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Tuesday Morning

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Some mornings you need more than a jolt of java to get you going. Some mornings require really loud classic rock. This morning was one of those mornings. The constant drip and pour of rain is really getting on my nerves. So after getting Alex to the bus and driving back home through the slop and ruining yesterday's $12.00 car wash, I needed a pick-me-up. I found it in The Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers CD. The actual album is long gone, who knows where, likely the casualty of some college boyfriend break-up. But Mick and the boys survived on the digitally re-mastered CD. So the CD goes in, the volume gets cranked waaaay up, and before you know it, my mood is dramatically improved. If you’ve never let loose like this on a rainy Tuesday, you really have to give it a try. It’s so much fun and when you’re all by yourself and the blinds are closed, you can do whatever the hell you want. Think of the female version of Tom Cruise in his boxers and his Bob Seger rendition in the movie Risky Business. OK, Tom looked a lot better in his boxers then I did this morning, but that’s not the point. Wait, that sounds like I was in Tom’s boxers. Anyway . . . . Personally, I’ve always wanted to be a back-up singer for some band. The only thing that’s kept me from doing that is that I can’t actually sing. Well, I can sing, and I do. I just really suck at hitting the notes. But with the volume cranked up I can’t hear myself so I sound really good! So Mick and I were having a fine time this morning as we duet-ed our way through Brown Sugar, Wild Horses, Bitch and Dead Flowers. And distant memories of years gone by came back through the fog when I air-guitared the story of Sister Morphine with Keith. (Note: not personal memories of morphine, just the song and the era in which it was recorded.) But just like the 70’s came to an end, so did the CD and it was time to put down my blow-dryer-turned-microphone and head out the door to work. By then the sun had actually come out and the skies were clearing up. I felt better and my blood was oxygenated from all the singing. What does this have to do with raising children? Not much, except to feel sorry for them that they’ll never get the same rush from a Britney Spears CD.

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