lament

I wish I could turn my mind off while driving. It goes wild, thinking and thinking of days gone by and of possible days to come. In the car is when I feel most like writing, and yet it's not the best time to be doing so.

I was listening to my iPod when Crazy Train by Ozzy came on. For some reason I had a flash of my mom as a younger version of herself, dancing while doing dishes or cooking. She did this frequently, and usually while listening to oldies or weird rock music that didn't quite match her. As a younger person, I remember frequently stating with shock, "You know this song, Mom?!" when she would jam to Metallica or something that I liked but she wasn't allowed to like as part of the sacred teenager/parent code book.

But, whenever a true oldie would come on the radio in the kitchen, something like "Knock Three Times" or "Want You Back," Mom would do the pony. And it was a bad pony. Or good depending on who you are. Regardless it always made me laugh, makes me laugh. Which is why I can't take oldies very seriously, although I love them.

Thinking of times like this reminded me of my mom's teenage nickname. She said kids used to call her "boobalina." I call her Boobalina now for laughs, and it gets a laugh every time. It's ironic because I have become a Boobalina myself...when I used to be a manageable B cup. Those were the GOOD days. I can barely remember that, or the advice I think my mom had gotten from some random guy that she passed onto me when I worried my boobs would always be small: "more than a handful is too much." Not very reassuring, but memorable. These days I'm not falling in that category anymore. I can't imagine wanting bigger breasts when, as it is, Lefty has her own cell phone and Righty is too cheap so she just has a pager. And I know that sends the wrong message but trust me, Righty is classy in spite of owning a pager.

My mom is awesome. She's always been goofy. Which is why I'm goofy. I don't dance too much in the kitchen (because I know I suck) but I do sing, a whole lot. Which is why Eleana sings a whole lot...and she's goofy too. I appreciate the goofiness. I try not to shush her when she's laughing raucously in the public eye, or telling a knock knock joke for the millionth time, and yet it's funny every time. She is who she is because of who we are, us founding women of goofiness...and of booby-ness.

I wonder what Eleana will ask me when it comes to boobs. She's already somewhat obsessed. She knows my breasts were hers to eat as a baby babe, and asks where the milk is now. I reassure her that if we have another child the milk will return and the baby will be able to eat, not starve. She is 4 1/2 after all, and very curious about life and everything that goes with it. I'm sure one day she will ask the same questions I asked my mom, and I hope for her back and her nickname's sake she remains a manageable b cup for a while. At least until she gets pregnant (at age 30) and subsequently grows fat and everything goes downhill from there.

Then I'll call her Boobalina. And hopefully she will laugh, just as I do. And just as my mom does.