Blog Archives
Woman
Your vow isn’t I do, it’s I am. You conquer me with a daily battle cry to be a superior lover, friend, and mother to our children. Woman, I’m awed by your allure.
****blogger’s note****
My wife, The Bobina, refuses to let me buy her a mother’s day card, so I wrote this instead. It isn’t gross or too much information so you all should be big boys and girls and get through it. I love you Bobina.
It’s only 33 words because today is trifextra day – http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2012/05/trifecta-week-twenty-six.html If I don’t talk to you all tomorrow, werd to you and your mothers. This song rocks and its fitting to my bad ass wife. Break out your air guitars and have a good time. Here’s Wolfmother’s Woman -
Brokenhearted
It’s happened. For the past four years, I’ve swam against the tide. Yesterday I felt myself drowning in the waves of reality. I’m a grown-up.
I try very hard to relate to my three daughters. I don’t immediately think their tastes and styles are dumb or odd. They are, but I always give them the benefit of the doubt. When I’m in the car with them I let them listen to their own music. This means the three major pop stations in Atlanta get plenty of work while we’re driving. Every once in a while one of their songs will bleed through my music snobbery thickened ear drums and I’ll think, “hmmm this isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” I’ve played Moves Like Jagger and Stereo Hearts in blog posts. My teenage daughter and I have a weird mutual admiration of Maroon 5, although Adam Levine’s twitter account dooshery has made me rethink my participation. But yesterday I realized my machinations have been for naught. I’m older. They’re younger. It’s time to give up the dream.
A few days ago, my sixteen-year-old was in a bad mood. I called it Thursday. In trying to cheer her up, I actually said.
“Baby, what do you think of Karmin’s Brokenhearted? That guitar riff’s decent and I don’t want to punch the radio when it comes on..”
Her blue eyes sparkled, her mouth formed what might look like a smile if the Mona Lisa was being tickled, and she caught herself agreeing with me.
“Ummm, yeah, well, maybe. It’s okay I guess. I gotta go upstairs.”
I claimed victory and threw out my shoulder patting myself on the back. I even went as far as tweeting and the facebooking the song, asking my alleged friends and followers if it was okay to like the song. The resounding response was “you’re trying too hard, fool.” I didn’t heed the advice.
Yesterday, while driving with my teenager and my wife, a song came on the radio and I didn’t recognize anyone involved. The DJ said “here’s David Guetta with, (the name of the song).” Then a woman’s voice “sang” the first “verse”. The music was terrible. The voice was female. It didn’t sound like a David, and I’m very open minded. I asked my wife.
“Who is this? The voice sounds female and vaguely familiar.”
My wife was equally clueless and my teenager, exasperated, announced.
“The DJ in the song is David Guetta. The singer is Nicki Minaj. The DJ does all the work so he gets credit.”
I was “this close” to telling my kid how dumb that sounded. A DJ being credited with the song. Minaj was singing, all he did was turn tables and push buttons! Then it hit me. This is her time. This is her music. David Guetta, Nicky Minaj and Karmin are her Prince, Madonna, and Def Leppard (the artists on the radio when I was sixteen).
This sobering experience produced a mourning time for me. This will take a while to get over. I’m not cool. I’m not hip. I’m not going to relate to my teenager or her sisters for many years. When they start filing their own taxes, applying for home loans or looking for deals on gas grills, I’ll be available for them. I’m brokenhearted.
I stand by my claim that the guitar riff’s not bad and this song is catchy. Plus, they’re actually singing live on SNL. Here’s Karmin’s Brokenhearted.
Dixie Chicken
My wife’s a witch. Please, allow me to explain. The Bobina has powers. I’ve never seen a wand. Her boiling cauldrons in the kitchen usually contain turkey chili or chicken marsala. She’s a trained chef. Yet, no matter how self-assured and strong-willed I am, she knows how to get her way with me. Saturday, I was in a nail salon for over an hour. Seriously.
In May, the love of my life, Deana, also known by her nickname, Bobina, and I will have known each other 4 years. I like to tell people she stalked me through mutual friends and Al Gore’s internets, but the truth is we were, somewhat dysfunctionally, destined to be together http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com/2011/05/14/two-blondes-in-a-bar/
It didn’t take long for Bobina to show her mind altering skills. During our first argument, about two months into dating, I tried to use my educated debate techniques. I hammered home three points. I used that college professorial voice and condescending attitude. Mid-sentence, while trying to expose her illogical points, she uttered.
”owww huhssssssh aw that! uuuu knowuh wut I mayeeeent!”
When The Bobina speaks, it sounds like maple syrup having a passionate love affair with deep fried pancakes topped with confectionary sugar. You melt. I’ve seen the woman use her blonde, sweet, deep southern charm on our 3 daughters, cashiers at Target, and TSA agents at a Mexican airport. She smuggled in candles, vanilla , and six political prisoners from Cancun. It was amazing.
That moment in our first argument helped me gain an appreciation for the southern accent I ran away from during my teens and twenties growing up in the Atlanta, Georgia suburbs. She’s made me proud of our dialect. Of course, the fact I get to kiss the mouth that speaks those rebel words makes me biased but still, it’s impossible to argue with her.
She says yaw instead of ya’ll, kuhler instead of color and thayt thang o’er theyer instead of whatever English is supposed to substitute. Mostly, when she’s mad at me, she makes Tahhhmuhs Layunince Buhrrrrsuuuunnnn sound sexy through 47 syllables. I immediately confess to being the man on the grassy noll and singing Milli Vanilli’s songs for them in 1989.
It’s her supernatural powers of speech and persuasion that make me glad I went ahead and put a rang (her word) on it.
Here’s some of The Bobina:
*****blogger’s note****
RemembeRED: Colloquialisms and Dialect
It leads me back to a tidbit from my linguistics class: a trained linguist can determine, just from listening to one’s speech, the birthplace of the speaker within thirty miles.
So, in the spirit of dialect, slang, and turns of phrase, this week’s RemembeRED prompt is: Write a piece of creative non-fiction in which turns of phrase, dialect, slang, or colloquialisms feature prominently.
Let’s keep it to 400 words.
Today’s song is a southern rock n roll classic. If you live where I do, it’s like a church hymn. If you ever have a chance to be with a Dixie Chicken aka Southern Belle, do so. Here’s Little Feat’s Dixie Chicken…
The Death of You and Me
I write a lot. So, as a break for you and me; I’ll show you some pictures of my weekend.
My 15 year old daughter, Taylor aka Tay, attended her second homecoming dance. I may or may not have shed a tear or 37. She’s growing up so quickly. Moments like these make me realize how little time I left with her in the house as my daughter.
To get me over it a little, my wife and I went to Spirit Halloween, a costume shop near the Mall of Georgia. We are headed to a Halloween party in 3 weeks. I give you Hercules and Venus, The Goddess of Love. I know what you’re thinking, keep thinking it.
Today’s song is lyrically perfect and brand new. One of my favorite songwriters, Noel Gallagher, formerly of Oasis, has a new album coming out on the 17th. Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds is going to be terrific. I’ve heard 4 tracks. They’re all good. Here’s The Death of You and Me.
It’s Not My Time
exterior shot of a blue flash Ford Explorer driving down a highway somewhere in Alabama
cut to interior shot of the car. a blonde woman tapping her toes on the dashboard and moving her chest in a tank top to the beat of music. the driver is a scruffy faced, tan man with brown hair and brown eyes. The looks on their faces are tired and pensive.
Deana’s cute toes, highlighted with sparkling rose nail polish, sit on the dashboard. She sighs contently, and reaches for the car radio buttons with her left hand; nails the same color. A station plays “generation x” music. It makes her smile. She settles. Pitch perfect, Deana begins singing with the chorus “back to life, back to reality”. The 20 year old pop song memorializes the end to a revelatory weekend. Nothing will be the same. She slowly moves her head towards me and coos.
Deana:
“You’re so handsome.”
The blue Ford Explorer rolled down the highway somewhere in Alabama. I smiled and became introspective. Happiness came in small doses with us, like the bag of Hershey’s kisses sitting between us in console. She leaned forward, turned the radio down and drawled.
Deana:
“If we died right now, I’d be alright with it. In a month we’ll’ve been married two years. No matter how much drama and craziness that happens to us, as long as we have each other forever, I’m happy.”
Her curly blonde hair bouncing off her smooth shoulders and around perfectly round, lightly tanned face rendered arguments impossible to win. I stared at the curves of her body contorted around the seat of the Ford Explorer. She was the most naturally beautiful woman I’d ever seen. After everything I had been through, I deserved her.
Lance:
“When we get back home I think we need to make a lot of changes to our lives. I haven’t put you first. There’ve been so many negative distractions.”
Deana starts to tear. Deep blue eyes water like tiny puddles of clear rain.
Deana:
“I’m glad you’ve finally come around to my way of thinkin’.”
She takes a black and pink cell phone from her green beach bag and deletes contacts and text messages. Her sweet southern accent fills the car again.
Deana:
“Alright, let’s get back to being happy. Alicia Silverstone and I look like sisters and we’re the same age, but Andy Garcia’s too old. We have figure out who plays you in the movie about us.”
I laugh, move the kisses from the console and pull out a CD. The only band we ever agreed on was 3 Doors Down. As I put the disc in the player, I momentarily take my eyes off the road. Deana screams,
Deana:
”Lance!”
A landscape truck and trailer pulls out in front of us. I floor the brakes.
cut scene to the man on a hospital gurney being worked on by nurses and doctors while It’s Not My Time by 3 Doors Down plays loudly.
*****blogger’s note*****
This my response to the RemembeRED prompt by Write On Edge – http://www.writeonedge.com ‘s “write the opening scene (under 500 words) of the movie about memoir/life.” Everything you read is true. This happened the second week of October, 2010.
Today’s song is indeed the only band my wife and I agree on. We play them a lot and loudly in the car. Here’s 3 Doors Down’s It’s Not My Time.
Perfect Situation
Three years ago, my wife and I first discussed getting married. Well, to be clear, my 15 year old daughter, then 12, talked about my then girlfriend and I tying the knot. Here’s the story.
My daughter, Tay, and a buddy of hers came over to my house with Bobina. My youngest daughters were elsewhere. We goofed off, talked, played games, and they left because the girls had school the next day. On the ride home, Tay blurts out, “so are you guys getting married?”. She was good with the idea but her mom and I had only dated for a few months. Suddenly the issue was on the table. That night ended with my girlfriend telling me “I wanna marry you.” Three months later, this happened. 
Then something even weirder happened. We became this: 
I learned about a blended family. We’re one dude, one girl, one chick, two girls, a dog that’s always around, two kittens. The Bradys are three girls, a mom, three boys, a dad, a dog that disappeared, a housekeeper that lived in the laundry room and had a butcher boyfriend, and the collection of the worst hairdos. Forever, they seemed like freaks. I had a mom and dad that were school sweethearts. These days, being married for a second time to woman with kids; the line used in the Brady Bunch “the only steps in this house are the ones going upstairs” is like Walt Whitman poetry. I identify with that gloriously bad television show more every day.
Recently the creator of the Brady Bunch, Sherwood Schwartz, passed away well in his 90s. Also, the youngest daughter of the Brady Bunch, Cindy, also known as Susan Olsen, turned 50 years old. It made me slightly nostaglic for the show because I am in a similar situation, albeit, nonfictional, as the Bradys. The differences are stark. The exes of my wife and I are not dead. There is no maid. I don’t have perm. My family doesn’t take trips to Hawaii. But the sentiment of being a blended bunch exists. I consider all three of my daughters, mine. We talk about our problems. Every 25 minutes or so, I give a convoluted speech about doing the right thing and loving each other and yourself. Then my girls run out into the yard and throw footballs at their noses.
When I married Bobina, everyone asked me if I was prepared for the obstacles. There would be other parents to consider, raising two children whose births I didn’t witness, the extra expenses, getting used to four women instead of just one. The truth is, after 3 years, we’re all kinds of awesome. I remember feeling like a gladiator going into the stadium with the lions, armored and a “challenge accepted” glare in my eyes. Now, I just blend in with my bunch. It all seems natural.
The other day it was raining. My youngest daughters were on the couch, under afghans (because we’re fancy), watching ICarly. Carly (the character, not my youngest girl) lives with her older brother Spencer. Spencer has the maturity level of a ritalin starved 4 year old high on sugar cookies. My youngest daughter says “Spencer is silly. He’s not like a real dad.” My middle child answers, “yeah, daddy would never act like that.” I put down the guitar, put on some pants, swallowed my frosted flakes (because they’re grrrrrreat), and quietly contemplated my daughter’s thoughts. For the most part, my kids get it. I would give anything if Joe Namath or Davy Jones would visit us based on a lie.
*******blogger’s note*******
This is my answer to two writing assignments – one from the good people at Studio Thirty Plus http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/ who gave me “Challenge Accepted” and Katie’s group at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug who wanted “I Wanna Marry You” http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/
Today’s song really isn’t compatible lyrically unless you use your imagination. I heard Weezer on my way into work and I just wanted to hear this guitar riff and use this title. It’s a good song and good video. You’ll enjoy it. I do find myself in a Perfect Situation. Plus I rocked two prompts. Here’s Weezer’s Perfect Situation.
For The Love of Money
My youngest daughters have turned their bedroom into a game called “store”. Goose and Bug, aged 6 and 7, like money. I’m trying to steer them toward responsiblity by showing them its’ value.
I spent 3 dollars on a book covered by a picture the girls drew. They are organizing a yard sale where they hope to make “at least 50 bucks.”
They went to Walmart with their mom who bought them 2 skateboards. The girls said, “daddy, mommy got these skateboards for 18 dollars. With the 3 we made off you, we only owe mommy 15 dollars after our yard sale.”
Bobina taught them another game. Credit.
*blogger’s note* – This is my answer to http://www.velvetverbosity.com ‘s 100 word challenge. The one word prompt is GAME.
Today’s song is from the great Bullet Boys. I hadn’t heard their version of For The Love Of Money, in 15 years. I was without my ipod at the gym, and suddenly, a double shot of Marc Torian’s scream came on, with Smooth UP N Ya and this song. It describes my house right now.
