What song(s) would you put on your perfect Christmas Album? I started thinking of my perfect album playlist while mudding General Mayhem’s new basement bedroom. Two weeks ago we had an emergency egress window installed in the basement. Since then I have been building a closet and hanging sheet rock. I’m not certain if it was the Christmas music on the radio (my portable radio is so old and so broken that I cannot get half of the stations on the dial-but the Boss gave it to me 15 years ago and I won’t part with it) or the white mud I was spreading on the wall or both, but my mind wandered to my favorite Christmas recordings.
My top four picks are:
“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” by The Barenaked Ladies with Sarah McLachlan
“Good King Wenceslas” by Mel Torme
“(It Must’ve Been Ol’) Santa Clause” by Harry Connick Jr.
“Christmas Festival” by Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops Orchestra
What should I add to this list?
Showing posts with label my daughter channels Mel Torme. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my daughter channels Mel Torme. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
If I Paid Attention
After writing yesterday’s blog I made the observation to the Boss that I don’t think my writing is as funny as it was a few years ago when I first began blogging. She assured me that it is. She’s probably correct. I frequently hear her laughing when she reads my latest post. But it has changed. Sunday morning, on the way home from church, I discovered why.
We were five minutes from home on the same stretch of road that we have been driving for five years. In the span of less than thirty seconds, the following conversation took place in our van:
Major Havoc: How much longer until we get home?
Captain Chaos (singing): Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?
The Boss: Major, you know where we are.
Captain Chaos: Baby, won’t you please come back to me.
Major Havoc: Is it just a few minutes until we get home?
The Boss: Come on, Major. You recognize where we are. It takes the same amount of time to get home as it does every other time we drive here.
General Mayhem: I’ve figured out that there are five sub-divisions of the Dodge Charger.
Major Havoc: Is it longer or just a few minutes?
Captain Chaos (still singing): Wa-boo-da-da-beep-bop-beep-bop.
The Boss: These are things you don’t write about anymore, the day-to-day stuff like what is taking place right now.
Me: I beg your pardon?
During this conversation I was looking out the window at a large pasture with a pond in the middle of it, thinking, “I wonder if the horses are out today?”
There is a reason why I don’t capture those snapshots of Bedlam. In order to write about the day-to-day stuff, I’d have to be paying attention to it. If I paid attention to it, I’d go insane. Horses are more fun to look at. I’d rather look at horses than go insane. Heck, just in the time it took me to write the first paragraph of this post, Captain Chaos interrupted me three times with a request for a glass of water and a second slice of bologna for her second bologna sandwich, the sandwich that I had just made for her not thirty seconds before sitting down in front of the computer. How could it not occur to her to ask for more bologna while I was making the sandwich, (right underneath her nose) still baffles me. It’s far better to wait until the old man puts everything away and sits down before making a bologna request.
But I digress.
This lack of attention is the very reason why on the weekends, when the Boss is home from work and the kids are being their usual loud selves, she looks at me with dismay and asks, "How can you tolerate this all day long?"
"Tolerate what?"
"This noise!"
"What noise?"
Deafness. It's a self-defense mechanism. I guess I've finally figured out from whom the children get their selective hearing. And all this time I thought it was the Boss' fault.
We were five minutes from home on the same stretch of road that we have been driving for five years. In the span of less than thirty seconds, the following conversation took place in our van:
Major Havoc: How much longer until we get home?
Captain Chaos (singing): Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?
The Boss: Major, you know where we are.
Captain Chaos: Baby, won’t you please come back to me.
Major Havoc: Is it just a few minutes until we get home?
The Boss: Come on, Major. You recognize where we are. It takes the same amount of time to get home as it does every other time we drive here.
General Mayhem: I’ve figured out that there are five sub-divisions of the Dodge Charger.
Major Havoc: Is it longer or just a few minutes?
Captain Chaos (still singing): Wa-boo-da-da-beep-bop-beep-bop.
The Boss: These are things you don’t write about anymore, the day-to-day stuff like what is taking place right now.
Me: I beg your pardon?
During this conversation I was looking out the window at a large pasture with a pond in the middle of it, thinking, “I wonder if the horses are out today?”
There is a reason why I don’t capture those snapshots of Bedlam. In order to write about the day-to-day stuff, I’d have to be paying attention to it. If I paid attention to it, I’d go insane. Horses are more fun to look at. I’d rather look at horses than go insane. Heck, just in the time it took me to write the first paragraph of this post, Captain Chaos interrupted me three times with a request for a glass of water and a second slice of bologna for her second bologna sandwich, the sandwich that I had just made for her not thirty seconds before sitting down in front of the computer. How could it not occur to her to ask for more bologna while I was making the sandwich, (right underneath her nose) still baffles me. It’s far better to wait until the old man puts everything away and sits down before making a bologna request.
But I digress.
This lack of attention is the very reason why on the weekends, when the Boss is home from work and the kids are being their usual loud selves, she looks at me with dismay and asks, "How can you tolerate this all day long?"
"Tolerate what?"
"This noise!"
"What noise?"
Deafness. It's a self-defense mechanism. I guess I've finally figured out from whom the children get their selective hearing. And all this time I thought it was the Boss' fault.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)