Category: humor

humor

Lyrical Interlude

lady with pink guitar in the The Loop

The year is 1986. I’m walking through the mall with one of my favorite cousins. A Sade song pipes into the common space.

“No need to ask cause it’s cool for Loretta,” my cousin sings at the top of her lungs. “Coooool for Lorettaaaaa!”

The year is 1992. I’m sardined into a friend’s late-80s Honda Accord.

There are four of us girls in the car and at least half of my friend’s earthly belongings. Honda makes a sweet second closet.

We’re listening to a classic rock station. “Come on, baby,” my friend sings at the top of her lungs. “Don’t feel the rebirth!”

The year is 2011. A couple weeks ago to be exact. Life in the Fast Lane by the Eagles plays on the truck radio. I’ve only heard this song 6,500 times. The first time when I was maybe eight.

off broadway at Vintage Vinyl

Some of the older kids at the pool where we hung out were obsessed with the song. They played it repeatedly over the loudspeaker, dropping quarter after quarter, alternating between the jukebox and the foosball table.

We younger ones staked out our spots at the corners of the foosball table, our chins hovering just above the surface to watch the games.

Swack! Block. Zip! Slide. Za-ping! And goal. Life in the fast lane. Surely make you lose your mind.

What a great song, I thought as I sang alone in the truck at the top of my lungs. Think I’ll post a line on Facebook.

“They had one thing in common, they were good and bad.”

Reveled in my coolness until a few hours later when a friend (or two) informed me those were not the words. I Googled it to be sure. Gasp. I’d been singing it wrong for more than 30 years.

In my mind, I’d camped on what one friend termed moral dualism, the conflict between good and evil that rages in the world and inside us. All the while the Eagles had something else in mind. Something more Hotel California.

Blueberry Hill

Musicians would do well to enunciate. Or sing cleaner lyrics. Ones that make sense to people who aren’t cocaine dealers.

Cool for Loretta instead of Smooth Operator? Maybe.

Don’t Feel the Rebirth rather than Don’t Fear the Reaper? Absolutely not. Rebirth sounds too much like afterbirth. Ew. Needs more cowbell.

Life in the Fast Lane? The Eagles’ lyrics work in the context of the song’s story. Drug addiction, outrageous parties, nasty reputations as cruel dudes.

But in the context of real life, where most of us reside, my line is miles better.

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. Romans 7:15 NIV

Go Cards!

Exit the fast lane for Seven Bridges Road. Watch for shots from Busch Stadium along the way in the video link.

What’s your favorite lyrical mishap?
Come on. Share a bit!

Posted on by Aimee 47

Pumpkin Power

Nothing says fall like pumpkins. Bought our first two of the season Saturday.

Here’s what things looked like by Tuesday…

Tuesday

And Wednesday…

Wednesday

And this morning…

Thursday (poor pumpkin!)

My boys have claimed the pumpkin as a science experiment. Their theory is Fred and Ethel, the culprits who live in a nearby tree, will gnaw through until they strike gold and feast on the delectable pumpkin seeds.

guilty Fred

My theory is Fred and Ethel will hollow out the pumpkin and live in it for the winter. A gorgeous patio gourd.

safe inside

I mentioned we bought two pumpkins. At the first nibble of trouble, my son took the “baby” pumpkin inside. It sits high on the fireplace mantle.

neighbor's pumpkins

Next door, the interior designer neighbor has a wonderful display of pumpkins. Pristine and untouched by tiny rodent teeth.

calling in reinforcements

Maybe it’s true there’s strength in numbers. Maybe all we need is more pumpkins. Lots and lots of pumpkins.

You crown the year with a bountiful harvest;
even the hard pathways overflow with abundance. Psalm 65:11 NLT

What would squirrels sound like if they made music? Oh, Don’t Let’s Start…

Warning: Listen at your own risk. Silly songs by They Might Be Giants have a way of sticking in your head.

Posted on by Aimee 5

Dogspeak

ready for my closeup

Gracious gifts. We all receive them. Much more than we deserve.

One of the best gifts I’ve ever received was and still is my dog Ella. Nearly 10 years ago, she was a birthday gift.

She was too young to live with us until after my actual birthday. So on my actual birthday in December 2001, I received two little stainless steel bowls. One for her food and one for her water. Sheer giddiness.

Mary, my dear friend of more than 20 years, believes Ella appears in my blog more than my son.

Jealousy may motivate Mary’s thinking. I’ve never mentioned her by name in a post until this one.

Just teasing about the jealousy part. You know I love you, Mary. Tried and true friendship is another one of those gracious gifts. Now back to Ella.

Today Ella the best birthday gift becomes Ella the first guest blogger here on everyday epistle. She weighs in with this short reflection about chewies.

Hello. I’m Ella the cairn terrier. I live with my best friend Aimee who writes this blog. I can read and type.

Chewies are my favorite thing to chew. If one is good, better are two. Rawhide, rawhide, rawhide three. Four, five, six, seven, eight chewies for me.

Proof that too much of a good thing is simply more.

Until next time, chew on this…

me & mary

From His abundance we have all received one gracious blessing after another. John 1:16 NLT

Better link to a song for good measure. Ah, Mary by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. She’s the beat of my heart, she’s the shot of a gun…

Posted on by Aimee 13

The Tale of Two Heifers

the grass is always greener...

A friend and I had a misunderstanding. Actually, we had 15 misunderstandings rolled into one screaming ball o’ hate.

It didn’t help we both have rather strong personalities. As my farm boy husband explained, we were behaving like two heifers in the same pen.

And now for little agricultural background. (You never know what you’re going to get when you visit this blog, do you?) Herd hierarchy develops among cows. Yes, that’s right. Among cows.

There can be only one queen per herd. And if two dominant heifers are in the same herd? Well, all manure breaks loose to determine who the lead bovine will be. Sorta.

“Tell me,” I said to my husband. “How do cows fight?”

“Well, that’s what’s so funny,” he said. “They butt heads. It usually doesn’t hurt them physically. They just run through the field throwing their weight around and butting heads with each other.”

A head game. Literally. Same way my friend and I fought. Same way most women fight. We take it underground.

A few snippy emails, a series of jumping to conclusions, a whole lot of ill feelings later, and we had to be separated. No one was physically hurt, but the damage was done. We retreated to opposite ends of the meadow.

Problem is, we’re not cows. There is no herd. The imaginary pasture we tussled over is as big as the sky. Plenty for everyone to graze to her heart’s content.

More importantly, we worship the same God. She visited the hospital the day my son was born. We’ve spent hours in each other’s homes over the years. Prayed for each other’s kids.

So when in humility she peeked her nose over the fence and said, “I’m sorry,” there was no question what my response would be.

“Me too.”

back off, sister. this grass is mine!

I don’t want to imply forgiving or apologizing always comes easy. It doesn’t, at least not for me. I hold out hope though that it can come.

Another’s offense, hurtful as it may be, is slight compared to the avalanche of which I’ve been forgiven. It may take years of struggle, but forgiveness is a high road and being forgiven a cherished state.

In the case of the two heifers in our story, it didn’t take years. Thank God. Reconciliation. Clean start. Moving forward. Into the pasture and beyond.

Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others. Colossians 3:13 NLT

From cows in the field to snakes in the well, Patty Griffin’s Forgiveness.

Posted on by Aimee 19

You Deserve a Break Today

one of those days

Ever have one of those days? Yesterday was one for me.

Worked all morning on Thursday’s serious blog post when, oh, look at that. It’s noon! And by the way, the post is mopping the floor with me. Hmm. Wonder what’s for lunch?

Stumbled to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. But I got nothing.

No caffeine in the house. No appetizing morsel awaiting me in the fridge. Blood sugar is plummeting. Approaching meltdown status.

Suddenly I felt the urge to escape. To break free from the four walls of the house. Flee from the heavy subject matter I’d been tackling. Make a run for the border. Come on, baby, drive south!

That’s it, I thought. I’ll simply escort myself out. Next thing I know, I’m in the truck driving down our friendly neighborhood street. Headed for some destination yet unknown to me.

Had I been showered and dressed I’d have gone to the mall. Where else does a Gen X girl go when in flight?

But a shower had evaded me that morning, I hadn’t even brushed my hair, and I was still wearing Monday’s outfit. Nix the mall.

Bread Company? Been there. Qdoba? Done that. Chinese? No. Salad bar? What?

How about a drive thru? Nu-uh. That would mean I’d have pick up and go home to eat alone. I was escaping, remember?

The truck, sensing my distess, turned south on a major thoroughfare.

“Ah,” I said. “I know where we’re going.”

The truck didn’t answer. It just carried me forward, meticulously obeying traffic signals all the way.

“We’re going to McDonald’s, aren’t we?” I said.

happy meal 4 me

Sure enough, we soon arrived at the Golden Arches. Three dollars and 71 cents later, I had lunch, CNN, and people watching. And no one cared about my hair or how I was dressed.

There are healthier options than a cheeseburger, like making a salad at home. More ecological means of transport than the truck, like riding that shiny purple bike. Maybe I’ll try those today. Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow’s looking better already.

But I’m reminded how my grandparents used to take us kids to McDonald’s as a special treat. How the Happy Meal was elevated to near comfort food status.

And I for one am thankful McDonald’s will still do fine for lunch in a pinch on a day otherwise in peril.

Be brave. Be strong. Don’t give up.
Expect God to get here soon. Psalm 31:24 The Message

Bad Day by Daniel Powter. We all have ’em.

Posted on by Aimee 8

A Word to the Menfolk

silly smiles

Some of you may be relieved to know tomorrow’s post is gender-neutral.

Apologies to male readers if yesterday’s post made you feel uncomfortable or left out. Always pushing the limit around here.

I’m a girl after all, but the moral still applies I think. And although I love being a girl, I love my guys too! Remember Club MOB?

Hope you’ll come back. Thanks for reading. And thank you for your support.

(Oops, there goes another undergarment pun. Forgive me. I couldn’t resist).

In Christ’s family there can be no division into Jew and non-Jew, slave and free, male and female. Among us you are all equal. That is, we are all in a common relationship with Jesus Christ. Also, since you are Christ’s family, then you are Abraham’s famous “descendant,” heirs according to the covenant promises. Galations 3:28-29 The Message

No Doubt, Just a Girl. Taken with a grain of salt and a giggle, please.

Posted on by Aimee 4

A Firm Foundation

Recently one morning, I was upstairs getting dressed. Something wasn’t right. Couldn’t place it at first. Just felt different. Off-kilter.

Didn’t take long to realize it was my bra. Looked like it had a flat on one side. Upon closer inspection, it was apparent the underwire was missing from the deflated half.

How did the underwire get out? And where was it now?

image used with permission from Kim Powell

I must interrupt this saga to tell you this was no ordinary bra. No, sir. I had tired of ordinary bras months ago.

It couldn’t have been that my old bras had simply worn out. No, that couldn’t have been it. Surely I’d been wearing the wrong size and the wrong bras. I needed a professional fitting by an expert.

Two of my BFFs talked up a lingerie shop in the ritzy part of town.

“Oh, they’re good,” said Peaches ‘n Cream. “They’ll fit you perfectly!”

“And their stuff is beautiful,” said Strawberry Blonde.

“They’re expensive,” said Peaches.

image from my kitchen sink

“But totally worth it,” said Strawberry.

“At least go in and get the fitting,” said Peaches, “and buy one there.”

“Then go to TJ Maxx to buy more,” said Strawberry.

Eureka! No more wimpy straps, pinching hooks and eyes, or dull, lifeless cups. I was going bra shopping uptown.

Peaches and Strawberry were right. The shop was delicious. Beautiful, tasteful undergarments. A perfect fitting. Expensive bras. And so convenient.

My husband had been trying to convince me of the worth of my time. How much was it worth for me to drive all over the city searching for cheaper options when I could be done in one easy, albeit expensive, trip?

So I bought a bra. And I bought another. And one more for good measure. I’d never spent so much on undergarments before. I walked out confident I’d gotten it right this time. I had what I needed and was finished in less than an hour. Could I ever lead The Glamorous Life!

You can understand my brief state of shock the morning the bra blew out.

“Honey,” I said. “Can you come upstairs for a minute?”

captain underwire

“Yes?” he said.

“Did you see a thin wire thingy floating around in the laundry?” I said.

Silence.

“The underwire has escaped from this bra,” I said.

Silence. Poor man. Grew up with all brothers.

“What does it look like?” he finally said.

He retrieved the underwire from the laundry. It had mischievously punctured its encasement and slipped out. I repaired the bra best I could.

It doesn’t matter where you get it, how it comes to you, or even how much it costs you. What matters is how it holds up. How it does its job. How true it is to its purpose. The moral of the story? You’re sunk without a firm foundation.

“These words I speak to you are not incidental additions to your life, homeowner improvements to your standard of living. They are foundational words, words to build a life on. If you work these words into your life, you are like a smart carpenter who built his house on solid rock. Rain poured down, the river flooded, a tornado hit—but nothing moved that house. It was fixed to the rock.” Matthew 7:24-25 The Message, from a parable of Jesus

Michael Card sings the timeless hymn How Firm a Foundation with a Celtic twist. Someone called Beanscot set the song to pictures with an American twist. Melodramatic, but let yourself watch. You may end up teary-eyed like I did.

Posted on by Aimee 16

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

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

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

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