“And we never failed to fail, it was the easiest thing to do.”
I heard this song in a show last weekend and since then, I’ve been playing it and humming it and singing it all the damn time, which is starting to drive my husband a little bit insane.
I was trying to figure out why I’m obsessing. Obsessives are good at obsessing about why we’re obsessing.
Music is usually a good way to identify relevant moods and emotions and meaningful memories that go with it. I got nothin. I got a lot, but not a pinpoint on why this song, why now.
It’s Crosby, Stills, & Nash, which would have been played at my mother’s house, but not at my father’s house, so I wondered what on earth I was doing in 1982, on those weekends at my mother’s and I thought really, really hard and came up with a lot of nice memories, but it was real life, so like this:
I was into Strawberry Shortcake dolls who lived in a gazebo in Barbie’s back yard. I also had a Strawberry Shortcake birthday cake, but it was artificially colored like whoa, bringing about the first time I threw up alone. And strangely, after that, I threw up by myself until I was 29, until I had morning sickness and my mother-in-law came in to rub my back, and I realized it was weird when people stopped accompanying me to vomit and strange when people began to accompany me while I vomited. Life is like that. It doesn’t matter, cause vomit.
I was into the books of Beverly Cleary. My mother bought them all. I read them all.
I had the Crayola Color Caddy, a lazy susan contraption for containing all of one’s crayons, markers, and colored pencils, intended to facilitate a neat and careful transfer of one color for another, which, as it turns out, stifled my creativity, as I preferred to pull as I went into art chaos, and then to put it all away after. I am still like this. My creativity is in the mess. Can’t be messy before or after, but in the middle, I am painted, covered in flour, wearing string, sitting in the paper, whathaveyou.
I had these adorable corduroy overalls with a pink penguin turtleneck and when things don’t fit you anymore when you’re nine, it’s because after the turtleneck became a midriff, your mother said that was okay because the overalls covered your tummy, but you grew up even more and one day, the overalls sliced your whohah in half and you got the sad. The first of many bodily betrayals, amirite, ladies?
As for the song’s meaning, well, I don’t sail, fraid of sea monsters for one, get the vertigo, too pale to enjoy the sun…trade routes would be a big NOPE for me.
And it’s a ballad! I don’t really DO ballads. Romance is so ooey gooey and sticky and sappy. Crescendo into how romance is human fly paper and can trap a bitch for 20 years. I’m not complaining, just amazed.
Do you know The Mister and I used to sing the NightLight Love Songs of WENS 97.3 in the backseat of his parents’ car when we were teens? Ballads, y’all. Sad bastard music. Which contradicts his aversion to my obsession. You’d think he’d like it.
So I dunno. Let’s listen again though, cause it’s so damn good.
Has this happened to you? Did you figure out why? Any insights here? I have failed, which was the easiest thing to do.
Happy Friday Everyone! (My apologies for the earworm.)