Rick Springfield Will Always Beat James Hetfield. No Contest.

1. Oh, dear. It’s yet another list.

2. It’s because I’ve just returned home from hell. (Can I say that on my blog? Can it still be a PG-rated blog, if I DO say that?) Actually, it was just Walmart, but SWEET MERCY! Hubs is the one who always overreacts in the super shopping center and needs a crazy pill and something for his blood pressure when he manages to grab the last white plastic sack at the cash register and head for the parking lot. I usually do okay in there, but not tonight.

I think it was the jar of spaghetti sauce that fell out of the woman’s cart in front of me in the soup aisle that started my need for therapy. The sauce went everywhere. The glass went everywhere. And then, one of Hubs’ old friends from high school was in that very same aisle, and he decided that he’d like to talk tonight. And talk. And talk some more. I’m not sure old Kevin said that many words in his entire high school career. Now normally, I can keep up with anyone’s chatter. I think we’ve covered that, ad nauseum, on this blog. I can always think of things to say, but when I’m standing in the middle of spilled spaghetti sauce, which was on the floor through absolutely no fault of my own, I really just wanted to move on.

3. Seeing Kevin tonight was actually a good thing. I get the biggest kick out of him. Kevin was one of those kids who had to shave twice a day in middle school. He grew early. Hubs did not. Hubs saved all of his growing for college. (Who knew that cheap beer would stimulate his growth hormones and cause him to shoot right up and fill out?) Every time I see Kevin, I’m reminded of a story that Hubs’ mama is fond of telling. Kevin and Hubs played football against one another in junior high, on different teams. Kevin, who was well over 140 pounds by the 8th grade, had the ball, and he was running for all he was worth, heading due West for the end zone. Hubs, who probably weighed in at seventy pounds with a pair of ankle weights on and a rock in each pocket, was fast. He caught Kevin quickly, but seventy pounds just wouldn’t take 140 pounds down. Hubs’ mama always says, “Needless to say, your husband caught Kevin. And he grabbed him around the leg, trying to tackle him. And Kevin ran with 8th-grade-Hubs wrapped around his ankle for yards and yards, until he’d scored a touchdown. Oh, Hubs tried! He gave it everything he had. He was battered and bruised when the touchdown was scored, because he never! Let! Go!”

And now? Hubs and Kevin are the same height, and Kevin probably only has 25 pounds on Hubs, because Kevin didn’t grow much after his 8th grade year. I think Hubs should call for a modern-day rematch!

4. The boy is currently glued to an all-new episode of Pawn Stars.

I’m giving up on changing his current career goal. At least I won’t have to feel guilty about spending his college fund at Starbucks now.

5. Hubs and I have never agreed on music. Ever. We are, in fact, at opposite ends of the music spectrum. He’s an AC/DC fan, through and through, with Ratt and Metallica and Johnny Cash and Steve Earl and CCR thrown in there. Me? Well I adore Rick Springfield and Travis Cottrell and Matt Redman and some old Def Leppard. And also? Beethoven. I kid you not.

In the mornings, Hubs and I usually have a show-down with the iPod in the kitchen. Since I’m the first one up in the mornings, we usually start with some Travis Cottrell belting his heart out for Jesus, and then suddenly we’re listening to a song about a new kid in town who has fancy clothes, as well as an old T-Bird car, and he wants to know where all the action in this town is at.

Diversity, people.

Usually, suffering through Hubs’ music is worse than fingernails on the chalkboard. Worse than swallowing razor blades whole. Worse than petting hungry piranhas. Of course, I’m pretty sure that Hubs feels the same way about my music, as he’s fond of saying, “Just steal Jesse’s girl and get it over with! Stop whining about it, Rick! Man up!”

Nobody puts Rick Springfield in a corner.

Today, as I was driving along in my automobile (Now you’ve got THAT song stuck in your head, don’t you?!), a song came on the radio that I’d never heard before. It was catchy, although I couldn’t make out any of the lyrics. I thought that the scratchy voice was singing about having whiskey in his Jell-O, but I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that I liked the sound of the song. So I Googled the phrase “whiskey in the Jell-O,” and I came up with nothing.

Because apparently no one sings about lime Jell-O molds laced with Jim Beam.

But do you know what I DID find? A song entitled Whiskey in the Jar. Yep.

Stinking Metallica sings it.

It was the same song I had, moments earlier, decided that I liked.

The only small comfort that I had was simply this: I am forever telling Hubs that the lead singers in HIS favorite bands whine and snarl and ruin their lyrics so badly, you can never tell WHAT they are saying. If you can wail like a cat who’s just had his tail slammed in a door, you can sing any AC/DC song ever recorded.

I would like to rest my case on this song today. Jell-O. Jar. They sound quite similar, don’t they?

Listen, Metallica. Speak clearly into the microphone next time, would you?

I don’t really like this song any longer, just on principle.

6. And that’ll about do it tonight, people. I have a new Glee DVD waiting for me, and I need to see what havoc the Cheerios are causing tonight.

Happy Monday night.

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