Such A Pretty Boy

It was the day after Thanksgiving. Snow was falling, the smell of burning wood filtered from chimneys and fireplaces were surrounded by red-nosed children with cups of hot cocoa and marshmallows. Deer were coming down from the mountains to forage and icicles were forming on the roofs of the cabins littering the base.

Mr. J and I had our second Thanksgiving dinner at our friends Jessica and Kyle's condo, which is down the street from ours in our small Utah ski village. We laughed, we ate, I ducked when Jess showed me her new pocket pistol and began to gesture with it in her hand. After I'd almost been shot three times Kyle replaced the gun with her glass of wine, my shoulders eased away from my ears and I listened to my conservative friend tell me about her new NRA aspirations. We giggled an hour later when Kyle came back from walking the dogs and removed the pistol from his waistband while he shook the snow from his boots and took off his Elmer Fudd hat, "Mountain Lions. You can't be too careful."

"Right."

After a chocolate-flavored nightcap in a thick mug we ducked into the snow and I followed Mr. J to Jess and Kyle's driveway. I got into the car, made sure my seat belt was buckled tight and waited with an eery sense of expectation.

Twenty seconds later one side of our car was in a snow bank, the other side on four inches of ice and the wheels were spinning.

I smiled.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything. Shall I go get Jess and Kyle?"

"No, let me try to get it out first."

"Ok." My syllable came out in a sing-song melody and Mr. J shook his head, annoyed.

He pulled dead branches from naked trees and began to shove them under the tires. The car bucked against the ice. Towels were pulled from the trunk, used to clear snow and quickly discarded in a pile. An unwanted rug was dragged from the dumpster and I thought of Aladdin as I watched it fly from the back of the car and roughly twenty feet down the road.

"Man, I could have ridden that thing down to the stop sign. Can you do it again?"

Mr. J ignored me, "Can you walk back to the garage and see if there's a snow shovel lying around?"

I cupped my hand to my ear, "I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of the spinning tires."

"Shut up."

I smiled, slid down the driveway, rummaged through the garage and then climbed the three flights to Jess and Kyle's condo. Kyle opened the door, "Uh oh. What did you forget?"

"A snow shovel."

He laughed, "We'll come help you."

They dressed quickly and I was thrilled to see that Jess left her pocket pistol in the condo. I didn't know how she'd find a way to incorporate her new gunslinging training, but somehow I pictured us crouched behind the dumpster glaring at a target. I also imagined that I would have to make sure that target wasn't on my person when Jess began gesturing wildly.

Mr. J looked a little embarrassed when we approached the car, tires still spinning.

"Wow, what a beautiful car."

I laughed.

Jess looked up and quickly offered, "Well, it certainly looks good while it... sits there. In the snow. I mean, if you're going to get a car stuck I guess it should be pleasant to look at while it... sits. In the snow." She smiled.

Mr. J shook his head at me with a silly grin on his handsome face, "Ms. J, what a stupid idea this was."

I smiled, "Yes, it was very dumb of me to trade in my 4WD SUV for a flashy BMW, wasn't it? What was I thinking, what with the vacation condo in the mountains, the ice storms, the dogs that come with us, the skis, the mountain bikes and a deadly S-curve before the village? What was I thinking?

"Alright, alright. Enough, already."

Just then Mr. J slid behind the car in his leather-bottomed elf shoes that were all the rage when he purchased them around the same time he bought his $200 jeans with embroidery on the pockets, "This is embarrassing."

"Because you're a girl? I even have rubber soles. Do you need me to push the car? I'd hate for you to fall or like... wrinkle something."

"Shut up."

Just then a neighbor in a large SUV with 4WD, I might add, pulled up, "You need some help? I have a tow rope and can pull you out."

We were elated. This man with the Sorrels and the ski bib would help get our shiny new car out of the snow. He could even rest in the back seat if he got tired. It was already prepped for him; covered in sheets to keep the plush leather from being spoiled from snow, dog hair and the edges of our skis.

He smiled and looked the car over, "Used to be we had metal bumpers and I'd just push you, but I don't think you want me pushing that car."

I giggled. Mr. J looked as if he could fold into his Zara sweater, which he purchased in Manhattan on an accidental shopping spree. Accidental in that it was supposed to be my shopping spree, although I spent more time sitting in chairs while he rubbed cashmere and wood blend sweaters between his fingers, "This is so soft." Jess nudged me and I whispered, "I am so happy this is happening. I told him it was a mistake to get rid of the 4WD."

Mr. J tucked his well-dressed tail between his legs, we made it home and the next day I watched him stare out the window of the ski lodge with Kyle at his side.

"What do you think? The snow is coming down pretty fast."

"You can try now, but if you hit a patch of ice you'll skid into a car. Maybe you should wait until the lifts close and you can be the last ones out of the parking lot."

"I think we should go now. I don't want it to get dark because the roads will be even more slick."

There was a long pause while the guys eyed the storm, the wall of white you couldn't even see through.

"I really thought you got the BMW SUV."

"Nope."

"Hmmm."

I laughed.

Jess leaned over, "You have to stop laughing at him."

"Why? He's a motard. Wait. Will you shoot me if I don't?"

She laughed, "It wasn't loaded."

"That's what they say before someone shoots their teeth out of their mouth."

"I took a safety class."

"Were you drinking a glass of wine at the same time you were rolling around on the floor, muzzling targets and using the word Glock?"

"Did I say Glock?"

"Like five times."

The boys walked up and we said our goodbyes. I wondered if Jess was packing heat under her ski jacket as I hugged her, "Let us know when you leave tomorrow. Maybe we should have you follow us down. Maybe I should ride with you. On second thought, maybe I should take my chances with a car crash as opposed to a gunshot wound."

Both Jess and Mr. J scowled at me, faces twisted up in mock smiles.

We made it down, Mr. J white knuckling it through the S-curve and the next twelve miles of country road.

Brake light shining the whole way.

"You're like a little old lady."

"Shut up."

I shut up.

But, I certainly didn't stop laughing.

All the way home.

I'm Scrappy

Ok, so maybe that's not what Sarah meant when she nominated me for the Honest Scrap Award. I did warn her that I like the word scrappy and while I downloaded the above image I will admit I imagined myself in a fisticuffs with a boy. I looked like a pageboy from Newsies in this daydream and I ended the beating in a song about how tough I am while he limped away with a black eye and busted lip. I jumped over crates, clicked my heels four feet off the ground and then the lead from the Disney movie I just embarrassed myself over gave me a kiss, no tongue, because it is Disney and we're chaste and scrappy like that.

I digress.

I have to now share ten honest things about myself (was my daydream not enough?) and pass this lovely gift on to ten other Honest, Upstanding and "Scraptastic" (Sarah is known for making up words) bloggers.

Here we go, kids:

1. I want to be a vampire. Or a Lycan. I know I've blogged about being a ninja, but I need something that started as a virus in my veins as opposed to something that required years of training, a few busted boards and a diet high in protein and low in vino. It doesn't help that I am watching Underworld: Rise of the Lycan as I type this and Kate just finished boning a Lycan on a cliff.

2. I have an overactive imagination.

3. I do not like sushi. There, I said it. I have tried to pretend and I am tired of being made fun of because of my California Roll. I am empowered and do not have to like it, fad mongers.

4. I am an emotional girl, a softie, if you will. Now, tell anyone else and I will cut you.

5. I still feel weird referring to myself as a woman at times. I am either too immature for that just yet or I am unwilling to see the crow's foot around my right eye.

6. I don't like talking on planes. Not even to people traveling with me. It is my time to read and judge my seat mates.

7. I worry about the future of our world and the men that can change it. I think we're becoming a dystopian novel.

8. I love giving gifts at Christmas. I don't care what I receive in return or if I do. It is the most wonderful feeling to select something for someone because you think they will like it and for no other reason. It is my drug.

9. I am so competitive that I think it is almost unhealthy, but I don't know how to change it. Arm wrestle, anyone?

10. I think women should be more willing to discuss things like corns. I was so happy when Chelsea Handler started talking about them on her show. If you rock the mad stilettos your feet are just mad at you, period. Sisters, join forces. It is time to come out of hiding and talk about our calloused phalanges.

Now, my other "Scraptastic" Friends:

La Belette Rouge - likely the most honest blogger I've come across and a kindred spirit, at that.

My dear Grey Street Girl. The honest is both in her photographs and her words.

One Sassy Girl at Hot Piece of Sass. Enough said.

Eternally Distracted. A look into the life of a woman abroad.

Jenny Mac at Let's Have A Cocktail. No need for introduction. Her stories are hilariously honest.

Purple Clover. My little sister and someone who shares my viruses. We're competitive, we're honest. We know it no other way.

The affable LiLa. Honest with a D-Bag O-Meter. I'm scared of them.

Katie and Sarah Frances at Plot This. I love their very honest blogs about the writing process, mixed with a love of all things fried.

Kimberly Derting. Love her Road to Publication and adorable remarks about weirdos who come up and want to talk about their sidewalk to publication.

And last, but certainly not least...

Weronika Janczuk. I just adore the honest posts from this lovely girl.

Now, I hope you will all find a way to imagine this award into some form of musical. If not, I am sad for you.

Truly, I am.

'Scuse me while I go practice my Broadway debut of West Side Story. I only want to be in the knife fight that includes high kicks.

Sharks..... Jets....

The Great Apple Pie Inquisition

The turkey had been gobbled, the cranberries devoured, the sweet potatoes went down easy. Tyler, my nephew, had just asked for a slice of apple pie. I made sure it was small, keeping in mind that my sister in law, Raimey, and I are splitting the pie so we can both have it for breakfast for the next few days. It was delivered to him with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a pat on the head. He looked up and scowled.

"I no want it."

"I thought you wanted pie."

"No! Take it away."

We'd all settled into the couch with plates full of sugar. Mr. J assured him in his best uncle voice that he could leave it on the table and we would take it away in a few minutes. The word "buddy" was utilized. Tyler began to cry. This goes on for a few minutes until Mr. J gets up and takes the plate.

"You don't want anymore?"

"No."

"Ok, I'm throwing it away." Mr. J kept his eyes on Tyler as he walked to the kitchen and held the plate over the trash, "You're sure?"

"No, I don't want it."

Mr. J threw it in the trash and suddenly Tyler started screaming, "I want that!"

Another plate was put together, topped with ice cream and again the walk to the trash can and the tears. As you can see in the pictures above, it ended in a stand off...

...and Mr. J's consumption of a three year old's apple pie while he stood and watched.

Crying.

Boys will be boys.

All Mine

Pajamas and bags and fuzzy robes, oh my!

So began my annual Christmas list.

Mr. J will occasionally call out to me from his end of the couch, "What are you doing now, Little?" I usually chirp something along the lines of, "Writing," or "Reading a blog," or "Playing on Facebook." Last week when he asked I kept my eyes on the screen as I answered him with the same sing-song voice I usually do.

"Making my Christmas list."

I felt his eyes shift my way, "For whom?"

"Santa," pronounced Saan-ta, emphasis on both syllables.

"Why are you making a Christmas list? It isn't even Thanksgiving yet."

"Your mom sent Derek a request on Facebook to send her his Christmas list. I'm just getting mine ready. I'm keeping it as a draft so that I can add to it as I remember things."

"Derek is stationed in Iraq. You are a princess on a leather couch. How long is this Christmas list?"

"Oh, it's just a few things. I don't know why you're acting weird. Your mom asks us all for a list every year."

"Let me see."

I handed Mr. J the computer and he begin to scan my selection.

Black Uggs for Utah (sweater style or regular)

New robe from VS

Two pairs of Victoria Secret pajamas (warm)

Gym bag (Amie is probably getting me this)

Banana Republic or Martin and Osa gift cards

Banana Republic Eliza Slouch boot in taupe

Banana Republic Harley Studded handbag in taupe

Anything Louis Vuitton (kidding... except for you, Mr. J - Happy Anniversary/Birthday/Christmas to me)

"Are you kidding me?"

I held my hands out and made my eyes go wide so I would seem innocent or something,"What?"

He began to tabulate my list, "How much are Victoria's Secret PJ's?"

"Probably like $50 or something," I scooted over toward him and pointed to the line he was missing, "You notice I put 'Two pairs.'" I smiled, "Since I don't do laundry often."

"Two pairs, hm?"

"Two pairs."

"You already have Uggs."

"They're two years old and they're worn out. Besides, they're tan. I need black ones for Brian Head. The snow makes them all grungy."

"What about this bag?"

"It's $230 and goes with those boots."

"So you want the bag and the boots?"

"Think of it as a matching set."

"Ms. J, this list totals $1200."

"Well, that's before the Louis Vuitton." I laughed, he choked.

"This list is ridiculous."

I didn't even roll my eyes, "These are things I want to buy right now. I could buy them for myself tomorrow or I could be responsible and ask for them for Christmas. You're always telling me to be responsible. If you think of it - it's really a self-sacrificing act on my part. I'm waiting to wear these things until Christmas. I mean, I could buy them now and give you another list. Your call."

"Please don't send this to my mother."

I looked at my poor, clueless husband and very slowly answered him, "The last list you sent her had a Ferrari and real estate on it."

"She knows I'm kidding."

"Well, asking for pajamas is not unreasonable. She can buy me a set and your sister can buy me the second one. With slippers. The big ticket items were directed toward you. You know.. Christmas, the Anniversaries you forget? I deserve some Louis for the two years worth of missed Anniversary cards at the very least."

"What happened to Christmas being about family?"

"Dude, your nephew showed me a catalog of toys he's asking for from Santa when he writes his letter. Are you going to have the same talk with him?"

Mr. J shook his head, "He's three."

I smiled and took my laptop back. Technically I'm three too. Three, in that this is only my third real Christmas.

Don't get me wrong, I have not forgotten the reason behind the season. I cook until my hands pucker from washing them between the brining, the cranberry sauce, the homemade pies. I love to buy gifts based on things I've observed throughout the year. There is nothing better than surprising someone with something they didn't even realize they wanted. My chest swells when I see my niece and nephew giggle. I also force our family and friends to do one selfless act for those who do not get to experience the same kind of Christmas we do. Sometimes we have Christmas with homeless teenagers. This year we will be giving the Make A Wish kids the best party they've seen.

But, every year since I've joined Mr. J's family I have been asked for a list. At first it bothered me, thinking that it was too impersonal, too commercial. I was new to Christmas, having been raised without it and the asking of things was uncomfortable. Then Mr. J bought me a velvet bag with a rose on it and a pair of jeans with rhinestones on the butt.

Out came the list.

There are other lists.

Like the list of items we'll be preparing for Thanksgiving. I hijacked that too, "I want my mashed potatoes lumpy, please. I'll make the turkey and everyone should follow the recipes that will be delivered to your inboxes shortly."

I discussed the Christmas List and the Thanksgiving Menu with a co-worker today. He squeezed my shoulder, "You do know you don't own these holidays, right?"

I paused, but just for a moment before my head snapped up, "Yes I do. I didn't get them before and now they're all mine."

All mine.

Truth be told I couldn't care less if I got any boots, PJ's or Louis. Those things certainly didn't mean anything to me last year when the economy canceled Christmas for most.

It is the moment we all sit down across the table from one another and toast another year. We pass our lumpy potatoes, we laugh and I remember that I'm part of something bigger than me. It is bigger than a list or a tale told to the toe head who is prepping his list for Santa right this minute.

I am given the gift of family, of laughter and of love.

All mine.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. Enjoy your loved ones.

I Am The Queen

Of what, you ask?

I made a pithy comment about how adorable Lisa and her Cleveland Rocks accent are and she apparently has a problem accepting compliments. Instead she obsessed over the accent thing until we were fighting in comments sections. I told her she was on crack, others voiced their opinions (in my favor, I might add) and we finally had to settle it in the trash mags. Ok, fine. People and US did not call us and we have not released rap albums answering each other's challenges. Just an aside - I so would have the more gangsta album and my sales would be fierce. 50 Cent would call me to collaborate on a book and a new fragrance. Just to annoy my husband I would riddle the tracks with the word "shorty." But, alas, that is the next argument.

This time?

We took it to the people.

LiLa's followers submitted words which I massaged into a masterpiece. It was then delivered to the third Roecker, Stacey, for safekeeping. They posted the vlog this morning.

It is a work of art.

Who do you know that can get aardvark and flan into a script without sounding desperate, really?

Go vote, kids. It's time to shut this debate down and pronounce me Queen of...

Well, I haven't figured that part out yet.

My Twenties Couch

It is a new day.

Today is the day I am getting rid of my single girl couch.

My twenties have been leaving me a thing at a time.

First it was the Volkswagen Jetta. I was sad to see it go and wallowed in the fact that a single girl's car explained her job status. So said my Ex-boyfriend, Sam, "Girls start with Saturns, sometimes move to a Honda Civic, but by the time they get a Jetta they are no longer a flashing red light." I think he forgot to add, "...and may not even be asking dad for money anymore."

Mr. J didn't understand, "You're trading it in for a Boxster. Why are you being such a girl about it?"

I pouted as I watched the dealership man drive off with my black leather seats, my first sunroof, the upgraded stereo system and sports package, "It was the first car I bought by myself with no help from dad. I used my very first ever grown up girl stock options for the down payment."

"What was the stock trading at when you sold?"

I rolled my eyes, "Not the point."

I mourned my Jetta when I would see a single girl with shiny lips and fun music blaring from her sunroof. She was energetic, exciting and carefree. Then I saw my Ex-boyfriend in the parking garage and felt my nose climb an inch or two, my eyebrows become fixed and my left wrist dangled from the top of the steering wheel, arm straight, pimp lean while I shifted gears with my right hand. I made sure to rev the engine extra high as I rumbled past him with my top down.

So, what's it say when the girl drives a Porsche, asshole?

I'd smile to myself, imagining that he went into his office, closed the door and started crying into his post it notes, What was I thinking? She is such a fucking stud.

Shortly after I stopped parking the Jetta in my driveway, I sold the driveway.

"Why are you so upset about selling this house? It is tiny!"

"It's my single girl house! I bought it by myself with no help from anyone. I picked out the floor plan, the paint, the baseboards, the shutters, the everything."

"It is the size of a tin can. It is already too small for us and we only got a dog."

"I know, but still... It was the first house I bought by myself."

I sold it to a good friend, a single guy who adores it as much as I did. I felt a solitary tear well in my right eye when his priest, Father Bill, sprinkled Holy Water around the structure last week, blessing it and praying that it be filled with Christian values. I tilted my bowed head and peeked over at new owner sideways. He knew what I was thinking, Thank goodness Father Bill never came over when it was my single girl house. He would have burst into flames in the doorway. I crossed my eyes, he laughed and we both closed our eyes before we were caught.

Now that I have a grown up house and a grown up job, a grown up car and a grown up list of bills to pay it is time to let go of the last tangible piece of my past. Mr. J and I hired designers to decorate our house and I like to refer to them by their true calling - marriage counselors. Too many fights were had in the flooring section of Home Depot, so Kevin and Charles sat down with us and tried to make our marriage work. The result is a modern piece of heaven with a contemporary twist that keeps my husband from imploding. He can only handle so many clean lines and brushed metal details before he starts looking a little wild eyed.

I feel that I need to appropriately eulogize my single girl furniture. You see, right after the Jetta and way before the house I only had an apartment. There was nothing on the walls, a TV on the floor and a moving box that was my coffee table, kitchen table and catch all. I budgeted and bought the most comfortable couch, chair and ottoman I could find at RC Willey. That is where I slept, I was sick, I made out with numerous boys and it was the cornerstone of all sorts of happenings in my single girl life. Amie and I watched The Bachelor while we curled our feet in the cushiony goodness of the pillows and ate PF Chang's. I broke up on the couch, I cried on the couch, I read on the couch and I began to write my book on the couch. It is where I nap during the day, where I took up residence the day I found out I miscarried and where me and my little rescue dog, Ginger, lay when we want to look up at the sky through the tall windows that will soon be covered in ultra-expensive fabric.

Sadly, it no longer "goes" and it is so large that there is nowhere to put it or it's siblings.

And, so today I put it on Craiglist.

"Free Sofa, Chair and Ottoman to a good home."

Fifteen people called and another five or so emailed us within thirty minutes. To be fair we gave it to the first callers, which I am not happy about. The lady was crazy and droned on and on into the phone just as I got an email from a girl whose voice I'd also heard on Mr. J's voicemail, "Hi, this is Brooke. Could you call me about your couch?" She sounded maybe twenty and her email was filled with exclamation points and sent directly from an iPhone. Another young girl in need of a couch like mine - one to muddle through your twenties on. I immediately emailed her, "We are giving it to the first person we heard from, but if she doesn't show or changes her mind I will call you." I looked at Mr. J, "I want to give it to Brooke."

Whomever it is that ends up coming by tomorrow night will likely see it as an overstuffed, slightly shabby set of beginner furniture. They will not see the life I've lived on it.

I hope that it brings the new owner as many memories as it has me.

I don't know that the new couch can live up to my Twenties Couch, being from Bloomingdales and all.

But, oh how I hope it will.

Shorty Doobie Do Down Down

Visiting the local cable company customer service center is a cross between visiting the DMV, applying for social services and reporting your passport stolen at a US Embassy in a third world country. This is the reason I never had TiVo. They wouldn't deliver the box outside of the hours 9-5, Monday thru Friday and I refused to get the vaccines required for pickup.

That is until Mr. J decided that we had to install the most ridiculous home theatre system in the history of the universe. Ridiculous in that he decided to take an internet crash course in installation and I want to throw remote controls at him from my perch on the couch. As I write I have already been interrupted three times while he asks me to plug in something, untangle something else and remember that Center is Far Right and Surround Right is Middle.

Yours truly is the only one on our account, hence three phone calls throughout the course of the day, "Have you picked up the box yet?"

"No. I could get the swine flu."

"Just go. I need that box today. At least you're insured so if you do get it we can afford the meds and if you die I will be able to mourn to prerecorded TV."

"I'm very busy and important. You pick it up."

"I would. If I was on the account. Would you rather call customer service and spend an hour or drop by and pick it up on your way home?"

"I hate you."

I pulled into the parking lot and sighed as I stared at the conversion vans filling the first three rows, children spilling from them with juicy cups and food in their hair. I walked into the tan concrete building to find a security guard sitting on a chair to keep the violence at a minimum, "What are you here for?"

"I need to get TiVo."

"We don't have TiVo. You'll have to settle for DVR."

"Ok. Who do I talk to?" I looked around, hoping to see a group of Best Buy Geeks or Apple guys with lanyards and a desire to upsell me an iPhone.

He pointed over my shoulder to a machine that spat out numbers, "Get a number, have a seat and someone will be with you shortly."

I turned to find that the menu was in Spanish and turned around, "Um, which one do I push for TiVo?"

"DVR?"

"Right."

"Third one down."

"Fantastic."

I used my knuckle to push the third one down, afraid that if I used my fingertip and then mistakenly touched my face I would end up with pink eye or a raging case of herpes by morning. I stepped over two little girls that were rolling on their bellies with ring pops in their mouths and found a chair that did not look like someone died and decomposed in it. I looked up to find that the entire row of gangsters to my right were staring at me and I flashed to the movie "Taken" where foreigners are sold into the sex trade. I imagined that I would be pulled from under the bank of chairs, the little girls with the cherry red mouths watching me while Liam Neeson told me to calm down, "They're going to take you." I'd likely end up in the back of one of the conversion vans in the parking lot and leave behind a husband who would mourn his inability to record TV shows without commercials.

I began to rifle through my "pacifier," known by some as a cell phone. I checked Facebook, Twitter and wondered if I should post a status update, "If I don't update my status in thirty minutes, my last known whereabouts were the corner of Rancho and Washington in the Cox Customer Service building."

My number was called and I made my way to a makeshift table at the front of the room, an afterthought. Windows 1-8 were in a teller row, while windows 9 and 10 were card tables with computers. "Window 9" was written on a sheet of printer paper and scotch taped to the back of the monitor.

A forty-ish black woman with braids asked what she could do to help me.

"I need TiVo."

"We can set you up for DVR."

"Oh, right. Yes, please."

She clicked on some things, typed in some things and bobbed her head while the Isley brothers crooned from a TV screen behind her, which was set in a bank. Every screen was a different channel, but they were all muted. Soul Classics was not.

I motioned to the screen, "Is that your channel?"

She smiled sweetly, "No. I like the R&B channel, but the girl at Window 10 likes Soul. It's good though. Who can go wrong with the Isley Brothers?"

"My channel is 905. R&B. My ex-boyfriend set it up so whenever we turn on the TV that channel comes on automatically. It drives my husband nuts because he can't figure out how to re-program it and it's been five years."

She laughed, "He doesn't like R&B?"

"It's not his favorite, but he'll listen to my stations for a while. Until someone says 'shorty.' That's the rule. If the song has the word shorty in it he gets to change the station."

She laughed and leaned in, "How old is he?"

"34."

"Ah, not his language. What does he listen to?"

"Country. Drives me bananas. I like some of it. They're good storytellers, but half the time we're driving down the road and I'm crying because someone's grandfather taught him about life and died."

"My dad listened to country. I like a few bands. You ever hear that Rascal Flatts song about how if you play a country song backwards you get your wife back, your car back...? That song is hilarious! My dad really influenced my love of music, so I listen to everything. I'm going to see the Doobie Brothers soon!"

"Oh, if you like the Doobie Brothers you have to check out Earl Turner at Palace Station. I made my husband go. He sings some old school MoTown, R&B and soul. You would love it! At first he was like, 'I can't believe you're making me go to this,' but he was dancing and singing along by the end."

"I'll have to take my sister to that. She used to get so mad because me and my dad would go to shows together. I told her the other day that I was excited to see the Doobie Brothers because me and dad saw it once. She got really mad, 'I don't want to talk about that.' See, she went off to college so she never came to the shows with us. Now our dad is passed on and it hurts her that I have memories that she doesn't."

"Well, they're your memories to have. I'm the same way with my dad. He lives in Florida. We used to go driving when I'd had a rough day or something bad had happened. We'd listen to the radio and sing along. He used to sing Beatles songs to me all the time. I saw Love by Cirque du Soleil and cried because it reminded me of my dad and I missed him so much. Oh, and I saw Hall and Oates with an old boyfriend. He was quite a bit older than me and I was singing and dancing and he asked me how I knew all the words. I told him it was because my dad loved Hall and Oates. He didn't like that so much."

We both laughed, "Girl, I bet he didn't!" She pushed a new DVR box toward me, "You're all set. Everything is programmed. It was fun talking to you."

"You too! Have fun at the Doobie Brothers and make sure you go see Earl Turner!"

"I will! And, you tell your man that you are his shorty."

I laughed. She laughed. We both sank into the memories of our fathers, the memories of music and I didn't even notice the bank of dirty chairs or anyone else as I floated out the door. I was simply high on the human condition, a simple conversation and the melody of life lived out loud.

I hummed all the way home.

Tomorrow I'm going to call my dad.