I am a music nut, too. And, like you, I drive people crazy and force them to listen to songs that I promise will change their lives. You’ll have to ask Nikki whether she remembers the many sleepovers during which I brought out my big ol’ pile of cassettes. I always sensed she that didn’t share my love for this stuff, but nonetheless I cornered her and forced her to listen to all my favourite songs, feeling on some level that I had actually been the one to discover these musicians (I would frequently sing, too, poor girl). The only thing that has changed is my extroverted nature (and also I don’t have a lot of sleepovers with my girlfriends anymore). In my youth I sang publicly without shame. But at some point I came to the horrible realization that I sound like Marge Simpson (or maybe Grover; tough call). Now I don’t sing in front of anyone except the day care kids; they’re too young to recognize lack of talent. I don’t even sing in Jason’s presence — and he knows all of my many other embarrassing and eccentric details. Occasionally he’s still at home during circle time and he’ll catch me singing Wheels on the Bus or The Little Green Frog (not religious experience-inducing ditties, by the way). Ninja-style, he springs into the room singing, “. . . that’s why birds suddenly appear,” (which is uncannily spot-on . . .). To this ambush I usually respond that he sounds just like someone who doesn’t want to have sex for a while.

Despite the number of children (and therefore unrefined musical tastes) at our house, we’ve managed to maintain a certain amount of dignity in this arena. Eyvi loves Coldplay, Snow Patrol, Nirvana, and Arcade Fire. He also enjoys the Hip and REM. He is on the right track, as far as I’m concerned. Then there’s Anna, Oh Anna. At the age of nine she has already surrendered both her ability and her right to think for herself. She mindlessly follows the Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga, Kesha-loving mob. I can’t think of anything lovelier than happening upon Anna standing on her bed (to achieve a full-body view of herself in the mirror), practicing her best gyrating hip action while singing, “ . . . E’erybody breaking bottles it’s a filthy hot mess . . . and they turn me on when they take it off, everybody take it off.” Beautiful. I’m beginning to long for a return to the days of Hannah Montanna and High School Musical. It was all so innocent and campy. The only bizarre bit of merchandising associated with High School Musical came in the form of underpants. I bought them assuming each pair would feature music notes or pictures of the gals in glittery outfits. Then one morning Anna came out of her room with Zach Ephron’s grinning face plastered over her crotch. I’m not a prude, but that is just plain weird.

I’m about to digress even more with the story of Auntie Holly’s hand-me-downs. Occasionally Jason’s sister passes on clothes that she no longer wants to wear. She’s young and single and has a pretty hot wardrobe. I keep some of them–in a fit of wishful thinking that I might actually deck myself in some of these enticing numbers. One such bag of cast-offs contained a bunch of brand new underwear, price tags still affixed. Each pair featured a little phrase. I’m not a fan of literary underpants so, without thoroughly reviewing the various notations, I set the bag aside with plans to add it to my next Salvation Army donation. At some point Anna stumbled upon the bag and chose a few items for herself. I noticed and approved of her wearing one of the skirts for dress-up; however, unbeknownst to me she was intending to wear several of the items to school—specifically, the panties. At the last minute she surprised me by announcing that maybe she should rethink her underwear; maybe they’re too big, she said, racing back to her room to change before the bus arrived. Later, while collecting her dirty laundry, I picked up the underwear and felt quite grateful for her last-minute wardrobe modification. I would have had some explaining to do had the gym teacher called asking why I would allow Anna to go to school in a thong that reads, “It won’t lick itself.”

So, having said all that completely unrelated pile of nonsense, here are the songs that move/inspire/thrill me:

Pretty Good Year — Tori Amos (and so many others by her . . . she’s so awesome and crazy)
Empty Garden– Elton John
Suzanne — Leonard Cohen
Naked As We Came — Iron and Wine
Babylon — David Grey
New Slang — The Shins
The Eraser – Thom Yorke (and so many others by him . . . he’s so awesome and crazy)
The Cave — Mumford & Sons
Ain’t so Easy — David and David
Brick – Ben Folds Five
How Lucky We Are — Meiko. I’m sure there are others. But I’m finally falling asleep. My eyes are starting to close. Night.