Firl,
Firl. Who hates herself? GIRL. I meant GIRL. Anyway, firl, I worked late Wednesday night and I have to be back at work at 7:00 on Thursday morning. So I am writing my post Wednesday night before I get to bed early. And now I'm thinking of Shirley McLaine in Terms of Endearment when she's trying to be all sexy with Jack Nicholson, "And I'd like to get to bed early" and then one of those kids screams at her, "GRANDMA! GRANDMA! GRANDMA!"
My POINT is, I have to bust this post out. I have to bust a move. You want it, you got it. Because I have already accomplished the feed-the-pets-walk-the-dogs portion of my evening. But now I have to stampede through the write-my-blog part so I can be in REM very soon.
Remember when I said, "Ooo! Tonight I can do whatever I want!"
Yes. If by "whatever I want" I meant sleeping.
Crap.
So, firl, in lieu of a real post, I thought I would be sort of annoying and link to some songs that remind me of college.
When I was in college, I was a bartender at a health-food restaurant. I understand that serving alcohol alongside a salad or, say, mashed yeast is kind of nonsensical. Look, I didn't INVENT the restaurant, okay? I just WORKED there. My point is, I played this song all the time, and I am certain my patrons enjoyed the part where I sang along to the high parts. Because I have quite a voice on me.
Is what I do.
I was what they called the Happy Hour Bimbo. I worked 3-9. Which was perfect because it was after tanning hours and before good drinking hours. Study and classes? Pfft. Anyway, the point of me was to give the sleazy professors someone to leer at before they went home. I used to be kind of hot.
Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhh-ooooooooo!Oh!
You know you want to hear me singing it.
My first two years of college, I dated the guy I had dated in high school. It was one of those this-is-my-first-real-relationship-let's-make-every-mistake-possible things. We were possessive, we were drips, we were horrid to each other. And yet? This song makes me think of hanging in his room, watching him put Spritz Forte on his big pompadour hair. It is a happy memory.
I have not seen nor talked to that guy since probably 1988. No idea where he is or what his hair is up to.
One summer, I got to go to London on scholarship to study with my favorite professor, who I worshipped and who by the way was not Lenny Kravitz. A bunch of us went, and we stayed in dorms in Regent's Park, which was lovely and the whole thing was really great. On weekends we'd go to Paris or Scotland or Wales, you know. As you do.
My point is, I had a boyfriend. Different from the pompadour boyfriend. This was a really-curly-hair-thank-god-we-didn't-procreate boyfriend. He was on an archaeological dig in the middle of Mexico, and though he said he'd try to write, he never did. Not once. I spent an inordinate amount of my time IN LONDON worrying about this dumb mop-haired guy.
A really nice person who was in my group stood under my balcony and played Let Love Rule for me, because he knew I liked the song and he was trying to cheer me up. He really should have played Dry Up, June. But whatever.
Dryyyyyy Uuuuup, Juuuuuune. And also? Mr. Lenny Kravitz? My email is right here on this blog, and I am available-ish and I am way hotter than Lisa Bonet and man can I cook. Shut up, you guys.
I love this song. It reminds me of driving around my college town in my red Honda Civic, which kind of makes me sad because Marvin and I had our first kiss in that car. Nevertheless, I rocked out with my cassette out in that car. Also, I saw R.E.M. in concert at Pine Knob and during this song, Michael Stipe, who let's admit is is a crabby appleton, stopped and said, "Will everyone stop throwing money at us? It hurts, and we don't need it."
I have no idea what this song is about. I mean, it's about the flowers of Guatemala, but why? Is there something I should know about and don't because I'm a selfish ethnocentric American?
Okay, firl. Off to bed with me. Oh, I will be sorry when that alarm rings and I have to leave my Lenny-Kravitz-warmed bed.
