I can’t remember anything from my high school science class, but I can recall tons of random song lyrics.

Funny, ain’t it?

I was washing a dish this morning when I started singing this song from 1994 by Blues Traveler. I was a big fan of this band because of the harmonica.

There’s no deeper meaning to it that I can ascertain, it just sort of came from the ether of my fuzzy, fibro foggy mind.

Well look at that, I remembered a word from my boring science class!

(The dude watching the TV in the video looks a little sketchy if you ask me.)

Hook by Blues Traveler  1994  Written by John. C. Popper
It doesn’t matter what I say
So long as I sing with inflection
That makes you feel I’ll convey
Some inner truth or vast reflection
But I’ve said nothing so far
And I can keep it up for as long as it takes
And it don’t matter who you are
If I’m doing my job then it’s your resolve that breaks
Because the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook brings you back
On that you can rely
There is something amiss
I am being insincere
In fact I don’t mean any of this
Still my confession draws you near
To confuse the issue I refer
To familiar heroes from long ago
No matter how much Peter loved her
What made the Pan refuse to grow
Was that the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook brings you back
On that you can rely
Suck it in, suck it in, suck it in
If you’re Rin Tin Tin or Anne Boleyn
Make a desperate move or else you’ll win
And then begin to see
What you’re doing to me
This MTV is not for free
It’s so PC it’s killing me
So desperately I sing to thee of love
Sure but also rage and hate and pain and fear of self
And I can’t keep these feeling on the shelf
I’ve tried, well no, in fact I lied
Could be financial suicide but I’ve got too much pride inside
To hide or slide
I’ll do as I’ll decide and let it ride till until I’ve died
And only then shall I abide by this tide
Of catchy little tunes
Of hip three minute diddies
I wanna bust all your balloons
I wanna burn of all your cities to the ground
But I’ve found, I will not mess around
Unless I play then hey
I will go on all day
Hear what I say
I have a prayer to pray
That’s really all this was
And when I’m feeling stuck and need a buck
I don’t rely on luck
Because the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook
On that you can rely

Have a bluesy kind of weekend and don’t play with hooks, they’re dangerous.


The Dusty Passages of Memory

Sixteen candles might make a lovely light, but you can toast marshmallows over forty-three.


As you can clearly see, I’ve loved chocolate cake since an early age. Check out my chubby legs and that retro Pepsi bottle. I look like a mini sumo wrestler.


Because I secretly crave validation and attention, I must share the fact that today is my 43rd birthday. To some people, I’m still just a baby. To others, I’m as old as dirt itself.

I woke up today feeling absolutely no different from how I did yesterday. (Like shit, ahem.)

Aging is a gradual process and just because we celebrate the day of our birth, it doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

The only evidence that I’m older shows on my face, creases where none existed before and the glittery silver that streaks throughout my natural dark brown hair.

Also, my boobs just ain’t as perky as they used to be. Them’s the breaks.

My Aunt Merrie, one of my two namesakes, passed away of a brain aneurysm at the age of 36 while she was painting. I have outlived her by 7 years and I am grateful for that. I never got to meet her, nor my grandma Mary, who died of a heart attack in her early 50’s.

When I look at my 1st birthday photo up above, it makes me nostalgic for days gone by. My childhood was mostly a beautiful time in my life and I would give my entire Beatles record collection to go back for just one more day.

If I wanted to, I could buy myself a chocolate cake and eat the entire fucking thing (and then go into a diabetic coma.)

No, only a little baby with adorable fat folds has that right. Not a middle-aged women with a body that can’t process glucose correctly.

If I could, I’d crawl into that picture and give that baby a big hug. I’d whisper in her ear that life wasn’t always going to be that easy, but that she was strong enough to deal with it. I’d tell her to steer clear of douchebags, not to roast her skin in the sunshine using baby oil and to get better grades in school.

Then I’d grab a handful of that cake and skedaddle out of there, leaving 1975 forever in the dusty passages of memory.

Because no matter how we may wish that we could go back in time, that isn’t how any of this shit works.

Is that all there is?

I’ve noticed that many of my posts lately have been stories from my childhood.

 Nostalgia is comforting. For all who have followed my life for any amount of time knows (thank you), I am a very unhappy me most of the time.

I try not to dwell on anything negative, or allow myself to give in to the despair, so I just go back in my time machine to a happier place. This is the allure of telling stories, which we all do on our blogs to some extent, I think.

Like cotton, it’s the fabric of our lives.

Aw, here kitty…wait, where did you go?

I don’t feel comfortable talking about my current personal life, mostly due to the fact that family and friends read it. Some things are just not solely mine to share, so I am very careful to do no harm here, to anyone in my flesh and blood life. I have other outlets for those issues.

 All I really know for sure is that I feel like I am missing out on something. I am confused about what comes next, and what decisions to make to ensure a future that is as pleasant as possible. I am not ready to call it quits and sit in my own pool of tears.

I do not want to accept the fact that that’s all there is.

Which actually brings us to another story, but not from childhood.

When I used to work at quite an upscale nursing home as a dietary aide about ten years ago, I had a mini-boom box by my kitchenette. While I served breakfast, I would put on a few of the random, scratched up CD’s that the activity department had provided. I noticed that the residents really enjoyed the music, so I decided to make a few CD’s myself for them.

Many of the songs were hysterically dated, coming from the 40’s and 50’s, but after hearing them over and over again, one in particular caught my interest.  At the time I had no idea exactly what it meant, but with age comes wisdom. (And creaky joints.)