Sunday Song: Wedding Processional

Dear Readers/supporters of our mawidge,

And so, on Friday, Sarge and I were sitting around talking wedding music with my Dad and Anne.  Our song is ‘The Book of Love’, and that’s what I’d like to walk/roll/whatever down the aisle to.  (We’d like to get piped out after the deed is done, but that’s possibly another post.)

The thing is this.  I like the Peter Gabriel version:

 

And Sarge likes the Magnetic Fields’ original:

 

And so so, we thought we’d put it to a vote.

Which do you like?

Since we are the ones getting married, we reserve the right to rig the vote, but thought this would be fun.

Have at it!

Love,

The Butterfly and The Penguin (that would be us.  Hi.)

PS.  We first heard this on a road-trip with friends, and not on Scrubs.  Neither of us were really into it, and missed the final episode.  There’s that, too.

Some Groovy Stuff I Found On The Internet

I love this video:

 

 

And this one:

 

 

And I LOVE this face:

 

Sarge! My best-ever and not-so recent Internet find. And he let me Instagram this photo and post it even though he's shy. That's love right there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Share some of the groovy stuff you’ve found on the Internet, if you’d like!

30 Days of Music: A Song That Reminds Me of Someone

This one is for Sarge, who said last week that he loves me more than penguins.  Which means a lot.  It also means, I win!

I also happen to think the title of the song is perfect for us.

And I have a bloody good excuse for not posting yesterday.  Really.  Words to follow…

30 Days of Music: A Song That Makes Me Sad

I’ve decided that the only way to get a more random selection of songs than my version of this list is to ask me what song is playing in my head at any given time.  Don’t worry, I won’t make a series out of that trunk of tenuous connections.

I associate this beautiful song with a very ugly, but appropriate to the song time in my life.  To this day when I find it on, I must skip it, turn it off or have a moment to myself.

30 Days of Music: My Least Favourite Song (With Bonus Track)

I don’t even understand why this has its own day, but here you go:

 

And, here’s another one.  I’m not being ironic, I just hate this song, too:

30 Days of Music: My Favourite Song

My quietude may be attributed to:

A.  Getting old(er).

2.  Going gallivanting, and being out of range.

iii. Getting a job.  I now work to make the world a more accessible place.  Yes, really.

Or a mixture of all three.  Yes, I know 30 is not old.  I like being 30, it suits me.  Although, I did recently have to write ‘I’m 30′ for the first time.  I’d never seen it before.  I wrote it, and I said: ‘Holy shit, I’m 30.’  After my shock, I’m good with it again.  30 has already given me a lot to be happy about.

I’ll write up the last few days when I have enough head-space, and enough caffeine in my system to do so.

I’ve been waiting until I’m actually 30 to do the 30 Days of Music, because I’m funny like that.

For now, here’s Billy Joel talking about one of my very favourite, epic-musical-event songs:

Thank You, Muppets!

A little light relief…

 

 

Happy Friday!

Sunday Song: The Trolley Song

This one goes out to the happy, tipsy, singing sixty-somethings on the bus this evening.  And to all of you…

 

 

Your Mom (Mine, Actually)

I talk to my mother on the phone once a week.  She always starts the conversation/answering machine message with:  Hi, it’s Mom.  Like I wouldn’t know it was her.  I’d swear even the ring sounds different when she’s on the other end of the line.  My mother really does have the strongest Long Island accent you could imagine.  Actually, think of one and then multiply it by ten.  You might then have idea what my mother sounds like.  And for the record, I am the only one allowed to make fun of/mimick her accent.  For one, she’s my mother and b. because I am freakishly good at it.

Anyway.  Our conversation last week went something like this:

Ma:  I read your article on the socks.

Me:  It’s a post, but OK.

Ma:  Whatever.  I noticed you didn’t tell them about the socks I make you.

Me:  I know, I’m sorry.  I was on a roll.  And it really wasn’t about the socks.

Ma:  You told them about your Mona Lisa damn socks and your starry socks, but you didn’t tell them about the socks your mother makes and sends every year.  With my own two hands.  Out of love.

Me:  ….  Would you like me to write a post about how I forgot to mention your Christmas socks in a previous post?

Ma:  Oh, no.  You don’t have to.  But that would be nice.

And so.   Every year, my mother sends me three or four pairs of socks.  Other stuff too, but I don’t want to forget about the socks.  She bundles them with ribbons.  And they just might be warmer than my store-bought ones.

One year, she sent the socks and other stuff along with a talking Gilda Radner card.  This card provided hours of out loud laughs and is now simply referred to as The Mom Card.  And it comes from this clip:

Thanks for the socks, Mom.  And the card.  And all that other stuff.  I love you.

My favourite photo of my Mom.

The Dentist

By the time I was 17, I’d had five years of braces, all four wisdom teeth taken out and two root canals, which were the result of my over-zealous orthodontist and his too-tight braces.  Anyway.

Like lifts, if I were afraid of dentists, I’d be screwed.  I’m not afraid of them.  Even with all my previous ‘work’, I hadn’t had a regular old lay-off-the sugar-please cavity, until my new dentist found two last month.

I know the difference between good dentists and bad dentists.  I liked my old one.  My new one is a sadist.

The only time I read tabloids is when I’m in a waiting room.  I was flipping through one on Monday, not particularly nervous.

I wasn’t bothered at all until they called me in.  While I transferred from chair to chair, the dental assistant put her hands on me. On my hips.  Without asking.  Now, I have a, shall we say, Can You Touch This? Questionnaire.

It goes like this:

Did I ask you to help me?

Are you any of the two people who made me?

Do I like you?

Are we friends?

Have we drank/laughed/slept together?

Are you my boyfriend?

If you can’t answer Yes to any of these questions, don’t touch me.  Even to help.  Because I lose my balance when people grab me.  Which doesn’t help.

I told her to let go and got into the chair.  And the dentist said ‘Well done!’ as if I was 3, and not nearly 30.

Getting back to the reason for my visit, even the novocaine jabs hurt, and most of it apparently landed on my tongue.  And I think the dentist got a little to drill-happy.  She said at one point, ‘Oh, look!  There’s still some left!’, and started drilling some more.

And I know that dentists like to talk to you when you can’t really speak.  I was expecting to nod in agreement when she said the weather was turning colder.  But she didn’t mention the weather.  She was more interested in how I took a shower in the morning.  With soap and water, like everyone else.    I didn’t smell of anything except maybe fear, so she had no reason to know my morning routine.

When she finally finished inflicting all kinds of pain, she asked, ‘How are you?’

‘…’Ine.  Ow ur oo?’   I then found my tongue, and said that what just happened was worse than two root canals.  It would have been better if she hadn’t slept through Small Talk 101 in dental school.

I went to the desk to get my 6 month appointment card.  And the receptionist asked if I lived in ‘sheltered housing’.   All housing is sheltered.  The walls, windows and roof keep my boyfriend and I sheltered from inclement weather and ignorant people.  Thanks so much for asking.  Have a nice day.

I came home and watched this.  Even though it hurt to laugh.