I Heart You, Kelly Clarkson

Kelly Clarkson made me cry twice today.

Yes, you read that correctly.  I don't fully believe it either. I'd be ashamed, but honestly, I'm more flabbergasted than anything else.

I didn't even VOTE for Kelly Clarkson when she was a contestant on American Idol.  I wanted that Justin Guarini kid to win.  I even went through the exercise of dialing in votes (a few million of them, give or take) for Justin Guarini.  I wonder whatever happened to him?

Here I go again....turning my blog into shameful public confessions.  For the record, I'm not talking about the crying part, I'm talking about the part where I admitted to dialing 1-866-JustinG a few million times.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not--and I've never been--much of a crier. I'm German. We don't do that.   I don't cry at weddings, I don't cry at funerals, I don't cry at sad movies.  I've checked and I'm not actually a robot--I do actually bleed when cut, and there is a living, beating human heart somewhere in this body.   As a general rule, it's not a case of what I did not feel, it's a case of what I did not show.  This blog notwithstanding, I'm actually a fiercely private person (if more sensitive than I'd like to admit).

But Kelly Clarkson--- she got me twice today.  TWICE.  Frigging TWICE.

The first time actually wasn't that much of a surprise.  One of the very few things that I am a tear-sucker for is a well-sung national anthem.   I've spent 10 years trying to figure out how to move to London and be a fun expat and yet....I cry at the national anthem.  Go figure.  I actually wear dark sunglasses to all outdoor sporting events--in part because I realize that I am at risk for public displays of emotion if I manage to show up on time, which is rare.  Feel free- mock me now.

Kelly Clarkson: 1.  Little Miss Sunshine's tear parade:  0.  She rocked that national anthem.

The second time was the result of a combined effort by Kelly Clarkson and Little M.  Little M looooooooves Kelly Clarkson.  A while back, Little M truly impressed me with her lyrical analysis of "Mr. Know-It-All".

Little M:  Mommy, are all boys Mr. Know-It-Alls?
LMS:  Um...hate to tell you this, but yeah....pretty much.
Little M: Girls rule and are pretty.  Boys just eat a lot of food.

I love this kid.  This kid is just an explosion of awesome.

If "Name That Tune" were still filming new episodes, Little M would be a formidable contestant.  She can identify "Mr. Know-It-All" within 3 notes or less.

Little M loves to sing.  I'm guessing that she's inherited my musical ability, which is to say none at all, but her highly animated singalongs are things of beauty.

Imagine someone who is three and a half (and three and a half feet tall) singing her heart out-- complete with hands on hips, finger pointing, "talk-to-the-hand" gestures.  Keep in mind that her pronunciation of the "th" sound is, at best, spotty.  Now imagine her highly impassioned little voice belting out "you don't know a 'HAAAAAANNNNNNG about me" while her eyes glimmer with joy and spunk and mischief and she's telling some imaginary boy (or girl, or stuffed animal) which way the wind blows.

I don't have a baby, at least not anymore.  I miss my baby, but I love the spirited, independent, sassy little girl she's become more than words could ever adequately capture.

Kelly Clarkson--you gave my little girl the first song lyrics to which she's ever truly connected.  That's worth a few tears on my part.  If it were 2002 all over again, you'd get my vote this time,

(This is not a) Drive By

It's possible that I misinterpreted the directives of blogging.  I had given a respectable amount of thought to today's blog topic, and came up empty-handed.  I went back to the drawing board, decided to play Webster and re-write a (very small) part of the dictionary---and went about the business of re-defining the term "blog" from whatever term blog actually means (beats the f out of me) to "shameful public confessions".

And shameful it is.

Boys and girls,  I am a Train fan.

I told you it was shameful.  I am deeply and profoundly shamed.

By the way, I wasn't dumbstruck by out-of-nowhere fandom, but rather, it snuck up on me....bit by bit, song by song, and over the course of more than a decade.  "Meet Virginia"---check.  "Drops of Jupiter"---check.  (I'll admit to hating "Calling All Angels" and for that matter, every song ever recorded with "Angel" in the title.)   It wasn't the case of me seeking out the songs---I didn't own any of them--but more the case that every time I'd hear one of those songs, I'd be struck with the "hey, I like that song" thought.

I realized that I was really, really in trouble with "Hey, Soul Sister."  Trouble with a capital T kind of trouble.  As anyone with ears and a functioning radio will attest, that song is played 143,286 times per hour.  For me, the measure of a great song is my willingness to listen to it over and over, despite protests or point-blank pleading from the peanut gallery to switch the channel.  While we are on the topic, I am a world-class radio channel surfer---but I have not once (NOT EVEN ONCE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD) eschewed "Hey, Soul Sister" for whatever is behind door #2.   I'm not sure if that's really sad or some twisted form of loyalty.  Leaning toward sad, for the record.

And then there's "Drive By".  "Drive By" as in the song that I hummed for the better part of a day, then caught myself singing in the elevator (my coworkers already know that I am criminally insane, so that's okay).  The icing on the cake was when I came home tonight, broke down, bought the damned thing on iTunes, then proceeded to dance around to house to it, head-bopping, arms-in-the air, kick-up-one-leg-80's movie montage style.  Nice.  If you don't like it, sue me (yes, I am quoting "Drive By" in my defense of my "Drive By" purchase).  Go me.

Unnecessary tangent:  This song is directly responsible for yet another shameful public confession.   The first time I heard it, I thought that it was performed by Rascal Flatts.  Following is the transcript from my stream-of-consciousness rambling initial reaction to the song:

Wow this song is catchy....really catchy....kind of sounds like Rascal Flatts...yeah, I really like "Bless the Broken Road"....holy shit, I like Rascal Flatts....holy shit, I kind of like the Dixie Chicks, too....holy fucking shit, I think I like country music.....when exactly did a become a redneck....I've spent my entire life in a major northeastern market and I like country music....what the fuck.....well, the girl country singers are much prettier than most other girl singers...Faith Hill and Carrie Underwood are so pretty, it gets on my nerves...I think I'd need to be put on the rack to have legs like Faith Hill, but the rack doesn't sound that bad...how great would it be to weigh what I actually weigh and be 5'10"...OMG, I have an immigrant parent, and in less than one generation, I've become a regular, garden variety redneck, like that Gretchen Wilson woman... why the fuck do I even know who Gretchen Wilson is?...time to play classic rock, STAT.


While we're on the topic of my immigrant parent-- Most of my family speaks with a very thick German accent, and I like uptempo country music.  Go figure.   I'm so German that when I'm angry or otherwise fired up, I lose my ability to say the letter "s" and replace it with "sh".  I don't even want to talk about the number of times that I've yelled at Mady to "Shtop it...shtop it NOW" or to eat her yogurt "with a shpoon" instead of like an animal.   And I like country music.  I don't think any self-respecting European would ever listen to that crap.  I'm just saying.

I digress.  I'm a song lyric person, always have been---and Train's lyrics definitely appeal to my inner girl  (yes, I have one).  Somewhere, not-so-deep-down, I'd like to believe that I'm the unconventionally gorgeous, charmingly complicated woman whose contradictions are blindingly appealing to a poetic-souled man.  It happens.  I think that most women would love to have a song written about them, so I don't think I'm all that uncommon in this regard.  Unfortunately for me, I think that if that song were ever written about me, it would probably be titled "You'd Be So Much Cuter if You Just Once Shut Your Mouth When I Watch TV."  But hey, a song written in my honor would still be a song written in my honor.

Train rules,

Little Miss Sunshine