Dear Fan of F-berg

I love hate mail, but I love it especially when the author, as is usually the case, doesn't have the balls to identify him or herself, but I allow these comments to be published without my approval as it makes for some good comedy (and why is it always about the most random celebrities?). Attached below, in its entirety, is the comment received on yesterday's post concerning the song "Same Auld Lang Syne"

This blog entry can only have been written by someone with no depth or soul. If you had ever taken the time to listen to Dan Fogelberg's music, you would find that there is serious genius there. Some of his songs are complete poetic and musical masterpieces. I have been a fan for most of my life, and it infuriates me when someone judges him on the basis of a few songs that the radio played. The song you are ripping to shreds is not a happy song, that's true, but despite your inability to appreciate his use of words to paint pieces of truth, the song still expresses a piece of the human journey. We are defined by our choices, and people with depth sometimes reflect and reconsider what might have been if they had chosen differently.
Buy yourself a copy of "Captured Angel" or "Netherlands" or "The Innocent Age". Give them a fair listen and maybe you won't be such a mean mommy.

I don't know what your name is, obviously, so I will call you Fan of F-berg.

Dear Fan of F-berg,

Let me send you a heartfelt apology for insulting someone you feel is a musical god - so much so that your fervor has blinded you to the fact that I am not debasing your All Mighty's entire career, but rather one song I find to be a bad choice on the part of the dj, when included in the holiday playlist, so calm the hell down.

And while I appreciate your suggestion that I purchase some of Folgelberg's music to broaden my musical horizons, I have, as already admitted, "the musical sensibilities of a strip club dj", so your efforts are lost on me. I do not judge you for your love of F-berg, so do not judge me for my love of DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince.

FOF, you obviously were born without a snark nerve or had yours severed in some tragic consciousness-raising accident, so either have it repaired or get the hell off my blog. We don't take ourselves, or the things we love, too seriously here and have no room for those who do. The soulless, however, are welcome.

And as for your pithy closing remark, should we ever cross paths in real life, FOF, I will personally show you how mean a mommy I can be.

Merry Christmas! Oh shit. You'd probably find that offensive too. Happy Holidays!

Mean Mommy

Dan Fogelberg - Slayer of Buzzes

You may not realize it, but you know who Dan Fogelberg* is.  He's the balladeer responsible for the Ambien of Christmas songs "Same Auld Lang Syne" and not the good one you make out with your husband to on New Year's Eve after too much Veuve (OK, maybe that's just me), but the craptastic 1980's ode to lost love and uncomfortable ex run-ins.

Just when you're getting your groove on to the The Ronettes "Sleigh Ride", like a record scratch the opening bars of this atrocity begin and any yuletide cheer you may have been feeling is sucked right out of you as you hear the tinny piano and the opening line "Met my old lover at the grocery store..."  Eeew.  Please, don't ever use that word again.  You are neither old nor European so find another term.

The scenario described in the song only gets worse, and more depressing, from there.  "I stole behind her in frozen foods.."  One, do you really think any hit song includes the term "frozen foods" and, two, stalker much?  How 'bout walking right up to her and saying hello?  Or are you afraid the statute of limitations hasn't expired on that restraining order?

Apparently, Fogelberg is not a felon and the two of them decide they need to catch up on old times and have a drink.  Not that her frozen foods are going to spoil or anything.  Finding no open watering holes (are they in Utah?) they opt for some brews in her car.  Here's where it gets ugly.  The old flame basically admits she's in a loveless gold-digger situation.  And apparently said meal-ticket doesn't mind when she says she's going out for some frozen peas and doesn't come back for three hours.  Curious, why F-berg picked "architect" as the husband's profession.  There are plenty three-syllable professions that earn big cash and have a bit more glamour, but I suppose that's the point.  To make Dan the better man, the ball and chain has to be boring and not too impressive, and therefore, deserving of our disdain.  "Said she married her a stockbroker...a brain surgeon...a rap singer", too competitive with the Danny's ego.

So after some lame attempts to seduce the love-starved booty of his youth, Fogelberg resorts to some false modesty concerning his rock star status, as he croons with smug superiority "The audience is heavenly, but the traveling is hell".   Shut up, Dan, I don't see any paparazzi so you musn't be that famous.

"The beers were empty and our tongues grew tired."  Again, eeew.  No, Dan, she's quiet because she is now vividly recalling all the reasons she broke up with your sorry ass and trying to make up a reasonable-sounding  excuse to tell her sweet lovable Mike Brady-type guy when she gets home with a melted pint of Chunky Monkey and some ruined Hot Pockets.  So she kicks his ass out of the car and she screeches away back to her now much appreciated life.

And then the closing line "The snow turned into raaaaiiiin."  Does someone have a gun so I can kill myself?  Pills?  A noose?  And now I'm supposed to listen to Burl Ives sing "Holly Jolly Christmas"?  Thanks a lot, jackass.

So, seriously, dj's everywhere.  Retire this piece of crap.  It rivals George Michael's "Last Christmas" in it's inappropriate-subject-matter-for-a-holiday-song theme.  Happiness, not tracking down ex's on Facebook, as this song would have us all do, is what the season's all about.  

*In my research I found that Mr. Fogelberg has passed away, so yes, I am the devil, but yes, the song still sucks.

You've got to be shitting me! - literally

Oh yes, dear readers, pictured left is a poo. I don't care if it's TMI, I can't be the only one to suffer tonight. As if my days are not long and hellish enough, after dragging my oldest to Girl Scouts, dropping #2 (no pun intended) at a playdate and taking Little Man to the doctor for his immunizations, I finally get all the offspring fed and almost ready for bed when my son decides to drop a Baby Ruth in the pool. Thank GOD the girls were watching Santa Claus is Comin' to Town for the four hundredth time or the ensuing shrieks and peals of laughter would have been audible from space. Never mind the colorful retelling I'm sure would happen during car pool tomotorrow morning.

So I have to pull the baby immediately out of the tub, strap a fresh diaper on him lest he follow his dump with a leak in a corner somewhere, while I drain the water, scrape out the poo and disinfect the tub so I can refill it, and wash the coating of his own filth from the baby's body all while keeping him locked in the bathroom with me as he screams for his now soiled tub toys which are soaking in bleach in the sink. I then return him to the tub with toys he finds far inferior, and he lets me know it, bathe him and finally get him in pajamas and off to bed.

Of course, OF FRIGGIN' COURSE, Hubby is delayed tonight by some important project at work.

This is my life? Seriously?