Fudgsicle. Fudgsicle. Fudgsicle. Fudgsicle. Fudgsicle. Fudgsicle.
"Somewhere Down the Crazy River" from Robertson's 1987 self-titled record. This song used to come on Lightning 100 back when it was gorgeously void of adverts for Team Green or plugs for Shayne Co., it was just really, really good music with a spirit of newness. How did I know this as a mere chunk of a middle schooler? Easy. I had a cool mom and a cool big sister who knew. I learned fast.
We always had to leave the house really early to get Angela to Hillwood by 7am, so we had some enjoyable morning routines including strong coffee (in actual mugs, not travel cups - that's for amateurs) from a young age and Peanut Butter Kudos bars for breakfast from time to time. What, you ask? They're granola, right? Really healthy. It's just that they're also layered with the sugariest kind of peanut butter available and then covered in a thick layer of chocolate. That's all. Quite delectable when dipped in hot coffee, but be careful or the chocolate melts and drips all over your nicely ironed white jeans and periwinkle sweater vest.
While we nibbled our well-balanced breakfasts and chatted from front seat to back, songs like this one crept into our repertoires and brought about several cassette tape purchases. I've had this song on repeat, loving the backtracking sensation it offers. There's a creepy tone in his speaking voice, melancholy, spookish lyrics that I remember well. Moderation, dear girl. Turn it off now, lest you ruin it.
A full slip, a vintage one purchased at an antique mall. When I pulled it over my head this morning I was reminded of all of those Sunday mornings of my youth. Shoes polished, curls coiffed, skirt pleats ironed, knee socks straight, white slips. There's something about a full slip that makes a girl feel more sleek and lovely than a half slip. Half slips can get all bunchy and twisted. Full slips -- the right kind -- don't go anywhere. They stay put and make one feel a bit more slick and in-place. Proper-like. I have fond memories of mom at the ironing board in her slip, and I did the same thing this morning. Cup of coffee, lamp light, slip and bare feet, Nat King Cole, iron. I sure like this brand of ritual.
I might have been wrong for a few years now.
Billy's safe return. What a stinker. Mom went in a sad shuffle out to the back yard yesterday after school, not giving up hope entirely but still not filled with it. She bent over to pull weeds and began to talk in Billy-language. This, as you may not be familiar with it, is our special tone of voice we use with the dearest cat in the world, Billy Blue. He recognizes it quickly and if he hears it, he pays attention. So as mom was standing on her head in the grass, pulling and praying, he must have heard. She stood straight and saw him sitting there in the green, just chillin.'
So we popped a cork and enjoyed a champagne toast to the glad news. Then we brushed Billy with his burr-filled fur within an inch of his life. He loved every minute, then perched on the back of the couch for a good long snooze. We really will look for any reason to celebrate, but this one was extra-special.