

“Honey, you’re still friends, and no one knows everything about Pokémon,” I said. “Girls are funny about things. Sometimes they’re moody for no reason.”

The moment those words left my lips, I felt like the cat who swallowed the parakeet. The employee who sold the company secrets for a song. Just call me B for Benedict Arnold.

not so fast!

One of my professor friends shared how she boldly espoused the feminist mantra when she taught women’s studies: there are no natural differences between boys and girls. Whatever differences appear are caused by nurture. By a society oppressive to women.

Then she had kids. A boy and a girl. And she’s softened her stance a bit. 

I don’t blame her. She had to. It was either dial it down to preserve the integrity of her real life experience, or risk cracking up in front of her students while trying to tow the hard line with a straight face.

There are inherent differences between boys and girls—between men and women—that go beyond anatomy. Not every generalization applies to every person, but there are differences.

Once while visiting the nail salon, I glanced up to see the unbelievable. A mom having a manicure while holding a baby! Oh, it’s a girl.

smilin & chillin

Another time, three of us MOBs took our then preschool sons to lunch after soccer lessons. Our table was a raucous, rumbling good time. Were we disturbing other customers? Not our neighboring table. There sat three angelic little girls about the same age as our guys quietly drawing on activity pages with crayons.

And what may be the cruelest difference of all, the 75/25 rule. We MOBs learn quickly: 75 percent of the items in children’s clothing stores will be for girls and 25 percent will be for boys.

Only about half of those items you’d want your son to actually wear. If you see something you like, better buy it or the next MOB will snap it up faster than you can say Bakugan.

I don’t have anything against girls. I am a girl and I love being one. I love my nieces, my friends’ daughters, and my son’s friends who are girls. I hope my son marries a wonderful girl if that’s what God has for him.

But I’m one proud MOB too. I love my little boy through and through. And I wouldn’t trade him for all 849 trillion pink bows in the world.

So God created human beings in His own image, in the image of God He created them; male and female He created them. Genesis 1:27 NLT

My momma loves me. She Loves Me Like a Rock, by Paul Simon.

image by freshartphotography.com

Nicole Diehl is a MOB times three. She’s also a veteran blogger at Here’s the Diehl, and recently she opened an Etsy shop by the same name.

What does she design and sell? Among other things, headbands for little girls of course. They’re the cutest things eva! Go to Here’s the Diehl on Etsy and see for yourself.

PS: Nicole donates 10 percent of her shop’s proceeds to Compassion International’s Child Survival Program.

Posted on by Aimee 23

Crows and Eagles

public domain image

Yesterday I posted a suggestion for how the government could save money by stopping those Social Security mailings fictitiously describing how much we will receive in retirement. I conservatively estimated we’d save about $3.14 million a year. Well, I was more than a little off.

Within less than two hours, my friend Amy read the post and informed me the SSA decided a few months ago to suspend the mailings for a savings of $70 million. I repeat: $70 MILLION. That should make you laugh and cry at the same time.

I love social media. Not only was I pleasantly corrected by a friend, but we all gained some information we didn’t have a mere day ago. Apparently, the government doesn’t have to notify us that they will no longer notify us. Or something like that.

Another friend who works for the government explained in a comment on FB that common sense doesn’t necessarily dictate. There are many easy ways to save money, but the government “likes to make things as complicated as possible.” Hmm.

Lessons learned? You betcha.

1. Dig deeper.

For me, that means to do so preferably before posting. Here’s the link to the SSA page about the mailings: http://www.ssa.gov/mystatement/

2. Share the love.

Thanks to Amy for speaking up. Follow her lead. If you know something, say something so the rest of us will know too.

3. Reach out.

I’m delighted to eat a little crow on this to the tune of $70 million. But the patriotic eagle in my heart is rising. I wonder. What are the other easy ways we could save money?

We’re in a budget crisis as a nation. Many of us are in one at home too. I know some of you watch your family budgets like hawks and sniff out ways to save like bloodhounds. Some of you work in government agencies or have ties to them. You have a ringside seat to witness where we could cut back.

All of us intersect with the government in one way or another. What are you seeing in your experience and expertise that could be simplified or cut with a cost savings for our country? What ideas do you, the People, have?

Would love to know your thoughts, so do share. You can always comment anonymously. If we get a few good ideas going, perhaps we’ll send them to our folks in Congress or the White House.

It’s our country after all. And it’s worth saving.

Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due,
when it is in your power to act. Proverbs 3:27 NIV

Get those patriotic juices flowing with School House Rock’s Preamble.

Posted on by Aimee 8

How the Government Can Save $3.14 Million This Year

June 18, 2011

With all this hoo-hah about the national budget, or lack thereof, I have an idea to save our country money. You know those Social Security updates we all get once a year?

Somewhere there’s a printer whose sole purpose is to produce these. And they do a nice job: 11″ x 17″ black and white plus one color, personalized with individual taxpayer information and address. One notification every year for each of the 157 million taxpayers who currently pay into Social Security.

Let’s conservatively estimate each notice costs one cent to print and personalize and one cent to mail. Yes, I know it costs more in real life, but we’re using our imaginations. We’ll give the federal government the benefit of the doubt here.

Two cents for each statement times 157 million taxpayers equals at least $3.14 million saved within the next year if the government stops printing them now. Paltry in comparison to our debt, but every little bit counts.

Then we’ll do what the government loves to do. We’ll forecast the estimated savings for the next 20 years: $62.8 million.

We can’t stop sending the notifications without notification! I have an idea for that too. The federal government can send one final notice.

Let’s print each taxpayer a simple 3″ x 5″ black and white postcard. It’s smaller than the 11″ x 17″ page, has no personalization except the address, and has no color. Let’s say it costs one cent to print and mail. We’ll still save at least $1.57 million within the next year.

The postcard will read:

We regret to inform you, the money is gone. You will not receive anything from Social Security when you retire. It will do you no good to sue us because there is nothing left and there is no clear defendant to name.

Since you will have to fend for yourself in retirement, you will pay a reduced rate of Social Security tax on what you earn effective immediately.

This rate will continue to be reduced incrementally during the next five years until it is cut to a reasonable, flat rate for all taxpayers. Any revenue collected for Social Security going forward will be used only for Social Security.

That’s it. No blame shifting. No grandstanding. No campaigning.

What about the shortfall when we pay less Social Security taxes into the system?

The way I see it, there can be no shortfall if there is nothing to begin with. Something’s got to give, people. No money, no spendy. That’s how it works in our house. And it hurts.

Telling the truth is another house rule. Sometimes that hurts too. There will be no Social Security for Gen X, and probably not for all the Boomers either. This isn’t a surprise. The emperor has had no clothes for quite some time.

I bet we could think up a hundred more ideas like this to save money. It’s time to talk truth, cut our losses, stop spending, and get creative to rebuild the wealth.

For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. 1 Timothy 6:7 NIV

Dear Mr. President, Mr. Speaker, and members of Congress, Honesty is mostly what I need from you.

Posted on by Aimee 19

Hitting the Wall

The Championships, Wimbledon

The beautiful tennis player with long blond hair was winning. But not by much. On the other side of the net, a spunky, dark-haired Italian was holding her own with moves more contorted than graceful. This was Wimbledon.

Back and forth. The blond pulled ahead, only for the Italian to catch her. The sportscasters sided with the blond for technical superiority. Yet they couldn’t discount the heart of the underdog.

Tennis games are way too long. We didn’t see how the contest ended. We were on vacation and the beach was calling.

Secretly I hoped the dark-haired girl would win. How many more beautiful blond tennis champions do we need really? Yes, we have Venus and Serena. But an Italian tennis queen. Bellissimo!

Today I identify with that girl more than I would like, and not just because of my Italian heritage.

BAM! The serve. Extensive travel in June.

SWACK! The return. Intensive upheaval back in St. Louis.

SLAP! A high lob. Close on the sale of our house.

CRACK! Another return. Move everything we own and downsize.

POW! The slam. Normalize only to set up for more changes.

In the middle of the game, I’m about to hit the wall.

My husband says I’ve simply run out of adrenaline. The synapses are shot. The serotonin took a nose dive, suffered a concussion, and is sitting out indefinitely.

Bad habits are back. I organize stuff, rather than stake out precious time to work. My husband works until the wee hours, rather than stake out precious time to sleep. My son is not eating enough (any) vegetables. And my inner critic has reclaimed the judge’s seat.

This is no time to quit. It’s precisely the time to keep hitting. The goal is within reach, even if the goal is to make it to dinner with all family members intact. One step, one second at a time. The most crucial moment could come in the next match. Or the next serve. You can’t win if you don’t play.

Break it down. Back to the basics like Elijah in his cave. Rest, eat, breathe, listen. Or like Hannah in the temple. Dust yourself off, clean yourself up, nourish yourself well. Come out swinging like Sampson. Or a certain Italian tennis player who just wouldn’t quit.

Ask for help from the One who never quits. The One whose strength has no end. Lord, help me persevere with grace instead of criticism, humor instead of depression, hope instead of despair. Amen.

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. 1 Corinthians 9:24-25 NIV

C’mon and rock with me now to a little bit o’ TobyMac, won’t you? Get Back Up!

Posted on by Aimee 2

Murder by Muzak

The Bangles

The first incident was in Garden Ridge. There I was, perusing picture frames. Bouncing along to The Bangles. Pushing my cart and singing in the aisle with the Muzak. If you want to find all the cops, they’re hanging out in the donut shop…

Then it hit me: I’m in the target demographic for Garden Ridge.

How did this happen? Just yesterday I was catwalking through the juniors department of Belk with my mom, window shopping those crazy Swatch watches, and jamming to that wild new song Walk Like an Egyptian, circa 1986.

The Best of Sade cover

Next thing I know, I’m 40 years old standing in line at the deli counter. I catch myself humming a familiar diddy as it plays over the grocery store intercom, Sade’s The Sweetest Taboo. I’m sorry, but that is not a supermarket song.

Imagine my shock during another grocery run to hear The Sundays singing in the cereal aisle among the Froot Loops and Frosted Mini-Wheats. The Sundays. Band of choice for the coolest collegians I knew. Here’s Where the Story Ends. I’ll say.

Kurt Cobain

This week a DJ found it necessary to announce Nirvana’s Nevermind was released, gulp, 20 years ago. The day I hear Kurt Cobain’s angry, mournful voice crying out to me across the 50 pound bags of flour and rice at Sam’s Club, I’ll know the end is near.

With the lights out, it’s less dangerous. Here we are now. Entertain us. Poor Kurt. No video link for this one. Rest in peace, man. What a loss.

My youngest cousin inadvertently aided the conspiracy to bury me in the oldies. His response to a Billy Joel song in my post American Beauty was a definitive blech. The Piano Man is ancient. Old as his dad. Old as Moses.

Billy Joel Greatest Hits cover

That’s okay. It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me, even if BJ does look a little Jersey Shore.

Last year St. Louis lost our beloved classical music station, but gained a solid contemporary Christian station in its place. My six-year-old likes listening to JOY FM. So do I. Most of the time.

But when I need a pick-me-up from the past, our Gen X station serves up the likes of REM. Depeche Mode. Sheryl Crow. Salt-n-Pepa. Boyz II Men. Erasure. Big Country. Pearl Jam.

This is an indulgence best enjoyed alone because my child immediately requests I change it back to JOY FM. Somehow he knows mine is the devil’s music. Listen too long, and it’ll kill ya.

“Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be.
Remind me that my days are numbered—
how fleeting my life is.
You have made my life no longer than the width of my hand.
My entire lifetime is just a moment to You;
at best, each of us is but a breath.” Psalm 39:4-5 NLT

The Fugees, The Score cover

You saw it coming.
Killing Me Softly by The Fugees.

Posted on by Aimee 6