• schwinn 531 elliptical trainer is fully put together. off to bed. #
• I. Need. A. Nap. #

So Allison decided to tag me.  I could act curmudgeonly, but I find it kind of amusing.  I’m not sure what I’ll be able to post here that I haven’t already.  (True story: a candidate for a job came in the other day and said “Hey! I’ve learned a lot about you from your blog.”  Great.)

Do I really need to dredge up Six More Things????

Yo, Hugh, Eileen, Kate, Dalia and The Pope: See below for your responsibilities here: 

OK if you insist.  Here goes.

1. The first girl I ever kissed was named Janae.  I think that’s how you spell her name.  She used to be a next door neighbor.  Then she moved.  That’s as far as that story goes.

2. In the third grade, I had a crush on this girl, Robin.  We would sit in the back of the class holding hands while the teacher led us in military themed sing alongs.  I never saw her again after that year.

3. In the fourth grade, I really liked this other girl, Julie.  We would hang out during recess.  When school ended, I found out we were moving to a bigger town and a different school.  I rode my bike by her house a couple of times that summer but never worked up the courage to ring the bell.  I have no idea what became of her.

4. There was this girl in Junior High — Rosie — who was odd.  We used to pass notes back and forth to each other.  They would be folded like arrows and had things like “TLF” and “TLA”.  This was the seventh grade when Forever and Always seemed like manageable periods of time.  It turns out she was also a bit violent.  She once dragged me down the hall by the scruff of my neck.  That was the end of the notes.

5. Once, in high school, a girl asked me to give her a ride home.  It was standard issue Idaho winter: sunny, bright, cold as hell and packed snow on the road.  I totally liked her and my head was awash with possibilities.  She told me a little late to “turn here” in front of her house and when i turned I ended up going into several complete spins.  The front of my car slammed into a 6′ tall snowbank and bent the fender far enough down that I couldn’t move the car.  I had to bend it back out.  It pretty much killed any possibility of non-car related activities.

6.  I’ve never really like beets.

That’s it.  Instead of bloggers, let’s get some comment writers involved.  Yo, Hugh, Eileen, Kate, Dalia and The Pope.  Between the six of you I’m sure we can come up with something.

OK so Southern California reader Dalia is the 80’s Albums for Poetry Contest winner. Hurray! Congratulations Dalia and a big THANK YOU to everyone who participated.  It would not have been a poetry contest without you.

Here’s the winning poem, reproduced for your enjoyment.

My Freakin’ Albums

My albums are sitting in boxes,
Untouched since our last westward move
Just taking up space in the closet
Until I will once again groove

To harmonies bred in the sixties,
To disco-fied seventies funk,
To Bono and Bruce in the eighties…
To me, not one disc here is junk.

But progress stepped in to change music,
Advancing from what it once was.
Old records were now viewed as clumsy,
And full of distortion and fuzz.

Cassette tapes invaded my Wherehouse,
CDs then took over the world.
I still kept my albums and played them,
I twisted, watusi’d and twirled.

But growing up left me less playtime.
First college, then working, then kids.
I found much less time to spin vinyl,
My discs would soon be on the skids.

My friends thought that I was a geezer,
‘Cuz I still played LPs without shame.
I was now a 33-year-old woman
Who played 33s just the same.

I packed them in crates when my husband
Decided to move us out west.
At first, I got scared that he’d sold them,
But he told me this only in jest.

He lifted a lifetime of records
And dragged them from this house to that.
The Stones, Steppenwolf, and Santana,
And Carole and Carly and Cat.

My kids always grinned at my records,
And watched as they spun round and round.
They liked all the crackling and popping,
The raw imperfection of real sound.

Despite the CD revolution,
Though my Barbie turntable seemed lame,
I was now a 45-year-old woman
Who played 45s just the same.

But over the years I got lazy,
And slid into playing CDs.
My stereo needle was broken;
I could not replace that with ease.

And after our last move, I never
Unpacked Dylan or the Grateful Dead.
They’ve taken up most of a closet
That should store some clothing instead.

My coveted boxes hold Beatles,
And “Thriller”and “Bat Out of Hell.”
The guiltiest pleasures of all are the Ronco collections
And “Super Bad” by K-Tel.

Sometimes, when the house is all empty,
I open the boxes and sigh.
I flip through the albums, remembering
Why each I decided to buy.

The covers remind me of places
I was when those records were new.
I still hear the songs, see the faces
Of people I long ago knew.

Don’t ask me to give up my records,
They hold memories with which I can’t part.
They belong in that space in the closet
And belong in that space in my heart.