Category Archives: Humor
Last month I wrote this (long) Facebook status:
There’s a 9 year age difference between me and Dave, although I rarely notice. It really shows up, though, when it comes to music. He recalls the Creedence Clearwater Revival version of Proud Mary; I remember the Ike & Tina version. For Dave, Spirit in the Sky is by Norman Greenbaum … but he patiently watches as I show him the (CLASSIC OMG) video for the version I know and love, by Doctor and the Medics. And I present the following conversation (which took place earlier this week as we watched The Voice, and a contestant sang ‘Some Kind of Wonderful’):
Me: Who sang that song? Was it Bad Company?
Dave: Um…I don’t know, I think it was some kind of soul/R&B group.
Me: No, it was southern rock kind of stuff. (pauses TV) Can you check? It’s driving me crazy.
Dave: (gets tablet and searches) Oh yeah, it was the Drifters. Now I remember.
Me: What? That can’t be right, let me see. (Dave hands me the tablet and I scroll down)
Me: There it is – Grand Funk Railroad!
Dave: (takes tablet back) That was in 1974, you were only 10 years old. How do you remember that?
Me: Oh, honey. All I did in 1974 was listen to the radio. I kept a cassette in the tape deck and my mission in life was to run fast enough across the room to hit ‘record’ when my favorite songs came on the radio. I probably had 5 or 6 cassettes with multiple partial recordings of this song.
Ah, those were the days.
* * *
It wasn’t just songs on the radio. I would also carefully read the TV Guide to see if any of my favorite singers were going to be on TV. This was about as close to seeing them in concert as I could get, and it was a huge deal. I’d put a fresh cassette tape in my portable tape recorder, then set it next to the TV speaker and record their performance. I think I may have taped at least half of all the Sonny & Cher shows that way; if someone had told my 10 year old self that in the future, I could push a button and record not only the sound but also the video … well, I think my little mind would have been blown.
So anyway, last night we had a replay of almost the exact same conversation that I had described on Facebook. We were watching The Voice and a contestant sang ‘Without You.’ After it was done, I asked Dave how he liked it and he said he thought it was a terrible version of that song.
“Well,” I said, “I think someone like Celine Dion covered it and turned it into a ‘diva’ song. She was probably singing that version.” (We can’t stand that, by the way.) “It was originally kind of a rock ballad from the 1970s. Who did that song anyway?”
Dave said, “LeAnn Rimes? Trisha Yearwood?”
I stared at him.
“I think maybe we’re thinking of different versions,” I said carefully. I mean, I don’t think LeAnn Rimes was even alive in the 70s, was she? I grabbed my phone and did a search.
“Okay, yeah. It was done by Badfinger in 1970.” I scrolled down on the Wikipedia page. “It was covered by something like 180 people, though. OH – it was Mariah Carey who did the diva version, not Celine Dion.”
I kept looking and didn’t see any reference to LeAnn Rimes, so I did a separate search and we found out she did a completely different song with a similar sounding name. (Makes sense that Dave thought it was a terrible rendition of her song … since it wasn’t her song.)
Then Dave was acting like he didn’t even know the original song, so I made him suffer through a tiny Youtube video played on my cell phone, lucky guy. But he did admit to recognizing it though once he heard the original.
The other day I read somewhere that Angus Young from AC/DC is 59 now. I did the math and thought, “Oh, he’s only nine years older than me.” Back when I was really into AC/DC, he seemed so much older, you know? Then I realized he was Dave’s age.
“Did you know that Angus Young is the same age as you?” I asked.
“Who is Angus Young?” Dave said, confused.
“You know, Angus Young from AC/DC.”
“OH,” he said. “Isn’t he the one who tried to have someone killed?”
“Oh my god, no. That was the drummer. Angus Young is the guitarist, the one who usually dresses in a British schoolboy’s uniform.”
And, well, then I started giggling. Yes, Dave is his age. But I can’t picture Dave dressed as a British schoolboy.
At least I don’t think there would be any confusion over who did “You Shook Me All Night Long.” It hasn’t been covered by Merle Haggard or Charlie Pride, has it?!
Earlier this week, the hospital called to confirm an appointment. We missed the call, so Dave listened to the voicemail while I watched the captioning scroll by on the phone. They were confirming my Friday morning screening mammogram (the one I get every year at this time), and at one point in the captioning I read, “Please be here at 8 am for chicken.”
The captioning on our phones is usually good for a laugh, and this was an especially good one. I even joked about it on Facebook, envisioning a mouthwatering meal of chicken awaiting me when I arrived for check-in (what I assume they really meant).
Alas, there was no chicken … just your standard boob-smashing. This is my ninth mammogram, and before I got my first one I was a bit anxious. As a woman, you lose a certain amount of modesty once you reach the childbearing years; if you aren’t getting an annual breast exam and pap smear, then you’re submitting to frequent pelvic exams (and then some) when you have a baby. There’s just no way to go through these things and be shy about exposing your body a bit.
As a kid, I was horribly modest. I wouldn’t wear halter tops and felt self-conscious in a bikini. If a dressing room had no doors, I refused to use it. This last one drove my mom crazy because we used to frequent a few stores that had this setup. There was just no way I was taking my clothes off in a room full of strangers, with no privacy. Sometimes she could get me to change clothes if she hung up all my stuff in such a way that it gave me a de facto curtain, but more often than not I dug in my heels and refused.
If you’d told me then that someday I’d let someone manhandle me for about 15 minutes during a mammogram and I wouldn’t even blush, I would never have believed you. (I also would have sworn, at that tender age, to never have a mammogram, the same way I swore to never have babies because it meant I had to have blood drawn.)
Mammograms don’t bother me at all, really. They don’t hurt; the technicians are always really nice and laid-back, and have a way of putting you at ease in what could be an uncomfortable situation. The hospital I go to has a really cushy center for mammograms that I kind of enjoy visiting, so it’s all good.
The waiting room is fairly huge (with a kitchen and snacks and all kinds of goodies) and I never know what direction the technician might be coming from to call me back. Usually when I’m in a waiting room, I’m on high alert. I might hold a magazine and glance down every now and then, but I always make sure to position myself where I can see as they come in to call people. I look up at any sign of movement and read lips to see if they’re calling my name. This time, though, I sat back with a magazine and became engrossed in an article. I did get a little nervous because technicians were coming from both directions, usually where I couldn’t see them at all, and oftentimes I couldn’t really understand what name they were saying. Someone else always jumped up, though, so I knew they weren’t calling me. Just when I was in the middle of a really interesting article, I heard my name. The tech was around the corner where I couldn’t even see her, and I still caught my name with no problem at all. That was a first for me!
Afterwards, we went home and Dave started coffee. I had just turned on my computer when I heard him talking. Turns out our bald squirrel friend was on the deck, eating sunflower seeds, and Dave was having a one-sided conversation with him. This broke my heart because it was so cold that morning, right around seven degrees F. I was glad he’d made it through the night, but I knew we had a bitterly cold weekend coming up.
Dave set a cat carrier outside, put some peanuts and pecans way at the back of the interior, and left the carrier door open. He left our patio door open a crack, and waited for the squirrel to take the bait. He was holding a long wooden stick that he planned to use to slam the door shut once the squirrel was fully inside. The whole time, he talked to the squirrel and encouraged him.
I couldn’t watch, but I hovered in the periphery. After about ten minutes, just as the water for our vacuum pot coffee maker was beginning to boil, I heard the cage door slam. Dave held it shut with the stick, stepped out onto the deck and latched the carrier all the way. The squirrel was strangely calm, which surprised us both; no chattering or foot stamping, just hanging out on the piece of berber carpet in the carrier.
It was about ten minutes after 9 am and Willowbrook Wildlife Center had opened at 9:00. After we high-fived, we carried him out to the car, buckled the carrier in, and drove him over. About 20 minutes later, he was in triage and we were giving our information to the admittance clerk. She came back to let us know they were thinking he had mange, which is treatable. After we talked for a while, we gave them a donation (not required, but we wanted to) and headed home, a little stunned that it had all happened so quickly.
It was a pretty great way to end the week.