Day Fifty - Six

So in my embarrassing truths post, I revealed my love for bad 70s soft rock. I know lyrics to love rock faves ranging from England Dan to Player. (For those who are new and receiving this information fresh, you have my permission to run away screaming). It's really ironic because I came into my twenties in the age of grunge and love me some Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Tool. In other words, I have a really whacked out Pandora channel list.

So as my husband and I were driving the streets of Austin trying to get our naturally insomniac children to sleep, I am singing along to all the songs on the Barry Manilow channel. He turns to me and says that he thought when his father closed the family pizza restaurant in 1993, he would be free of this music. (So, no, he does not share the love.) The discussion then turned to why in the world I know the difference between Anne Murray and Karen Carpenter. SO obvious, right?

Flashback: 1978. Sunday afternoon. Before cable. My family and I used to go to church on Sunday mornings and then my mom made beautiful lunches which we ate at the dining room table in our church clothes. Afterwards, I would change out of my "Sunday"dress and my clothing of choice was my dad's UT Longhorn t-shirt. This made a perfect dress that would pull down over my knees when I sat.

It was in this shirt that I would sit immediately in front of the stereo speaker. (Evidently, the fears related to sitting to close to the TV did not apply there.) My parents would then play LPs (stacked on the six record automatic drop) or wait for it... 8-Tracks. They played Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, The Bee Gees, Barbara Streisand, Stevie Wonder... you name it. I could sing the themes to "Foul Play" and "Saturday Night Fever", not to mention every song in the "Grease" cannon. I sang along as they jimmied and jived or emoted and warbled. I boogied with the Commodores and I sang the songs that made the young girls cry. Looking back, my parents might not have been the most discerning of listeners themselves. Wings and The Beatles were played equally with Peter, Paul, and Mary and John Denver. Elvis was in there somewhere, as well.

It was at that speaker that I embarked on my life long love of music and first dreamed of singing for others. I don't know how good or bad I sounded but my parents never dissuaded me from this Sunday afternoon ritual. These are really happy memories. And I had forgotten them until I started serenading my sleep-hating children alongside the Pandora app on my i-phone. So there is a good reason for my love of the bad.

By the time the munchkins were happily in dreamland and we were pulling up to the apartment, my husband had no greater appreciation for the music (though he did sing along to Harry Nilson as we exclaimed that we "can't live if living is without you") but he better understands this unnatural obsession. Or he is only confirmed that I truly am crazy and is looking for a suitable long-term solution, but let's go with the former thought, shall we?