'70s music explosion!

So, after seeing an infomercial while we were in the Dominican Republic, the Smelmooo ordered us the Time Life '70s Music Explosion, which is awesome. I'm happily bopping along as I work on some writing projects at work today, and the Sunshine disc is nice and mellow (Escape is next in the queue; it looks a little more rambunctious).

Anyway, the song "Julie, Do You Love Me" by Bobby Sherman just came on, and I realized I've never actually heard the real song (which goes, "Julie, Julie, Julie, do you love me? Julie, Julie, Julie, do you care?"); instead, I grew up with my family singing, "Louie, Louie, Louie, do you love me?"

This goes back to my parents' "how we met story," which goes like this: Mom and Dad are at a college dance; Dad approaches Mom to bum a cigarette and/or to dance (they don't agree on this point); music is loud and even back then, Dad is a little hard of hearing; he asks her name; she says, "Millie," and he hears, "Louie."

Every once in a while, he calls her Louie as a joke, and somehow we kids picked up on this and thought it was the funniest thing ever. I don't know who started with the "Louie, Louie, Louie" song, but it really caught on in the Tangent household -- I have vivid memories of us all dancing around the kitchen while singing that song.

This was when I was probably seven or eight, shortly after my oldest sister taught me how to make omelets. I was obsessed with cooking for everyone on the weekends, so I opened "Louie's Diner" in our kitchen. My other sister and I made up a whole song and dance routine about the diner; we still remember it, and occasionally bust out with it in the middle of a conversation (only with each other, I promise): "Come to Louie's for a really good time / The cost isn't even one red dime! / Come to Louie's and bring your wife / You'll have the best time of your life!"

There's more, but I think I've already revealed too much. We were so, so weird. No wonder I'm so socially awkward.

Making me smarter

My ninth-grade English teacher would be so proud of me, that I've now taken to reading my New Yorkers with a pen in hand so I can look up the words I don't know. I found the little card tucked into my bag from the plane ride back from San Francisco, and looked up "antediluvian" and "chiaroscuro." I have a terrible vocabulary, really, for an English major. I chalk it all up to peaking too soon -- in eighth grade, I had an insane vocabulary for a 13-year-old; now, I have a middling vocabulary for an educated person pushing 30.

Splitting hairs

Even though I'm a completely lapsed Catholic, I still make Lenten resolutions, more as an exercise in self-control than for any higher religious purpose (which of course makes me feel a little guilty, which makes me realize that Catholic guilt is for life, really, at least for me). Anyway, I started off doing my usual chocolate and ice cream sacrifice, which I usually think is more than enough. But then yesterday (belatedly, I know, but still worth it), I decided I need to give up swearing, as well, because I really have turned into a little bit of a potty mouth, and I think I'll be a better person if I do less of it.

So I think I need a swear jar of some sort, because, as much as I love ice cream, it's a lot easier for me to slip up with the swearing than the eating. But I'm having trouble knowing where to draw the line.

I was frustrated with a vendor earlier, and went on a huge rant where I invoked "freakin'" a whole lot, which I think is okay. But then, I was listening to a Cowboy Mouth CD (did the Smelmooo and/or I ever blog about how Ellen's brother Vance DeGeneres is now in Cowboy Mouth? Which is kind of fun! Although I'm getting too old for Cowboy Mouth shows, I've decided. Anyway.), and started singing along with "Tell the Girl," and there's a great line that goes, "Tell the girl you're sorry, for being such an a$$hole, A$$hole." So, does it count if I sing along gleefully, when I'm not so much swearing as quoting? I kind of think that's okay, but I can't tell if I'm just trying to rationalize. For now, I'm holding off even quoting, although if I go on a long road trip before Easter, I'm kind of screwed ("screwed" doesn't count, right?), because I don't think I can go without singing along to the Avenue Q soundtrack, and there's no doing that without swearing.

That's outta hand!

So, we made it to San Francisco, and we even made it in time for dinner on Wednesday (no 10 hours on the tarmac for us, thank goodness), and we've been having a wonderful time.

Today, we went down to Fisherman's Wharf (yes, Shari, we had In-N-Out!!), and went to the NFL store where the Smelmooo had his picture taken with the Raiderettes the last time he was in SF. We were poking around the store separately, and all of a sudden I was face-to-face with ROB LOWE. I had to do a double-take -- I didn't really know if it was him until I heard him talk (not to me). I was completely startled, because he is so handsome in person, but also so normal-looking and normal-acting. He was a little scruffy, wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans, just hanging out I think with a non-famous brother and his kids. They were playing with those bottle-openers that play college team fight songs, and whatever one they played, Rob said, "We should get this for Chad!"

I so desperately wanted to say hi, or hug him, or take a picture, or quote St. Elmo's fire near him, but all I could muster was a smile, which he returned, and I nearly died. I just didn't want to interrupt his day out.

The Smelmooo got a blurry picture from far across the store, and another when he emerged from the store wearing a brand-new Colts hat (his niece or whoever was wearing one, too), before heading down to the ice cream shop for dessert. I wanted to follow them and send something to US Weekly -- Stars are just like us! They get ice cream on Fisherman's Wharf! -- but again, felt like he should just be left in peace.

A bunch of stars from Battlestar Galactica also were at the Wharf, doing a scheduled appearance where it cost $25 for a picture and an autograph, but I don't know them, so that was much less exciting to me.

So, a big day. I don't know if I can take much more excitement!

I could not be more bummed

I know; I know -- I disappear for ages, and then I pop up again only to say, "wah, wah, wah," and you don't want to hear it. But:

The Smelmooo and I had these grand, ridiculously long-standing plans to head to San Francisco tomorrow morning, tacking on a couple of extra days to the front end of his work trip to head up to Sonoma for some wine country tours, a fabulous dinner and a cute little hotel before heading back to San Francisco on Thursday in time for the Smelmooo's meetings.

And, despite looming reports of crummy weather, when I checked in for the flight this morning, everything seemed to be in order.

And then, around lunchtime, we seemed to be booked on both the 7am flight and the 3:55pm flight.

And then, it became clear that our flight was canceled, and that our grand plans were kaput. No day of wine country. No fancy dinner.

Boo.

And, I know -- I'm totally spoiled, and I should quit my whining. I just had a free, amazing vacation to the Dominican Republic, three weeks ago. I still get quality time with my hubby in San Francisco, one of my favorite cities, where we've never been together, and where I've been dying to go with him for five years. We will eat yummy burgers while we're there. I will pose for cliched photos at Alcatraz and with the sea lions.

But, still, I can't help feeling disappointed.