Dateline suburban Atlanta, 7am on 17 Apr 2008
The night was fraught with a screaming kicking sick 2 year ols and a ten month old that was frequently awake / asleep / awake / asleep / awake etc.
After I awoke to the alarm, started the shower and got my clothes out and ready, I remembered that I could sleep in a little since I had to go to the doctor this morning. With that I turned off the shower and the lights and climbed back into bed.
one second later, 2doh started yapping / whining / sobbing about wanting to go downstairs. After a few minutes of this I relented, except she didn’t want ME to carry her. She wanted mommy to do that. You see, we are now in the phase where wanting something isn’t the only producer of 2 year old whine. it’s also HOW whatever she wants is delivered and presented. The same goes for getting her juice, food, her guy, blanket and beebee, and about anything else.
No. It’s not frustrating at all. Thanks for asking.
So we all head downstairs (actually, they went downstairs and I took a shower). While I showered, the wife changed and fed the young uns, which was great.
I got out of the shower and turned Pinky Dinky Doo right the fuck off and flipped over to VH1 classic, which runs blocks of music videos from my youth.
(Just so you know, I have never once slid into the bedroom from the hall wearing black sunglasses, a button down oxford, white sox and a pair of tighty whities. We have carpeting there. I’d fall right the hell down or shock myself to death if I ever tried that).
And just as I flipped channels, a video started with a woman wearing too much yellow and not being hot enough, but for some reason back in my lizard brain I remember thinking this woman and this look were hot once.
And just as it came rushing back that this was the once hot and Don Johnsony Sheena Easton, I listened to the lyrics of the song she was singing:
My sugar walls
my sugar walls.
Where I come from there’s a place called heaven
(That’s nice. She’s singing about heaven).
That’s the place where all the good children go.
The houses are of silver
the streets of gold.
But there’s more where you come from - my sugar walls.
My sugar walls
my sugar walls.
Blood races to your private spots
(Wait a minute. How did we get from good children to blood racing to my naughty bits? What the fuck is this song about?)
let’s me know there’s a fire.
You can’t fight passion when passion is hot
(Have I ever heard this song before? The raciest thing I remember was Debbie Gibson singing about "shaking her love," and now this chick’s singing about passion and fire and hot and stuff?
Temperatures rise inside my sugar walls.
(All this heat talk might mean she has an infection I think).
Let me take you somewhere you’ve never been
I could show you things you’ve never seen.
I could make you never wanna fall in love again
Come spend the night inside my sugar walls.
(Spend the night inside my sugar walls? Does she live in a ginger bread house? This is possibly the worst metaphor ever, yet I am hipmotized).
Take advantage
it’s alright
(Now we’re encouraging forced sex? What next Sheena? No means yes?!?)
I feel so alive when I’m with you!
Come and feel my presence
it’s reigning tonight.
Heaven on earth inside my sugar walls.
Let me take you somewhere you’ve never been
(It’s raining tonight? Is this about watersports? The British spelling makes it tough to tell).
. . .
I can tell you want me - my sugar walls -
it’s impossible to hide.
Your body’s on fire
admit it! Come inside.
My sugar walls
my sugar walls.
Come inside my sugar walls
my sugar walls
my sugar walls.
Come spend the night inside my sugar walls
(That’s it. I’m turning my parents in to DFCS. We should NOT have been allowed to listen to this in 8th grade. Seriously, now all the subtle innuendo is gone and it’s just "Come all night inside my sugar walls?")
My sugar walls
my sugar walls.
For Christ sake, if Sheena Easton hadn’t been so tragically dated and unattractive in the video, I might have gotten an erection. And that would mean I would have had to take another shower.
What say you?