Mind Body Mama: Another PITA Road Trip
We were headed down our mountain at the end of another thrilling trip to Connecticut when the car in front of us wandered across the white line and into the soft shoulder. Since we were on the mountain side of the road—as opposed to the cliff side—the errant driver righted himself without any harm. But not before Sweetie broke into this little ditty:
Off the road again
I just can’t wait to drive off the road again
Goin’ places that I’ve never been
I can’t wait to get off the road again.
I laughed. “That’s an old one,” she said in a sentimental tone. “We used to sing that all the time.” I figure this chestnut was developed in collaboration with her old pal The Flaming Chicken, with whom she’s committed many such lyrical crimes. But I’d never heard it before. Of course I was charmed: it’s so wonderfully refreshing to learn something new about your partner after so many years together. Even if it’s just another example of youthful stupidity.
It had been a weekend full of musical discovery. On Friday, BirthPie and Dr. Frisbee* were working the school-yard crowd trying to unload some Ben Folds tickets.
“I’m pretty sure Sweetie hates Ben Folds,” I said.
There were murmurs of mild disbelief. “Snarky.” “Talented.” “Fun.” they argued. I shrugged.
“She’s a terrible music snob,” I said with the eye-roll of martyrdom that accompanies admitting so great and intractable a fault in one’s dearly beloved.
“She’s qualified for it,” said BirthPie. She was referring to Sweetie’s advanced academic accomplishments in the field of music technology, a training which Sweetie now employs primarily in support of her snobbery habit.
Our sweet friend shook her head with genuine surprise. “I can’t imagine Sweetie being snobbish about anything,” she said.
It’s true that Sweetie is a born proletariat, so our friend wasn’t wrong to find elitism at odds with her essential nature. But I had to wonder how the life-partner I know as Super Cranky masquerades around our little community as a mild mannered sweetheart.
When I got home from karate Friday night I asked Sweetie, “Hey—what do you think of Ben Folds?”
She looked at me like she had a turd under her nose.
“That’s what I thought.”
Something churlish made me press further as we cuddled into bed a few hours later. “Why is it the Flute Diva—my friend the brilliantly talented jazz flutist—can happily listen to Beyonce?” I asked. “But you can’t take pleasure in anything less than musical genius? And why do you justify your preferences by maligning someone’s talent? Why can’t you just say you don’t like something?”
Even in the dark, I could hear her eyes roll at Beyonce’s name. She threw out her very best and oft-used defense against the accusation that mere preference influences her critical determinations: the magnanimous admission that Prince has talent even though she doesn’t enjoy his work.
In honesty, I was just poking. I know I’m not getting anywhere. I’ve made my peace: I know that I’ll be scorned and ridiculed for my music taste, but living with Sweetie is enough of a prize that I accept the price. I just don’t think musical genius is all it’s cracked up to be. Most of the time I’d rather listen to a folk song than a Philip Glass composition. And some brilliant musicians just piss me off: I can’t listen to The Who without wanting to punch Pete Townsend in the head.
The difference between genius and enjoyment is the difference between reading Chaucer and reading a mystery novel. I do expect the mystery novel to use correct grammar—and I become deeply cranky if it doesn’t—but I don’t expect it to be Chaucer. Or even Jeannette Winterson or Mary Oliver, who are geniuses I do enjoy. It’s just a freakin’ mystery novel. I lie on the sofa and relax and have fun with it; that’s what it’s for.
“I have my guilty pleasures,” Sweetie claimed drowsily.
“Like what?” I demanded with suspicion.
“Oh, there’s that stupid song that’s out now, something about ‘ring on it,’ I don’t know, it’s awful but it’s catchy….” And with that we both fell asleep.
On Saturday, we hadn’t even gotten to Springfield when Small started her version of “Are we there yet?”
“Is this Connecticut? Should I be looking for an exit number? Are we closer to Bobbi and Grampy’s house or closer to our house?”
“We just left fifteen minutes ago!” I exclaimed. To forestall an hour and a half of this line of inquiry, I plugged her into my iPod.
“THE EAR THINGS FIT IN MY EARS NOW!” Small yelled. “WELL, THEY DON’T REALLY FIT ME BUT I THINK THEY WON’T FALL OUT!”
“Stop shouting and listen to the music,” I told Small. Turning back to Sweetie I continued where we’d left off twelve hours earlier. “It’s just that you have so much more guilt than pleasure. Do you ever just enjoy a stupid song without noticing that it’s stupid?”
Small started tunelessly humming.
“Oh, about that ‘ring on it’ song,” Sweetie had an unfamiliar sheepish look on her face.
Small’s humming turned to quiet singing. “And just then, it hit me,”
“I found out,” Sweetie continued.
“Somebody turned around and shouted,” Small sang a little louder.
“It’s Beyonce.” Sweetie hung her head in shame.
And from the back seat, Small pumped up the volume and sang it as she heard it: “Play that funky music white boy! Play that funky music WHITE!!!!!!”
And doesn’t that bring us to the last word on the subject?
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music ‘til you die.
*BirthPie has not remarried. The character previously known as Dr. Isaac will now be known as Dr. Frisbee. Carry on.
Off the road again
I just can’t wait to drive off the road again
Goin’ places that I’ve never been
I can’t wait to get off the road again.
I laughed. “That’s an old one,” she said in a sentimental tone. “We used to sing that all the time.” I figure this chestnut was developed in collaboration with her old pal The Flaming Chicken, with whom she’s committed many such lyrical crimes. But I’d never heard it before. Of course I was charmed: it’s so wonderfully refreshing to learn something new about your partner after so many years together. Even if it’s just another example of youthful stupidity.
It had been a weekend full of musical discovery. On Friday, BirthPie and Dr. Frisbee* were working the school-yard crowd trying to unload some Ben Folds tickets.
“I’m pretty sure Sweetie hates Ben Folds,” I said.
There were murmurs of mild disbelief. “Snarky.” “Talented.” “Fun.” they argued. I shrugged.
“She’s a terrible music snob,” I said with the eye-roll of martyrdom that accompanies admitting so great and intractable a fault in one’s dearly beloved.
“She’s qualified for it,” said BirthPie. She was referring to Sweetie’s advanced academic accomplishments in the field of music technology, a training which Sweetie now employs primarily in support of her snobbery habit.
Our sweet friend shook her head with genuine surprise. “I can’t imagine Sweetie being snobbish about anything,” she said.
It’s true that Sweetie is a born proletariat, so our friend wasn’t wrong to find elitism at odds with her essential nature. But I had to wonder how the life-partner I know as Super Cranky masquerades around our little community as a mild mannered sweetheart.
When I got home from karate Friday night I asked Sweetie, “Hey—what do you think of Ben Folds?”
She looked at me like she had a turd under her nose.
“That’s what I thought.”
Something churlish made me press further as we cuddled into bed a few hours later. “Why is it the Flute Diva—my friend the brilliantly talented jazz flutist—can happily listen to Beyonce?” I asked. “But you can’t take pleasure in anything less than musical genius? And why do you justify your preferences by maligning someone’s talent? Why can’t you just say you don’t like something?”
Even in the dark, I could hear her eyes roll at Beyonce’s name. She threw out her very best and oft-used defense against the accusation that mere preference influences her critical determinations: the magnanimous admission that Prince has talent even though she doesn’t enjoy his work.
In honesty, I was just poking. I know I’m not getting anywhere. I’ve made my peace: I know that I’ll be scorned and ridiculed for my music taste, but living with Sweetie is enough of a prize that I accept the price. I just don’t think musical genius is all it’s cracked up to be. Most of the time I’d rather listen to a folk song than a Philip Glass composition. And some brilliant musicians just piss me off: I can’t listen to The Who without wanting to punch Pete Townsend in the head.
The difference between genius and enjoyment is the difference between reading Chaucer and reading a mystery novel. I do expect the mystery novel to use correct grammar—and I become deeply cranky if it doesn’t—but I don’t expect it to be Chaucer. Or even Jeannette Winterson or Mary Oliver, who are geniuses I do enjoy. It’s just a freakin’ mystery novel. I lie on the sofa and relax and have fun with it; that’s what it’s for.
“I have my guilty pleasures,” Sweetie claimed drowsily.
“Like what?” I demanded with suspicion.
“Oh, there’s that stupid song that’s out now, something about ‘ring on it,’ I don’t know, it’s awful but it’s catchy….” And with that we both fell asleep.
On Saturday, we hadn’t even gotten to Springfield when Small started her version of “Are we there yet?”
“Is this Connecticut? Should I be looking for an exit number? Are we closer to Bobbi and Grampy’s house or closer to our house?”
“We just left fifteen minutes ago!” I exclaimed. To forestall an hour and a half of this line of inquiry, I plugged her into my iPod.
“THE EAR THINGS FIT IN MY EARS NOW!” Small yelled. “WELL, THEY DON’T REALLY FIT ME BUT I THINK THEY WON’T FALL OUT!”
“Stop shouting and listen to the music,” I told Small. Turning back to Sweetie I continued where we’d left off twelve hours earlier. “It’s just that you have so much more guilt than pleasure. Do you ever just enjoy a stupid song without noticing that it’s stupid?”
Small started tunelessly humming.
“Oh, about that ‘ring on it’ song,” Sweetie had an unfamiliar sheepish look on her face.
Small’s humming turned to quiet singing. “And just then, it hit me,”
“I found out,” Sweetie continued.
“Somebody turned around and shouted,” Small sang a little louder.
“It’s Beyonce.” Sweetie hung her head in shame.
And from the back seat, Small pumped up the volume and sang it as she heard it: “Play that funky music white boy! Play that funky music WHITE!!!!!!”
And doesn’t that bring us to the last word on the subject?
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music ‘til you die.
*BirthPie has not remarried. The character previously known as Dr. Isaac will now be known as Dr. Frisbee. Carry on.
posted by Lynne Marie Wanamaker at
6:27 AM
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