A Small Story

I say small, but knowing me, I'll not manage to keep it small.  Somehow I get into the spirit of a story and can't seem to stop.  This started out to be three separate stories, two memories and a recent happening.  But, alas!  It's now only one memory and no recent happening, since, yes, I can't remember the other anecdotes I was going to share.  Isn't that  silly?  I remember something long enough to think I want to post it, but then, POOF!  it's gone.  You may read it here yet, another day, another post.  But for now, content yourself with the following.

WHAT DID YOU SAY, MARY?

That's probably what my Mom was thinking the day I told her I wanted to see the movie, American Gigolo. 

Did I know anything about that movie?  Nope, not one bit.  Nor did I know what the term gigolo implied until much later.  But I did know that my favorite song of those 8th grade days was Blondie's "Call Me," the theme song from that movie.

I was grooving to that number yesterday, while doing my dishes, and Jeremy wandered through the kitchen preparing himself some lunch.  I got to thinking about this song, and what the words meant, and how I hate when such cool songs really mean something totally not cool.  I was feeling relieved that Jeremy is at an age for which I don't have to be hyper careful about the content of songs to which I listen in his presence.  I no longer have to worry quite so much about him repeating something inappropriate, without realizing what he's saying.  He might still say inappropriate things now and then.  But I think he usually realizes fully what he's saying.

So as I was washing dishes and singing out, "Call me (call me) on the line, Call me, call me any, anytime," loudly and energetically along with Pandora, and scrubbing away on my plates and glasses, suddenly the memory of this conversation with my mom popped into my head.  I don't remember where we were at the time, and I certainly hope, for Mom's sake, that we were not standing around after church visiting the church ladies, or in some other public setting with the potential for major embarrassment.  I suspect it may have been in the car on the drive back and forth, to or from school.  We usually carpooled with other families, so there was generally at least a small crowd of us yackety-yacking all the way home.  I wonder sometimes if this is the primary way Mom got to know us kids, by overhearing all of our friendly and sometimes quite shocking conversations among our peers.

And really, Mom.  I'm sorry.  I had no clue what I was saying.  I just really liked that song.  Still do, in fact.