Heard it in a Love Song (and Barfed it up in a Lincoln)

Admit it. As repugnant as that title sounds, you're intrigued, aren't you?

I was recently tagged on Facebook in one of those "chain messages" that you complete and then tag several of your friends to complete. This one required you to answer a list of questions by responding with the titles of songs from your iPod's "shuffle mode". You start with question 1 and answer with the first title in the shuffle. Then you answer question 2 with the next song in the shuffle and so forth.

As I was answering the various questions, I was struck by the fact that many of the songs have specific memories attached to them. And those that don't have specific memories usually remind me of certain people. So, it got me to thinking. What memories do other songs conjure up? What people come to mind when certain melodies stream through my earbuds? Let's see... 

Heard it in a Love Song by the Marshall Tucker Band was playing on the radio sometime in 1977 when I threw up in my great-aunt Ruby's Lincoln Continental after eating lunch at Mr. Drumstick.

Simply Irresistible by Robert Palmer:  This was often playing on the radio in Fred Hentchel's Color and Design class at ICC back in 1988.

Holding Out for a Hero by Bonnie Tyler:  I remember playing the heck out of this song (and others from the Footloose soundtrack) on Zina's stereo. Had to have been in 1983 or early 84.

Can't Stop This Thing We Started by Bryan Adams filled the Hamilton Hall second floor in 1991 because my neighbor and now best friend, Rosann Diedrich, played the holy heck out of it. I HATED that song for the longest time and then didn't hear it for several years. Once I heard it again, I couldn't help but smile!

Wicked Game by Chris Isaak:  All I need to do is mention that song to Kirsten Schaub (another dear friend), my dorm roommate, and two words come to mind—the video!

Indescribable by Chris Tomlin brings back great memories of Tomlin's concert in Peoria with several friends a few years ago.

One Headlight by the Wallflowers was all over the radio when I was living in my apartment in Eureka. Can't tell you how many times I awoke with this song screeching out of my alarm clock/radio.

Keep Your Hands to Yourself by the Georgia Satellites:  I will forever have the image of Don Rood and Andrew Harrod (and a few others I can't recall as part of a group called "Trenchcoat") doing this song at the high school talent show in 1986.

Cat's in the Cradle by Harry Chapin:  This was playing on the car radio when we went in the ditch coming home from Grandma Konrad's house. Had to have been in 1974 or 75.

New Sensation by INXS:  On a crappy weather day during my senior year of high school, we did this run/walk/run thing in PE. We started by running for an entire song until the next one started, then walked the next song, and so on. For some reason, this song sticks out as one blaring out of the boombox.

Shake You Down by Gregory Abbott:  At a dance my junior year in high school, Erica knew I had a crush on a particular guy and shoved me into him when this song began to play. Needless to say, I got my dance!

Who Can it be Now by Men at Work was the song we had to create a pompon routine to during try-outs in seventh grade. It won't be difficult for those who know me to believe that I didn't make the squad. I will forever associate this song with my lack of physical coordination.

Walk the Dinosaur by Was (Not Was):  Back in my days of working at the nursing home, some of us had a tradition of going to Cheddar's in Peoria after work for dinner (and dinner also included the Tuesday Night Long Island Iced Tea special!). I recall Shawn Roth cranking this up on the stereo of his Chevy Cavalier on one particular road trip—and with the car's occupants gleefully singing along!

Everlasting God by Lincoln Brewster was one of the songs the worship band played at Eastview the first Sunday I attended. Love this song!

I Like Chinese by Monty Python. I didn't fully appreciate the genius of Monte Python until I heard snippets of this on the old KZ-93 in Peoria (that ought to bring back some memories for people my age who grew up in central Illinois!). Gary Olson used to play a montage of goofy song lyrics and soundbytes, including lyrics from this song.

I could go on and on, and maybe this will turn into a sequel at some point. But for now, It's Time for Me to Fly.

E-HARMONY, HERE I COME!

I realize the need for safeguards in Facebook, and for most of them I am most appreciative. You are asked to confirm various requests from other individuals, and that makes a lot of sense. However, I didn't think that confirming the existence of my marriage would be one of them.

Today, I updated my Facebook profile to include my husband's name—a simple task, so I thought. Actually, the task was simple, but it wasn't quick. Upon saving my updates, I received this message: We will notify Joe McDonald, who will have to confirm that you are in a relationship.

Hmmm. Could this little living arrangement I've been in for almost 11 years be a sham? I mean, this feels like a marriage relationship, but I suppose I could be mistaken. My gut has led me astray before; could this be one of those instances?

If it is, then I'm going to start taking a closer look at those e-Harmony commercials, and all bets are off!

Just kidding, honey...

Slip Sliding Away

Perhaps you remember the opening line from "Slip Sliding Away" by Simon and Garfunkel:

Slip sliding away, slip sliding away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip sliding away

I discovered this morning just how literally true those words are. Nothing starts your day off quite like doing a three-sixty in the middle of Towanda Avenue and ending up in a cornfield. And I was literally a quarter of a mile from my destination. You could say with 100% accuracy that I went for a spin.

And to answer your question, no, I was not speeding. In fact, I was doing 5-10 under, so lay off the speed demon comments—save them for the good weather when I can REALLY earn that distinction!

Mother Nature seems to have quite the attitude problem as of late. This morning was no exception when she dropped enough light snow on an already slick pavement to give it that extra dash of slippery goodness. I guess Mother Nature gets up earlier than the Town of Normal road crew because it did not appear that a plow or salt truck had yet traversed this road. It was impossible to visually discern that fine line between where the pavement ended and the rocky shoulder began, but my Michelins found it. There was a hardened ridge of ice build-up on the edge of the pavement that kept the tires from easing back onto the pavement. When I was finally able to get all four wheels back on the pavement, I hit an ice patch and started to fishtail—a lot. I always remember Dad's slick weather driving instructions, "When you start to slide, take your foot off the gas and turn the steering wheel in the direction of the skid." And it usually works but not this time. I am truly thankful that it was early enough that only one car was approaching and its driver paying enough to slow down and move as far to the right in their lane as possible. I slid off the shoulder (luckily there was no ditch) into the edge of a cornfield but was able to easily drive back onto the road. Oddly enough, just before this occurred, I was having a little chat with God (mind you, my eyes were open) about how I hadn't felt that close to Him for awhile and wanted to change that. I guess I'd better be more careful what I ask for.

So, to conclude, I'll leave you with the last line of the Simon and Garfunkel tune...

Believe we're gliding down the highway
When in fact we're slip sliding away.

Maybe in more ways than one.

NEIL ARMSTRONG OR "BUZZ" ALDRIN?

Admittedly, this was a repressed memory until I read Jane's blog on brotherly abuse. I believe there is a direct correlation between the number of siblings you have and the number of strange and memorable (although some should be forgotten) events you can recall from childhood.

I'll leave out the names to protect the not-so-innocent...

I think this happened sometime in mid-late 1978 because Mom was still working full-time before the arrival of my youngest brother. Some would argue that it's not terribly wise to leave 6 kids home by themselves, but it was one of those po-dunk school holidays that still required Mom and Dad to work. However, Mom was no dummy: she knew us well enough to give us a mission, a chore to do. I think her thought process might have gone something like this, "At least the family room will be clean BEFORE they burn down the house." Even if we waited until the last 15 minutes before she and Dad came home, we would have at least accomplished SOMETHING of value that day.

Well, on this particular day, our orders from Mission Control included cleaning the kitchen cabinets. Remove all the contents, wipe down the doors and shelves, and (ideally) replace the contents a little more neatly than before they were removed. The mission seemed to go smoothly until this exchange occurred...

"Hey, Dena! Try this!" A bit of advice to the youngsters out there: nothing good EVER comes from a statement like that.

"What is it?" I asked while being handed a cup with a some liquid in it.

"It's Tang!" Funny, it didn't smell like Tang. Was it possible for Tang to "go bad"? I was 8—what did I know? [note: if you don't know what Tang is, look it up. You're on the internet for Pete's sake...]

"OK!" I said gullibly, gulping enough to consume all of the cup's contents, followed by serious spewing, and some 8-year-old tough-talk like, "You snot!"

Oh, it looked like Tang, but it had a little kick to it. Yeah, it was orange vodka, and so old and fermented that I'm pretty sure if Neil Armstrong had picked up a bottle of it on his way to the launch, this might have been what was left over.

I've never been a huge drinker, and this may very well be why. Well, that and learning the hard way when I was 5 that beer may LOOK like ginger ale, but it sure doesn't taste like it.

In case you're wondering, "Buzz" Aldrin did finish cleaning her share of the kitchen cabinets, but we left the "Tang" incident out of the debriefing session when the Commander came home from work.

Mission accomplished.

IMPEACH MAYOR McCHEESE!

It seems I haven't quite gotten the hang of this "making regular posts" thing yet—I need to entrench it into my daily routine, but I'm just not quite there. Sorry to all my Fry Guys (I think there's 3 of you!?)! Feels like I just got a puppy a week ago and forgot to feed it.

I began keeping a list of topics a few weeks before I created this blog and have tried to keep it somewhat handy in case moments of sheer genius occur. Well, I'm still waiting for one of those moments, but I do have a handful of of topics inspired by lack of sleep, incompetent drivers (thankfully, the first two are unrelated), and other blogs—Jane, your post about the girls wanting brothers and your recollections of brotherly abuse have inspired enough writing material to last me until next Labor Day!

Mayor McCheese has demonstrated extreme dereliction of duty. Should impeachment proceedings begin? At least the Mayor and our fine governor would have something in common. "Hey, Blago! Got any pearls of wisdom?!"

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

There are certain assumptions people make about those who hold the McDonald name:

1. They make frequent trips to the Golden Arches,
2. They drink and drink often, and/or
3. They own a wide variety of livestock.

Well, I'm more of a Steak 'n' Shake sort of gal, drinking just costs too much, and I have no pets that graze. Essentially, I'm a disappointment to the McDonald moniker, but I won't lose much sleep over it—I married into the name.

However, this blog title seamlessly bridges the gap between my maiden and married names. There are those out there who may remember when I used to be called "French Fry" or "Fry-dang-er," not to mention a few other forgettable aliases. It's only fitting that I would marry into a name identical to those who basically invented the french fry. Proof that God does have a sense of humor. I'll just be thankful He didn't pair me up with some guy name Heinz—or a salty fellow named Morton...

That aside, I'm intrigued by the notion of middle names. I'm pretty sure that it came into existence because of a couple back in medieval times that couldn't agree on a first name for their new bundle of joy. "Hey, let's give Junior TWO names! Problem solved! Now pass me the mutton and ale..."

For the better part of my childhood, I really didn't like my middle name (my apologies to my parents). Why? Because I always felt like I was a member of the Petticoat Junction sisterhood [note:  this will probably be lost on anyone under the age of 35]. Remember the Bradley sisters? They all had a few things in common:  a perky disposition, ample "assets" and their middle name (apparently, Kate Bradley wasn't too creative). There was Betty Jo, Bobbie Jo, Billie Jo and their chubby little sister with the strawberry blonde hair and overbite, Dena Jo. In fact, play the Petticoat Junction theme song, and I'll revert to the behavior of a 5-year-old.

And this 5-year-old wants a milkshake and fries.