You know you live in
Oregon when…

…it starts raining in the middle of freaking August, and your only thought is, well, it’s about stinking time!

Such was my sigh of relief last night as I listened to the tell-tale pitter-patter of raindrops on my roof.  This means that we’re going to get a respite from the record-setting heat waves we’ve experienced as of late.  Yeah, it was raining on Third of July, but once we stopped doing silly things like eating outside on purpose in the middle of summer, it got really blistering hot (for
Oregon) and stayed that way for weeks.  Our house doesn’t have air conditioning, so I came up with a lot of excuses for us to hop in the air-conditioned car and shop at the air-conditioned Target.  (Really a bad idea because I can’t seem to get out of Target anymore these days without spending at least $50.  Part of it is all these infernal diapers I buy, but mostly I think I’m addicted to stuff marked with that little red clearance sticker.  They must be using subliminal marketing or something.)

But I digress.  Thank goodness the ladies’ auxiliary (outdoor) pot luck is tonight, or we never would have gotten this precipitation.  Now my house has finally cooled down, even the master bedroom–which got particularly hot because (oh, get your mind out of the gutter and finish the sentence) we’ve got a skylight in the bathroom that takes up half the freaking ceiling.  My mother-in-law has warned us about the possibility of a hang-gliding pervert getting an eyeful if he flies over while one of us is taking a shower, but I worry less about that than I do about all that sunlight converting the space into a freaking boiler room.  You could have fried an egg on our toilet seat last week.  (I’m also more worried about my smart-butt husband climbing up on the roof and trying to scare the crap out of me just for the fun of it, but that’s another story.)

So I was at the Kinko’s last night printing out Important Documents to the tune of $16.25.  Ouch.  I mean, it’s not breaking the bank or anything–it just galls me.  I lived for four years without a printer at home, and I was so grateful to finally get one for Christmas this last year.  It worked beautifully.  It printed and printed and printed its little ink-jet heart out, right up until I needed to print something that mattered, and then it went cuckoo on me.  (That’s techno-jargon for “it got broke.”)  I’m telling you all, if God Himself were to have walked into my living room and said, “You know, Mad, the thing is, I’ve never liked you,” the message could not have been any clearer.

That was a joke, incidentally.  No theological discussions today.  Just incessant whining.

Speaking of which, as I was driving to my tap class last night (which turned out to be cancelled, but that’s neither here nor there), I was using my husband’s car, which does not have a CD player in it.  Yeah, I know, poor baby.  No, what it means is that whenever I drive it, I’m reduced to listening to whatever crap song is on the radio, or whatever crap music I listened to back when I bought cassette tapes.

I’ll issue a warning now to you Gen Z-ers or Gen AA-ers who might be reading this that I’m about to discuss some pop culture you can’t possibly relate to.  I may even mention my record player.  Just so you know, you may want to move to another site before it gets too freaking old around here.  But feel free to come back tomorrow when I’ll be hip again.  Oh, wait.  Well, feel free to come back, anyway.

You can mock me all you like, I really don’t care.  I mean, if I can admit in public that a homely, melodramatic, freckle-butted actor turns me on, you know that I’m just asking for the abuse.  Anyway, you can’t be any worse than my own husband.  Lately (for reasons too complex and yet stupid to explain here) he’s been asking me a lot about this band “Kajagoogoo.”  He thinks I must be an expert on Kajagoogoo because he knows I have Limahl’s solo album somewhere in the stack of old LP’s currently melting in my parents’ garage.   Now be clear on this, kids–I DID NOT BUY ANY FREAKING LIMAHL ALBUM.  It was a gift from my older sister, who got it for 99 cents out of a cut-out bin at a Wal-Mart in
Tennessee, or some such place.  She also got me Duran Duran’s Notorious LP, and something by ’til tuesday–anyway, it was all crap…though Limahl really made Notorious sound like the freaking White Album.  Anyway, you’re right, I didn’t ever throw it away–just like my parents never threw away my fifth-grade spelling book.  It still sits there gathering dust along with all the other embarrassing music I actually did listen to in those days, and my husband thinks that makes me president of the Kajagoogoo fan club.  Well, whatever.

So last night I was driving to my cancelled tap-dance class to the tune of Howard Jones, vintage 1988 or thereabouts.  Yeah, some people brag about liking bands before they were popular, but I’m reduced to admitting that I liked bands long after they stopped being popular.  What can I say?  Anyway, it was kind of depressing–not because I was forced to confront my own musical geekitude, which I came to terms with long ago, but because I have always found Howard Jones’ music depressing.  Just like listening to the Smiths always cheered me up.  It was a queer sort of musical homeopathy.  Listening to Morrissey’s infernal moping always made me think, “Well, heck, at least I’m not that much of a miserable jerk.”  By contrast, when I was listening to Howard Jones, I would think, “This guy is so peppy, so unbelievably hopeful about the human race–I can never be this optimistic.”  And that was depressing.

So I came home in a rather melancholy mood last night and spent a bittersweet hour with my husband, eating the last of the now-discontinued Coffee ‘n Creme Oreos and watching the Batman DVD my sister sent me for Christmas.  No, not Tim Burton’s Batman (what is that, a joke?)–the Batman movie based on the TV show from the ’60s, starring Adam West and Burt Ward.  It’s an even worse movie than I remembered.  Though still funnier than my husband’s favorite stupid movie, UHF.  “You know,” I told him, “this was my favorite TV show when I was a kid.  I used to watch it every day.  And on the weekends I would pretend that I was Batgirl.”

“That explains a lot about you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I forgot to ask–you want me to download that Kajagoogoo album for you off of iTunes?”

“Give it a rest, man.”

“Boy, are you a grouch.”

He thinks he’s so smart.  Just because he went to kindergarten in the ’80s.