GET DOWN ON IT

So.... you know how I tried that whole "go to your room and spew obscenities" thing a couple weeks back? Well, yeah... So it worked. For a brief period... For a few days, I went without hearing my little 38 pound mad scientist/dictator grunt his favorite one word: "fuckit." When he needed to get out the "dammits" and the "assholes," he fled to his room for some quality-tourrettes- alone-time and re-emerged relieved and ready to talk about worldly and important things like how we need to start bringing money to school because they're trying to help "the poor HOPEless people" or how in heaven WE (me and him) will "share a big, big house and God will taaaaalk. toooo. US. LIIIIIKE. THIIIIIIIS." While they haven't necessarily explained that we (Jews) don't entirely believe in heaven, I'm thinking that at least his Jewish Preschool is teaching the kids from an early age the importance of giving back and that they shouldn't, OY, god forbid forget about they're mothers. Clearly, guilt, like writing, is a learned skill. And if he's to be a dahctah, he should learn everything he can... NO? But I digress...

Okay, so this language issue/obsession, for a moment in time, seemed quelled. (Not withstanding our current battle over the word "stupid," which he thinks his hilarious despite my attempt to Westside parent his ass about how utterly tragic it would be to be a "stupid person, who essentially has a BROKEN BRAIN....") I've realized, however, I may have a bigger battle on the horizon (Dear God, I think I just quoted the last line in his Transformers book): MUSIC.

While a 4-year old calling everyone and everything "stupid" is nothing to brag about, having your child bust out a little dance move and sing "You sexy and you KNOW it!" does not entitle you to mother of the year award either. OBVIOUSLY, he hears these provocative and (entirely inappropriate) songs while driving with adults... So it's not entirely his fault for being the sponge that he is. But here's the thing: There's actually nothing we can listen to on the radio that's appropriate. Turn on any station. Right now, someone is either putting their back into IT, shaking IT, getting down on IT, or making someone sweat from IT. There's even a lovely little ditty in which the singer tells a "honey" they look better with the lights off. (That one's a real gem).

In thinking about wanting to set a good example, I've tried in the past few days to redirect his attention to some of the music he used to enjoy like Mary Poppins, Wizard of Oz, and his rabbinical all time favorite, Siman Tov. (For those of you familiar with the ultimate Bar Mitzvah or Jewish Wedding song, imagine that on a loop for 45 minutes. GUN. TO. HEAD.) I even turned to my XM Disney Kids station in hopes that we could be saved. What song came up? Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA." (Oh, yeah, 'cuz "moving your hips like 'yeaaaaaaaah'" sets a great fucking example. Literally).

I don't know. Call me crazy, but I think I'm going to give up on this issue entirely until I figure out the best course of action for this language and vocabulary battle we continue to have. Actually, call me STUPID. Because when it comes to this parenting issue: My. brain. is. BROKEN.

HELP!

SHAKE IT

If I told you that I could sing along to almost any Cole Porter song, and ALSO recite the lyrics to Eazy E's "Give Me that Nut," would you believe me?

It's true. I grew up listening and singing to the same music as my grandparents grew up listening and singing to. Not sure why, but from a young age, I was drawn to standards... songs that evoked romance and hope. While at 16 I could be seen/heard blasting "I've Got a Crush on You" or "Fly Me to the Moon" from the borrowed 1980 Camarro (Nerd alert!), I could also be heard rolling through the streets of Beverly Hills with my girls listening to DJ Quick and Eazy E. We were gangsta like that, me and my little Jewish girlfriends. ;) I mean, seriously. We absolutely knew all the words to "Sweet Black P*ssy" (and to this day, I can still sing it for you).

Anyway, the point is, when it comes to music taste, I'm seriously all over the place... (though I can, with certainty, say that Christian Rock is not for me). But every now and again, we all hear a song that gets us going.... It might not be the kind of music you'd typically go for... but it's a song that invigorates or motivates you... or... strikes a chord on an emotional level... Maybe it's a song that makes you want to dance... or evokes some memories...

The other day, I discovered that song. I'll spare you the details on how/ why I decided I needed to have a singer (or is he a rapper?... Hello, aging myself) named Pitbull in my life. But thank god I found this song. Not only does it make me want to workout hard and run my ass off, but it drums up such memories.... Bahamas. College. Spring Break. Conch shells. Red Hurricanes. Red vomit. Lots of cigarettes. More vomit. Me having sex with another girl's boyfriend. Getting confronted by the girlfriend--10 years later-- at a bar. In New York. While visiting with my ex-husband. ANNNNNNYWAAAAAAY, the point is THIS SONG, this song-- it stirs all that up and more. And discovering this song RIGHT NOW, at a time in my life when my taste in music isn't the only thing all over the map, is just too perfect.

The only thing missing with it is a cold Red Stripe. Enjoy.

When Harry Met Jenny

At the age of 13, the year that When Harry Met Sally came out (and became my number one favorite movie) I fell in love with Harry Connick Jr.'s music. In fact, instead of a Sweet 16, I was to celebrate my birthday at the Hollywood Bowl with my BFF Lo seeing him in concert. Her dad was not only able to get us tickets, but also backstage passes. TO. MEET. HIM. As luck would have it though,

I came down with mono.

Bad mono.

(It was the summer after I went to Israel to learn about my religion, and the summer boys went to my boobs to learn about how much fun nerdy girls can be.)

But I was too sick. There was no way I could go. I couldn't even blow out a birthday candle.

Nearly 18 years to the day later.... I got to see Harry Connick Jr. in concert. Last weekend, my boyfriend J took me to the Hollywood Bowl to see HCJ.... Not only was it special to see him with J who loves his music as much as I do, but (if I may brag for a minute) we were sitting in seriously ridiculous seats.... Listening to HCJ croon and pound on the piano, you have no choice but to want to fall in love... it reminds me of my Grandparents... Hearing a standard and then starting to sing to each other... I mean, when I'm 85, will I really turn to my husband and start singing Boom Boom Pow...?

The point is, it was the best concert I have ever been to. And that doesn't include when we met...

Oh, wait. You didn't think I was just going to talk JUST about his music, did you?

SO, at some point during the show, Harry started to walk on the outer stage/wall ... directly in front of our seats. After seeing a few people stand up to shake his hands, I stood up, waved and he came over, smiled and shook my hand. My hand... in front of 15 thousand PLUS people. DIE. For the next song or two, like a school girl, I could not concentrate and was pretty sure my hand was vibrating (like I swear my tongue was the very first time I french kissed).

Though meeting HCJ backstage might have been cooler and more legit than a handshake with a random star struck fan at a concert, I'm happy that I got to do it in my adult life. Of course, I still feel compelled to ask a question, that I most certainly would have asked at the age of 16:

"Do you think he, like, remembers me???" (Don't answer that). :-)

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