VOTE OR DIE! (well, not really)

I just finished voting.

Here in Oregon, we vote by mail rather than going out in the rain to the polls. Personally, I would prefer going out in the rain to the polling place, so that I could be sure that Mickey Mouse, the Dallas Cowboys and the entire cast of Rent aren't voting here in sleepy little Coquille. I was dismayed when I read the Oregon voters guide. Oregon has some of the strictest ID requirements when it comes to registering to vote illegally. For instance, if you don't have valid government photo id, you can provide a Social Security number. If you don't have either a SSN or government photo ID, you can provide any one of the following documents, none of which could EVER be forged or plucked out of the neighbors trash can:

* valid photo identification (While I would hope a "license to party" or a StarTrek fan club membership card doesn't qualify, I have to wonder...)
* a paycheck stub (because EVERYONE who gets paid must be a citizen, right?)
* a utility bill
* a bank statement
* a government document (I'll bet even Mickey Mouse has one of these)

Of course, you won't be able to vote in national elections unless you have the actual government ID or SSN. You'll just be able to vote in state elections for people who can mess up your lives on a daily basis, rather than on a more sporadic national level.

I'm very ready for this election to be over, namely because I'm tired of receiving 543,887 pieces of "mail" each day aimed at swaying my vote. I'm sorry, but I am not one of those people who is going to pick up a glossy political mailer and say, "Well, I guess my vote's going to have to change now, based on the allegation that Senator Smith has never openly denied ever having exceeded the speed limit while drinking coffee!" I could build a shelter for the poor using only the political mail I've received in the last few months.

The thing is, I've pretty much resigned myself to the idea that the person I never wanted as my nominee is going to lose the election to the other person I never wanted as a nominee. I don't think this election is going to affect me the way they have in the past. I've experienced political depression before. After Bob Dole lost the election to Bill "Check out my Cigar" Clinton, I was depressed for at least ten minutes. Then, I got myself together, realized that each and every one of us was still going to get up each day, go to work, earn a living and keep the country running while everyone in elected government did their level best to screw it all up.

I think that's going to be my only qualification for elected office from now on. If you want my vote, you have to promise me that you won't screw things up as much as the other person. Because, in my opinion, absolutely nothing happens in Washington which doesn't make things worse than they already are. I love it when we get government deadlocks and such. That just means that government is having trouble messing things up as much as they would like to. The fewer bills proposed and passed, the better. Look at the tax code, for goodness sake! The thing weighs in at over 55,000 pages, and you need several post-graduate degrees just to file a 1040 EZ.

(Friendly note to the IRS: please don't misunderstand. I'm not blaming you. I'm sure you're very nice and not at all trying to ruin peoples' lives or give them audit-related heart attacks. I'm blaming the jerks who decided it was a good idea to add 15 pages to the tax code to explain tax credits for cheese-makers who manufacture certain types of gouda.)

If I sound angry, then I guess I am. But, I have hope.

I hope that on November 5th, I wake up to find that Mickey Mouse has been elected as President and the entire congress has been replaced by Looney Toons. That way, when they decide to try and mess things up via legislation, we can just find a giant anvil and drop it on their heads.

He Blinded me with Science

It's almost time for my kids to start school again, and I am suddenly spending a lot of time reminiscing about my formative years. Unfortunately, since I have spent most of my life trying to block the tragic fashion choices and other major humiliations of my childhood from my memory, I am forced to repeatedly reminisce about the two-day period between September 15 and 16, 1984, which is the only time I can safely reminisce about without being reduced to a quivering, sobbing heap on the floor.

Ah, 1984. I was in the 7th grade. I had completed the unfortunate "I want to grow my bangs out" phase, but hadn't yet been subjected to major orthodonture. Acid wash jeans were a thing of the distant future. Boys were still mostly covered in cooties and the humiliating ritual of the school dance was still months away.

Although I was never much of a student, I loved science class. At the beginning of 7th grade I was enrolled in Introduction to Life Sciences, which never made much sense to me because everything we studied was dead. Not only was everything dead, but each creature was also specifically selected by teachers to induce high-pitched squealing in girls and create in the boys the uncontrollable desire to hurl it at females.

In my opinion, the only thing worse than a dead bug is a live version of the same bug, and I could glean no significant academic information by poking around in the guts of a dead earthworm, mainly because I kept my eyes closed all the time so as not to actually see the guts of the dead earthworm. In addition, none of the animals we were using to study the Miracle of Life actually had any discernible organs left. They were all a formaldehyde-preserved glop of brown goo on the inside.

Based on my experience as a mother, I would say that there are few things in life scarier than giving a bunch of 13-year-old kids sharp cutting implements. Add to that the fact that all of the girls used the scalpel with their eyes closed, not only to dissect but to fend off stealth worm attacks by the boys in the class, and you had a situation ripe for disaster. No wonder so many teachers develop drinking problems.

First, our teacher would distribute the creature of the week. We started small. Our first victim was a cricket. We then moved on to the earthworm, and finally, to the Holy Grail of junior high life sciences class; the shark. The theory was students could learn about life by prodding the various bits of goo inside the selected creature, and then draw a diagram in a little spiral notebook showing the different organs and label the function of each organ. Our teacher posted large color diagrams on the bulletin board of whatever animal we were supposed to be dissecting. The animal diagrams on the bulletin board were colorful, sharply defined and easily identifiable. Their hearts were red, their livers green, their lungs blue, etc. The problem was, after we put down the scalpel and opened our eyes to peer inside, the interior of the animal looked nothing like the color diagram. It looked like a wad of brown mucus. We'd all poke around for a while, and proclaim, "Look! I found the heart" in an excited voice in an attempt to fool our teacher into thinking we actually found something other than brown goo. We all figured if we couldn't find the heart we'd fail the class, which would result in us having to repeat Worm Dissection an infinite number of times, which would prevent us from going to college and getting a job, which would ruin our lives and make us completely unattractive to cootie-less members of the opposite sex.

After the dissection, we would spend 40 minutes attempting to create an artistic depiction of our animal in our notebooks, painstakingly trying to differentiate each bit of brown glop by using the various shades of brown colored pencils in our pencil kit. After a while, we all finally gave up and hastily copied the color diagrams directly from the bulletin board, which clearly were of an entirely different species of animal than the one we were dissecting. I don't think the teacher ever looked inside a worm, or any of the other animals we poked at. If she had, she would have realized we weren't learning anything in life science class except how to draw, which we were supposed to be doing in art class.

My most vivid memory, however, was the dissecting of the shark. Due to the inexplicably high cost of poorly preserved large aquatic creatures, we had to team up for this one. Unfortunately, I was teamed up with the one boy who no longer had cooties, as far as I was concerned. I, being a usually quiet person anyway, was reduced to utter silence around this junior high Adonis, who wore his blond hair swept over his forehead to cover his acne and who dressed in button front shirts with little polo horses on them. My other teammates were a girlfriend of mine (I'll call her Jennifer, since most girls in my generation are named Jennifer), and another boy named William who most definitely still had cooties and who, it would not surprise me at all to hear, has probably spent a fair amount of his adult life in prison.

We were given our shark, and set about dividing up the tasks we needed to perform. Jennifer, being the artistic one, was given the task of copying the color diagram into each of our notebooks. I don't think she came within 20 feet of the actual shark. Mr. Adonis was given the task (not by me, since I was struck incapable of verbalization) of dissecting the body of the shark with me. Finally, William, in what turned out to be one of the most memorable experiences of my life, was given the job of dissecting the head of the shark.

The body dissection went surprisingly well, given my inability to speak to my lab partner, and we were even able to identify three of the organs among the rest of the glop. In addition, our hands touched. I considered this a roaring success. I'm sure I smiled and made approving hand gestures, but I don't remember clearly because I almost fainted.

And then came William. In preparation for his future career, William approached the head with the scalpel, and with a slightly intimidating look in his eyes, began cutting. Unfortunately, poorly preserved shark head is very difficult to cut through, and William then resorted to stabbing at the head, which resulted in a shower of shark bits which fell on the only girl in the class who didn't think William had cooties. The poor girl ran from the room, crying and shaking her hair, which was very curly and therefore resulted in shark bits becoming even further entangled in her locks. She smelled like fish and formaldehyde for a week after the incident. In a strange twist of fate, she and William dated in high school.

Amazingly, we all finished the shark dissection, and the remainder of Introduction to Life Sciences, with all of our appendages. We never found the brain of the shark (It was purple, according to the diagram), but we did learn something important.

Shark is extremely difficult to remove from hair.

The Great Outdoors

I grew up in Alaska. We lived there for 14 years, and I have a lot of fond memories of my childhood there among the beautiful scenery, exciting outdoor activities, and various wildlife. Actually, the wildlife could be a little scary, especially the unexpected moose encounters in our backyard.

I also had my hair permed a lot. Which leads me to the subject of camping trips.

You see, back when it wasn't considered abuse to subject your child to unfortunate hair styles, my mother took me in every few months for a chemical-intensive torture session designed to punish me for all my misdeeds of the previous three months. And, because I was not supposed to wash my hair for two days after the perm (apparently washing it too early would have made it look even worse than it did with the perm alone), my mother and father always planned a camping trip right after my appointment. This created the added benefit of not having to pack any insect repellent, since the aura of stench emanating from my hair kept insects at bay for about a 50 foot radius around my cranium.

I spent a lot of my childhood on camping trips. We'd hitch up the trailer to our International Scout, pack up our clothes, food and all available camping equipment in the State of Alaska and hit the road. Sometimes we'd hit the road for upwards of 9 hours. Although, to be fair, driving only accounted for about 90 minutes of our travel time. The remaining seven and a half hours were occupied by bathroom stops, carsickness stops, my brother complaining about my stinky hair, turning around and finding trailer parts we forgot to latch down, and so forth.

Once we finally got to the campsite, we spent the next several hours trying to back in and level out the trailer. This was accomplished via the foolproof method of my mother standing directly behind the trailer, becoming completely invisible to my father who was desperately trying to look for hand signals or some other form of communication that would indicate whether he was actually in the right spot or dangerously close to backing himself over a ravine. My parents performed this act so many times, they actually developed a devoted fan base. Friends, relatives and sometimes even perfect strangers would each pull up a lawn chair, crack open a cold beer and watch as my parents argued about appropriate hand signals and as my mother directed my father and the trailer directly into a tree stump. It's really a wonder they're still married.

After the parking ritual came the building of the campfire and something my parents called "Cocktail Minute." Back then, you could buy these little Mr. and Mrs. T's pre-made drinks in cans. After several hours of performing the parking show for our friends, everyone would gather around and have several rounds of Cocktail Minute while the men started our campfire. Because I wasn't allowed near the fire due to the cloud of highly flammable fumes radiating from my increasingly stinky hair, I will be basing this portion of my story on several eyewitness accounts.

These campfires were truly a sight to behold. My father and his friend would gather up all available flammable materials within 10 miles of our campsite, stack them carefully in a pyramid shape, and then proceed to use 5,365,219 matches in an attempt to light the fire. After uttering several choice phrases that I won't write here because my children might read this someday, they would then douse the pile with something they referred to as "Blazo." It turns out "Blazo" was actually gasoline. Either my father or his friend would then light a match as far away as humanly possible, and attempt to hurl it in the direction of the gas-soaked wood, which would then burst into flames in what resembled a small missile explosion.

These fires became so hot they could burn aluminum chairs, sear off eyebrows from 20 feet, and turn Jack Daniels bottles into puddles of molten glass. My brother and I learned from a young age that fire was nothing to be played with. It was to be treated with respect, at least until you have participated in several Cocktail Minutes and decide to get into a whiskey-spitting competition with your best friend. My mother spent most of her camping trips with a look of extreme concern on her face.

I remember one time we arrived a little late to our chosen campsite and our friends were already there. They were well into the campfire and cocktails portion of the trip, having bypassed the "back in and level" portion by wisely purchasing a motor home and seeking out a pull through site. We could see the smoke from the campfire several miles away, but were not in the least bit concerned, because we knew that we were not looking at a wildfire. "There they are!" we yelled. Well, at least I was yelling, because my head was sticking out of the window in a vain attempt to air out my hair. We followed the smoke signal to our campsite and then began our ritual all over again.

Despite all of this, I have decided that it's time to take my children camping. I want them to share in the joys of being outdoors, lighting things on fire, and getting dirty. I want them to have the opportunity to be traumatized by mommy and daddy trying to set up tents (I don't know if our marriage could withstand parking a trailer) and start a campfire without the benefit of matches of any sort because we forgot them at home.

I guess it's time to make an appointment for Maggie to get her hair permed.

And, I just know my husband will forget the Blazo.

Loosen up!

My husband and I recently spent a Friday at the Oregon Country Fair. For those of you who are fortunate enough to have never experienced this event, I'll describe it for you.

The Country Fair is a huge "alternative" fair where people in costumes, people in regular clothes, and people who walk around in nothing more than body paint and a thong all intermix while listening to music, learning about alternative energy and recycling, and angrily rejecting capitalism in the form of spending millions of dollars on arts, crafts and food. This is a place where people can embrace their inner freak and show it to the rest of the world.

I will freely admit that my inner freak and I are not normally on speaking terms, unless a fair amount of wine is involved.

So, I was apprehensive at best when my husband, who is apparently repressing his inner hippie, decided that we should all go to the Country Fair. My concerns were twofold. First, I am NOT a hippie. I'm a registered Republican. I don't smoke "herbs," I don't believe we're causing global warming, and I don't like Barak Obama. I figured I'd stick out like a sore thumb.

Second, the Boy is at that stage where the sight of mere underpants is enough to send him into gales of giddiness. I could only imagine what half naked women and men in skirts would do to him. I predicted he'd begin speaking like Beavis and Butthead cartoons, pointing and saying "boobies" over and over and laughing his little head off while I attempted to silence him by offering to bribe him with some frozen soy non-dairy ice cream substitute.

Needless to say, I decided to loosen up a bit by drinking the better part of a six pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade in the fair parking lot. I got a styrofoam cup, ice and a straw from the place we had breakfast, and got busy. By the time we walked up to the fairgrounds entrance my inner freak and I were close to a breakthrough. Hell, my husband had to spend 15 minutes convincing me that covertly drinking in the front seat of the parked car in the parking lot was not actually a capital crime, and my life would not be ruined if I were caught, and the likelihood I would be caught was slim since all the available police in the area were probably already at the fairgrounds trying scare the fairgoers into waiting to light their joints and pipes until they were safely inside the venue. A 30-something woman with three kids and a styrofoam cup full of alco-pop were low on their list. So much for my life of crime.

I did get some really mean looks when I was spotted taking a giant styrofoam cup into the fair, but by that time, I didn't really care.

Anyway, once inside, we wandered around for several hours with the kids. They immediately began to voice the opinion that we had committed major false advertising, since there were no rides at this particular fair. They put themselves into Whine Mode, asking, "Where are the rides?" and, "How come there aren't any animals?" or, "What's that funny smell we keep smelling?" We had to appease and distract them by pointing out a woman in a very interesting and creative bee costume, and a dude who was wearing what appeared to be a ballerina tutu and superhero mask. When they realized that the woman wearing a butterfly costume, (body paint, bikini bottoms and some wings) was about as close to an animal as they were going to get, they ramped it up into Intense Whine Mode, which most human ears cannot withstand without medical intervention. In IWM, children can actually continue to whine after all air has left their lungs. And, in what should be a public service announcement for population control, all three children were able to whine in sequence, so there were no breaks between complaints. You almost couldn't hear the three-day drum circle drums over the noise they were making. I'm thinking of contacting the Pentagon and giving them audiotapes of IWM to be used in terrorist interrogations.

I began looking for more liquid fortification, but they don't sell alcohol at the Country Fair.

And that funny smell?

I didn't inhale.

It really was all Greek to me.

Thank God I was in a sorority.

I never thought that joining the Greek system would eventually save my marriage, but it did. My sorority saved my marriage because they forced me to learn the Greek alphabet. In what turned out to be one of the most useful 10 minute periods of my existence, I had to learn to sing a bunch of inane songs while bouncing around, acting cheerful and generally pretending that joining a sorority was almost as good as winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

SORORITY SISTERS: Hey! We're Greek! Greek is cool!!! Join our club! Please join our club or we'll never get to stop singing! HELP US!

You may be wondering how singing songs that were supposed to attract potential "sisters" saved my marriage. It's a long story. One of the songs that we learned was a musical version of the Greek alphabet. I'm not really sure when I learned it. It may have been implanted in my mind through advanced sorority brainwashing techniques. At any rate, after several hours of learning peppy songs, I had the Greek alphabet memorized. This information has rarely come in handy, but I have managed to maintain this knowledge in some forgotten corner of my brain. I can't remember where my keys are, or the name of the 9th supreme court justice, but I know the Greek alphabet, by God! Not once had I ever needed this information, and yet, it remained.

But then, last month my husband and I found ourselves in Crete. And, being egocentric Americans who receive more education in sports than in languages, we figured that there would be street signs in ENGLISH. Or, at least in a Latin alphabet. Instead, the street signs looked like this:

Given enough time, I was eventually able to sound out the signs, cross-reference them with our guidebooks and then determine that, without any doubt at all, we were lost.

The sign to the left, for instance says "Slow - Goat Crossing" in English in Greek letters. I would have written it in Greek words, but I'm an egocentric American who doesn't know any foreign languages whatsoever, especially foreign languages which deal with livestock.

So, my husband and I came up with an infallible system, where he drove around at top speeds in the city, asking me every five seconds where we were, and I would look hopelessly around for a street sign, and begin to decode it, only to find that we were still driving, and thus on another street, so my original efforts at decoding were all for naught. This continued until we hit a wall. Well, we didn't really hit the wall, but we did encounter a wall which surrounded the old city of Heraklion. Matt began immediately asking me for our whereabouts, to which I replied, "I don't know."

Matt: Well, look at the map!

Me: I am looking at the map!

Matt: Where are we then?

Me: I think we're at a wall.

Matt: Which wall?

Me: THE WALL. THE GIANT WALL SURROUNDING THE CITY.

Matt: Are you sure?

Me: It looks LIKE A WALL TO ME. If you stop near a street sign, I might be able to find out exactly where on the wall we are.

Matt: I can't stop.

Me: Then I can't tell you where we are, because as soon as I figure out where we are, we're not there anymore!

As each sign passed me in a blur, I began to chant my Greek alphabet song, in a vain attempt to meditate my way to some clue as to where we were. We stopped talking to each other. We kept driving past the one landmark that I knew, and each time would arrive at that landmark from a different direction. By some miracle that I cannot explain, Matt finally stopped the car and went to the nearest hotel he could find to ask for directions. I used these moments of stillness to find out where we were. It was easy, once I could see the signs. And, with the directions that I am still amazed my husband went and asked for, and my ever-expanding knowledge of the Greek Alphabet, I was able to navigate us to our hotel, which we had apparently driven past about 20 times. When we started speaking to each other again, we had a lovely time.

So, without my vast knowledge of Greek, given to me by 60 overly peppy girls wearing bad late-80's fashion and large hair, Matt and I would probably be divorced right now. We'd also still be in Crete, since we wouldn't be able to find the airport.

How to learn Greek in five minutes or less...Guaranteed!

I just found out about a week ago that my husband and I are going to Crete in two weeks. Now I'm stressed.

I have never been good at learning languages. I took two years of French in high school, and the only thing I remember is "Merci Beaucoup," which I think means "Thank you." It's either that, or "I surrender."

I'm sure my inability to learn French was due mainly to the extreme dislike I had for my French teacher. She'd sit in front of the class, eating bonbons and commenting derisively at our pronounciation. Of course, our pronounciation wasn't helped by the fact that this was 1986, and we were all in full valley-girl mode, adding the word "like" six times into every sentence and generally sounding like imbiciles. I knew that if I ever did find myself in France, I would be the hapless tourist who inadvertently starts an international incident because instead of saying "Pardon me, where could I find a public restroom which I don't have to pay to use," I would have accidentally threatened to assasinate the Prime Minister. Or President. Just what is the guy who surrenders called in France, anyway?

So, I gave up on languages. Well, I gave up until I went to Italy and found myself actually needing to speak the language. I gained newfound confidence. I was rather good at it. I started interpreting for my husband. And, I didn't start any international incidents while trying to order a cappuccino, which is my benchmark for learning languages.

So, this time I would actually like to try and learn a little Greek before I get on the plane. I could try to learn it on the plane, using one of those language programs that I can load on my iPod. However, I'm a little afraid of being subjected to a body cavity search by airport security because someone turned me in due to the fact that I was muttering to myself for 25 hours. No, I think I'd like to learn Greek in the privacy of my home, or possibly my car. People already think I'm crazy because I sing at the top of my lungs while driving, or yell at the radio when I hear something on talk radio that really makes me mad. Muttering Greek to myself while driving wouldn't be a big stretch.

My main problem is that my kids are in the car with me, and they are not exactly helpful when it comes to maintaining peace and relative quiet so I can devote my mind to learning. If I try to learn Greek while in the car, the only phrases I'll be able to retain will be "don't make me pull this car over," (unhelpful, since I don't plan on driving in Crete) "stop looking at your sister," (again, unhelpful) and, "I'll give you something to cry about," (guaranteed to result in arrest).

So, I plan on listening to my Greek language lessons at night, while trying to go to sleep. That will ensure two things. First, I will have at least five minutes of uninterrupted study time before my children start asking for water or a de-monstering of their rooms, and second, that every time I try to say "Hello" in Greek, I'll become inexplicably drowsy. I won't even be able to order food without passing out cold on the table at the taverna.

Maybe I should just forget the Greek and speak really loudly in English instead. That usually works.

Earth Girls are Easy

I don't know if I have what it takes to raise a son.

I have three kids. Two girls, and "The Boy." My girls are easy. We understand each other. When my 9 year old falls in a hormone-induced inconsolable heap because her pants "make her look funny," I can sympathize with her and help her get through it. When my 3 year old decides to wear 7 pieces of clothing all in varying shades of pink and doesn't want my help choosing them anymore, I can step back and let her express herself through her appearance. (Of course, I live in mortal embarrassment and fear that government workers will come take her away because I clearly can't take care of children if they're dressed like that.)

But The Boy, now, he's another thing altogether.

I originally noticed this when the first thing he ever did was pee on me. That pretty much established our relationship. The girls never peed on me. I never had to wear protective rain gear to change their diapers. Of course, in keeping with all that male bonding stuff I've read about, his father was pleased as punch. "Way to go, Boy!" he said.

I've lived through obsessions with dinosaurs, superheros, dinosaurs and Legos. And dinosaurs. The Boy is like a dinosaur encyclopedia. He can rattle off dinosaur names like "pachycephalosaurus" without blinking an unfairly long eyelash. He cannot, however, tie his own shoes. Nor does he show any signs of wanting to learn how. I'm trying to convince him that chicks like a guy who can tie his own shoes, but he's not biting.

He also has a listening problem. I know it's not a hearing problem because my friend and I conducted an experiment one day after I talked with her about how I can literally stand in the same room with him and shout his name and he doesn't hear me. I was really starting to think I needed to get his hearing tested. Instead, we tried saying words he was interested in. It went like this:

Me: Luke, what did you learn in school today?
Luke: (chirping crickets)

Me: Look Luke, a DINOSAUR!
Luke: Huh?

Me: Luke, do you want milk or water?
Luke: (wind whistling through the trees)

Me: SPIDERMAN!
Luke: Could I have some water?

If only I could figure out how to apply this valuable knowledge to my husband, who clearly suffers from the same listening problem as The Boy, only he's more selective. He, for instance, only doesn't hear me when I ask him to take out the trash, or do the dishes.

Finally, The Boy is becoming a real challenge as far as telling the truth. He has a very active imagination. Apparently, this has allowed him to live in his own world. A world in which, when I ask him "what did you learn in school today," an acceptable answer can actually contain the words "dinosaurs", "crocodiles" or "Legos". He spins elaborate yarns about how his teacher hatched a real dinosaur egg, or how she wrestled a crocodile, or that they finished all their books and his teacher told him he didn't have to do any reading tonight or go back to school. Ever.
The Boy is also convinced that he will soon go live with his Uncle John on the USS Starship Enterprise where Uncle John will be the Captain, but he, The Boy, will get to push all the buttons. There will also be a fair amount of shooting aliens involved, and they will eat pizza all the time.

I suppose it should make me feel better when my husband's parents often laugh at us when we tell them stories about The Boy. Yes, they laugh AT us. It's as if they're telling us that they remember my husband doing the exact same thing, and that it serves us right. My problem with this is that my husband is clearly the intended target of this reproductive Karma and I don't know what I did to deserve the fallout.

After all, I was just sugar and spice and everything nice. Just like all girls. Right?

Time Warp

I have defined myself with a lot of things over the course of my life. Singer, college student, law student, wife, mother, artist, traveller, chef wannabe. But I think the thing that I have always fallen back on is music. I love music. I listen to music all the time, and I delight in finding something new that I love, even if others don't love it as much as I do. Music is the background upon which all the other ways I describe my life have unfolded.

My husband got me a new iPod for Christmas to hold my burgeoning music collection. And, I have several playlists that I probably won't share with other people, mainly because they expose my utter geekdom. (No, really, that's not Air Supply. I promise)

I read about a playlist life quiz, and decided to try to find it. It sounded like fun. And, thanks to the miracle of Google, I found it in about 10 seconds. So, I took the quiz using my brand spankin' new iPod. I put my iPod on random and wrote down the name of the song that came up for each question, in order:

Life Playlist Survey

When I'm drunk I say: Something the Boy Said - Sting
How will you die? Honey Honey - Feist
At my wedding they'll play: Rest Stop – Matchbox Twenty
What makes me happy is: Faithfully - Journey
My theme song: Just a Girl – No Doubt
My ultimate song for dancing is: Black Velveteen - Lenny Kravitz
My family is described by the song: American Pie – Don McLean
If I reached the top of Mount Everest, what I would scream: Knock me Down - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Behind my back, my friends think I'm: Devil with a Blue Dress on – Mitch Ryder
The story of my life is: Always on Your Side - Sheryl Crow
My make-out song is: Hey Jealousy – Gin Blossoms
My innermost desire is: Don’t Stop – Fleetwood Mac
My alter-ego is: Memphis Time - Gin Blossoms
This song will be playing when I meet the love of my life: Peace of Me – Natasha Bedingfield
My favorite thing to do is: Bottles and Flowers - Juliana Hatfield
Happiness is: Be Good to Yourself - Journey
Will I ever have kids: Watch’a Wanna Do – The Jungle Book Soundtrack
When I'm in the shower, I sing: I’ve been Everywhere – Johnny Cash
My best friend is like: If it Makes you Happy – Sheryl Crow
At my funeral they'll play: Landslide – Fleetwood Mac
If I got lost on a desert island, I would yell: I Alone - Live
My message to the world has always been: Under Pressure - Queen/David Bowie
My day will be like: Rush - Big Audio Dynamite
What I did did last night was: Found Out about You – Gin Blossoms
My birth was like: Every little Thing she does is Magic – the Police
The best thing about me is: Keep it to Myself - Crash Vegas
My deepest secret is: Perfect Kiss – New Order

I'm really not sure what this says about me. I guess it just confirms what I always thought: that music is a large part of my life, and really tells a lot about me. I think it shows that I'm stuck in the 90's for some reason, for example. Or, that I have a strange love for the Gin Blossoms. Or, that I have kids (otherwise, why would I have the Jungle Book soundtrack on there?)

There are many voids that my playlists fill. I haven't had (or made, I guess) time to sing in a group or a show. I miss that. But, singing showtunes along with my iPod while I'm folding the laundry gets me through. I want to take piano lessons, but I can't seem to find the time to do it without letting something else go. So, I listen to piano music and dream about the day I can learn to play like that. I don't get to go out dancing very often (if at all) so I dance in my living room with my kids and they laugh at me because I sing along at the top of my lungs and act silly and embarass them immensely. I can take the soundtrack of my life along with me wherever I go.

And without my iPod, it would be a very quiet life, indeed.