(Side note: 43 is young. Shut up.)

Which is why I’m linking up with Liz from a belle, a bean, &  a chicago dog as she helps us both celebrate and preserve the photo-evidence of our misspent youth. For last year’s scorching contribution, click here.

As for this year, I apologize in advance for the terrible film-quality; but I started high school back in the Paleozoic Era. Like before good old Madonna felt touched for the very first time. Can you imagine?

On the left is my freshman yearbook portrait which sports a halo background and the coolest fashion trend of 1982: The Tuxedo. Complete with puffy shirt, bow tie and black slacks, this look went out of style before I completed my photo session.

To the right is my sophomore offering, when Guess jeans ruled and two shirts were better than one. Especially if both collars were visible simultaneously.

(Side note: I have full-metal braces, feathered bangs and a shadow-booger in one nostril. What didn’t I have? A boyfriend.)

—–

Because nothing says “popular” like a royal blue polyester dress with matching spangle-belt, I present our high school show choir. I’m the blonde with the feathered bangs in the top row. Second girl from the right. With excellent jazz hands.

And the peanut in the center, hands-on-hips? That’s @jlweinberg, of the hysterical blog Kvetch Mom. I know it’s hard to avoid being jealous that Jennifer Liberts Weinberg and I once sang “Route 66″ together. But try.

(Side note: Below me to the left is the actress Heather Graham. I still don’t know why she’s famous while I’m not but I assume it’s because no agent ever saw me in my tuxedo shirt. Also, I can’t act.)

—–

When my friends performed Macho Man for Lip Sync, we substituted a firefighter for the construction worker. Because we were smokin’ hot. Probably.

(Side note: The real Village People used less make-up and hair spray. Probably.)

—–

That’s me in the white prom dress, front and center. And yes, we did have dates but they couldn’t fit in the picture with all the Aqua Net and sleeves. Also, I wasn’t the prom queen. In case you were wondering.

(Side note: I may have had a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes hidden under that hoop skirt. Unless my mom is reading this. In which case I definitely didn’t.)

—–

This was taken at our graduation in June, 1986; after all the Pomp and Circumstance, before all the girl-tears.

(Side note: We weren’t, in fact, wearing show choir outfits. Also, I wasn’t the Valedictorian. In case you were wondering.)

—–

These pics are from our 20-year reunion; yes, we’ve stayed in contact through the sorrows and joys of life and “That’s What Friends are For” played at all of our weddings even though we didn’t want it to be our class song.

(Side note: Most of us toned down the hair, one of us pumped up the cup size and all of us ditched the Bartles & Jaymes.)

—–

Last but not least, here’s a recent picture in which my son is the same age as I was in that freshman picture at the top.  How surreal is that? Insert a relevant Madonna analogy here. I’m too busy weeping.

(Side note: At this point, my kid prefers skulls and spiked hair to tuxedos and feathered bangs; we’re keeping our fingers crossed about the shadow-boogers.)

So good luck in high school, Jack. And don’t worry.

I still know the lyrics to “Route 66″.

Unfortunately, I didn’t pay close attention to how many posts I had published because when you’re NOT prolific you assume you have time. And by you I mean me. Obviously.

Anyway, today I noticed I’d already published 101 posts. Which shouldn’t be surprising. Because time flies when you have lowered expectations.

(Who said that? Ben Franklin? Billy Joel? Socrates? One of those guys. Probably.)

Still, I believe my timing is – in fact – perfect; because for my 102nd post, I am sharing something I wrote last year for the lovely Nichole Beaudry of In These Small Moments.

For her Small Moments Mondays series, Nichole inspired me to explore one of my most cherished memories with my children. And now it will be up for Mother’s Day.

Today I’m bringing home the piece that, of the 102 posts I’ve written, remains my favorite.

Petal Lashes

The petal lashes blink once, twice.  A third time.

I don’t believe you, his blue eyes say.

This is what he knows:

There is a bed in my room now.  Next to my crib.

I pull tufts from my blanket, white balls that look like bubbles.

Mama’s belly is hard and tight, bigger than it used to be.

I want grilled cheese for lunch.  But I am not hungry.  Yet.

We are on my bed, my son furled into me like a conch shell.  When his father’s out of town for work, we slip easily into crankiness.  We are both of us out of sorts.  I’ve scooped him from his pile of toys, a discarded sippy cup tipped over on the who-cares carpet.  It’s time for an impromptu snuggle.

“Just the two of us,” I say.  His second birthday is a month away, but mother-time still teases me.  Long minutes drag while days slip through my grasping fingers.

How do I make room for another?  Why did I steal his babyhood?  What words might reassure my firstborn that his world may be different but this fierce, complicated love for him will never change?

We have told him this:

You are our first baby.

We love you. Very much.

A new person is coming to stay with us.

Here’s what he believes:

Tummies are for fishy crackers.

And cheerios.

Not people.

Daddy will be home soon.

He pushes on the bulging drum of my stomach, nudging closer.  I cradle him with one arm, reaching across my body with the other to stroke his silky blonde hair.  The fluff of him tickles my rough palm.  We are warm together here and the day slows.  I do not hear the clock ticking, the second hand arcing and unstoppable.

I say, “You’re my Hunny Bunny,” and he juts his chin in protest.  “No!” His lips purse in a pretend pout.  “You’re my Hunny Bunny.”  He giggles and I pull him into me.  He smells like baby shampoo.  And certainty.  He rests his head on my belly and there is no space between us.

I’m sorry my sweetheart.  So sorry.

There is irony in loving one child so much you feel compelled to create another. I trust my heart to multiply.  My time I will divide.  But he?  Is not yet capable of solving such equations.  He counts on his fingers.  And on my complete attention.  One hundred percent of me will soon be split.  My unborn child prepares to claim her half of me.

Without warning, she kicks from the inside, a tiny poke against his cheek.  My boy sucks in breath, his mouth a wide O of astonishment.  He pushes at her and she returns the pressure.  An elbow?  A foot?

My children meeting for the first time.

She shifts, a rolling heave beneath her brother.  She is somehow both closer to me and also more separate.  But we are together still.  Just the three of us.

My son, not yet two, tilts his face toward me.  Every curve and angle of him open to discovery.  His eyes lock with mine.  Petal lashes blink once, twice.  A third time.

And he believes.

—

This is for Jack.

And for Karly.

With all the love I have.

(And thank you, Nichole. Very much.)

When Elena asked me to share a post, I jumped at the chance to become a part of the conversation at a place devoted to acknowledging the good that already exists inside us.

So many of us spend our days building up others while we simultaneously tear our own selves down. We’re quick to focus on our imperfections, our not-quite-yets instead of the alreadys and the bests that we have given.

I want us to stop doing that. And Elena Sonnino does, too. In fact, she has this to say this about the site she founded:

Imagine feeling taller. Imagine feeling stronger from the inside out. Imagine knowing and BELIEVING that you are strong. Just.Be.Enough.

I can’t think of a better goal to reach. For each of us as individuals, for our children we are teaching how to live.

Because I want these kids to learn to love themselves even half as much as I do.

So please visit me and the ladies of Just.Be.Enough, then follow them on twitter and Facebook.

And one last thing, my beautiful, smart, generous friends: Promise me to never forget -

You are enough. Just as you are.

And when all else fails, ice cream is pretty awesome, too.

Because Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And I do enjoy living.

So to that end, I’ll share the details of my most-recent examination whether you’ve asked me to or not. Because this is about life, my friends.  And I want you to be worthy, too.

The Well-Examined Life. (With Timestamp.)

8:30- 9:00 – Complete more thorough prep-work for gynecological appointment than for most recent date night.

9:01 – Feel guilty about date night unpreparedness.

9:20 – Enter office of favorite doctor for routine check-up. Wonder when vagina-baring became routine.

9:23 – Present insurance card. Am told to relax. Wonder when relaxation during vagina-baring became an option. Remember importance of worthy-living. Decide to work hard at relaxing.

9:25 – Sit in armchair reading People magazine. Refrain from spitting on celebrity whose Secret to Staying Sexy is “reading all the time.”  Wonder if Socrates did Pilates in Ancient Greece.

9:30 – Am reminded to “empty bladder” in patient bathroom. Am directed to skip urine sample.

9:31 – Feel grateful for skippage.

9:33 – Discover giant plunger next to toilet. Wonder who saves plunge-worthy business for favorite doctor’s office. Avoid plunger.

9:35 – Wash hands while reading instructions for urine sample.

-          Begin to urinate

-          Stop flow for cup placement

-          Complete urination in cup

-          Label cup: Last name, first

-          Place cup on collection shelf.

9:37 – Avoid collection shelf. Wonder who can “stop flow” once it starts.  Decide “reading all the time” helps.

9:40 – Reunited with People. Learn Beyonce lost 50 pounds post-pregnancy. Wonder if Jessica Simpson found them.

9:41 – Feel guilty about Jessica Simpson joke. Decide Beyonce can stop urine flow.

9:45 – Am called to exam room and told to “undress completely.”  Manage disappointment regarding no-socks policy.

9:47 – Lay clothes out under framed needlework: Loving is the Best Part of Living. Wonder if Socrates knew this. And if he felt sexy from “reading all the time.”

9:50 – Nurse takes blood pressure. Higher than normal. Attributed to nakedness under mauve sheet. Wonder when best part of living begins.

9:55 – Enter favorite doctor. Need to pee but can’t. Become not-relaxed.

9:57 – Make small talk. Am told to move closer. Closer. Closer. And relax.

10:00 – The usual.

10:15 – Am asked if I have any concerns. About vagina? About anything. Consider mentioning plunger in restroom. Instead say, No.

10:15 – Receive prescription for mammogram. Realize early-screening would not have helped Socrates. Decide life must have been harder in 399 B.C. and also easier.

10:20 – Dress completely under framed needlepoint: The world is full of beauty when your heart is full of love. Wonder what Beyonce is full of. Also Jessica Simpson.

10:21 – Feel guilty about celebrity snark.

10:22 – Address co-pay. Discover well-examined lives cost $30.00. Feel grateful for health insurance.

10:23 – Feel sorry for those without.

10:25 – Realize much about life needs examining. But perhaps not plungers, pregnancy-weight and Pilates.

10:30 – Recall Socrates also said, “As for me, all I know is that I know nothing.”

10:31 – Have much in common with Socrates.

No needlepoint skills, but a heart full of love. And an empty bladder.

Yes, this is worthy-living, my friends.

That’s right. I’m at Nina Badzin’s Blog today admitting one of my many dirty little secrets:

My daughter doesn’t like to read. (Shhhhh.)

I know.

Believe me, no one’s more shocked than I am. In fact I’ll never forget the day I picked Karly up at preschool and discovered they had mounted a giant poster she’d made featuring a detailed portrait of herself lying on a couch. And smiling. While watching television.

“They told us to draw our favorite thing,” she explained. While the grown-ups laughed. At the English teacher/aspiring author whose daughter would rather watch TV than read.

Yep. That’s my reality.

Even though I got my kids library cards when they were two. Even though we owned more books than the Barnes & Noble kid section. Even though we read to both Jack and Karly from the minute they were born. Literally.

Someone’s very concerned about Pop and who might be hopping on him.

Jack warns his sister about not hopping on Pop.

Karly finds this hilarious. That, or she’s looking at Pop’s morning hair.

So.

What’s the literary tenor of your home? Do both the adults and children really enjoy books? How would you encourage your kids to read if it wasn’t in their nature to love it?

Perhaps sticking them in a crib with the Berenstein Bears wasn’t the only solution.

So please visit me and share your thoughts at Nina’s place. Then follow her on Pinterest and on Twitter .

Because Nina is a lover of books and reading. Because she is a funny, smart, supportive friend you’ll feel lucky to have in your corner. Because Nina is a super-sharp chick who balances the writing life, married life and motherhood.

Because Nina’s four kids probably don’t draw pictures of themselves watching television.

I just hope they got the memo not to Hop on Pop…

When I taught World Literature, I’d begin the thematic unit that explored various conflicts accompanying love by asking my students which trait they’d most desire in a future partner.

Answers ranged from intelligence and kindness (suck-ups!) to honesty or even attraction; and when – inevitably – they’d ask me what I sought in a spouse, I’d say this:

“Humor. Because a person can’t be truly funny without being at least a little bit smart.        And you get smart by reading. Duh.”

Anyway.

The first and only time I posted a vlog, I talked about books in a video I composed hastily after having grabbed a few selections that were in easy reach. I have since learned that someone’s reading all the books I mentioned in that post. Sexy.

(She is. Really.)

Still, I chose those books quickly; and today I’d like to offer other titles for consideration.  (No Emily, you don’t have to read them all. Immediately.)

To that end.

Classics I thought I’d hate but actually loved:

War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy.  Okay, I did skip some war. But I read 1,000 pages of peace.  So it counts.

A Tale of Two Cities – Charles Dickens.  The best opening and closing lines of any book ever.

The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck.  Don’t hate me because I love Rose of Sharon.

Classics I knew I’d love and actually loved:

Emma and Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen. Knowing she wrote these manuscripts longhand makes me want to kick my laptop in its stupid face.

Jane Eyre – Charlotte Bronte. I adore the against-all-odds love story. And the name Jane.

Wuthering Heights – Emily Bronte. Who doesn’t like a haunted moor?

My apologies to Anne Bronte. But two out of three ain’t bad. (Thanks, Meatloaf!)

Classics I hated. Sorry:

Moby Dick – Herman Melville. Yeah, no.

Anything by James Joyce. Actually, I’m not even sorry.

The Old Man and the Sea – Ernest Hemingway. Clearly, I don’t like fishing.

Books I always kept in my classroom:

The Perks of Being a Wallflower – Stephen Chbosky. Comes with its own great reading list.

The Bean Trees – Barbara Kingsolver.  A polarizing choice. But I love her.

A Prayer for Owen Meany – Jonathan Irving. Among my all-time favorites. Yes.

More contemporary “female-ish” books I dig (and yes this is a category):

Bridget Jones Diary – Helen Fielding. Also a great movie with Colin Firth.

The Time Travelers Wife – Audrey Niffenegger. Also a terrible movie without Colin Firth.

The Girls – Lori Lansens.  Especially good if you have a sister. And appreciate Colin Firth.

Non-fiction I recommend:

The Glass Castle – Jeanette Walls. Damn, she’s smart.

Angela’s Ashes - Frank McCourt. Damn, he’s irresistible.

Into Thin Air – John Krakauer. Damn, I like sea level.  But not fishing.

Books I liked less than most of the world did. Apparently:

The Help, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series and Like Water for Elephants. Fortunately, these books have made plenty of money without my endorsement. So.

Other books I’ve recently enjoyed:

Someone knows my name – Lawrence Hill

The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafón

The Devil and the White City – Erik Larson

The Women – T.C. Boyle

The Corrections and Freedom – Jonathan Franzen

A Visit from the Goon Squad – Jennifer Egan

Sleep Toward Heaven – Amanda Eyre Ward

Room – Emma Donohue

We Need to Talk About Kevin – Lionel Shriver

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close –Jonathan Safran Foer

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao – Juno Díaz

Ella Minnow Pea – Mark Dunn

Suite Française - Irène Némirovsky

Sarah’s Key – Tatiana de Rosnay

And my new favorite:

The Book Thief – by Markus Zusak. If you don’t love it, I’ll still be your friend (crazy person).

In fact, what thrills me about reading is its subjectivity; that what speaks to one doesn’t necessarily speak to all. So please share your favorites, old and new. Or what you didn’t like. Or what you’re reading Right Now.

Then let’s get to it, friends. Because the world boasts 129,864,880 different books to read. (Yes, I looked this up.)

And also this:

Stephen King suggests, “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time or the tools to write.”

So believe me, Mr. King. I read every day. Because I’m a writer.

And also because it’s sexy.

I’ve hinted before (and by hinted I mean come right out and said) that I’m a grooming and fashion fail; that I can’t understand why women care about shoes, salons and shopping.

In my opinion, the Triumvirate of S is something to be endured, not enjoyed and this isn’t even a little bit of a lie. Here’s my bottom-half on a typical day:

Yes, those are capri sweatpants. And slippers from Target. Try not to be jealous.

Especially when I tell you these look so much like real shoes, that when I’m at the grocery store or picking up the kids from school or going to the bank or having wine with my friends, no one knows I’m really wearing slippers. What.

True confession: I do not at the present time own a single pair of what the ladies call flats. And now, some of you want to stage an intervention. Admit it.

Above my pair of I-can’t-believe-they’re-slippers and super-cool capri sweatpants, I’m usually sporting something like this, which also may be from Target. If you take out the may:

Clearly, wearing gray clothes that suggest I’m Number 1 is all the self-esteem I’ll ever need.   It also compensates for chin and throat-wrinkles. What.

True confession: I had to Google the difference between grey and gray. No wonder I don’t have time to wash my face at night.

I also don’t have time for blow-drying, flat-ironing and such; so the ponytail’s become my signature coiffure. And until somebody stages that intervention (you know you’re tempted), I can’t get too worked up about my hair.

But I may be slightly worked up about my nose in this picture. If you take out the may.         (Is someone missing an egg of Silly Putty from Easter? I think I found it.)

True confession: My cousin works for Under Armour and while I haven’t been compensated for this post, she did send me headbands that make me very happy.

I recently attended an Arbonne party to support a friend. And by support a friend I mean drink free wine. Anyway, the hostess informed us that every time we skip our nightly cleansing ritual, we age 17 days. Or was it 17 years? Either way, I am Methuselah.                   But Swedish.

True confession: I wash my face with Ivory soap and only when I shower. Please don’t gasp. Ivory isn’t sponsoring this post either. Here’s how I look in the morning with no make-up; except whatever mascara didn’t come off on my pillow:

Sorry if this is too close-up for 43. I need longer arms. And also eye cream.

True confession: I do occasionally shower, shave, apply some lip gloss and attempt to piece together a not-gray outfit hoping to dazzle others with the fullness of my potential. (Not pictured here.)

But on a typical day, I don’t. And thank goodness (and Target), my husband doesn’t mind.   Or he’s wise enough to keep it to himself.

Do my kids care that I’ve let myself go? I surely hope they do. I also hope they think this means I’ve let go of stuff that doesn’t really matter to better focus on the stuff that does.

Perhaps letting yourself go could actually represent shedding obsessions with surfaces; digging deeper than haircuts and hemlines and heels. I want to be valued for something real; attributes that won’t go in and out of style. I cannot pretend I don’t want to look pretty. Sometimes.

But it shouldn’t be the thing I want the most.

At the end of each day, I hope that Jack and Karly have ignored my slippers and my sweatpants and Swedish skin because they may have been too busy laughing with Number 1. If you take out the may.

And that’s all the self-esteem I’ll ever need.

—–

This post is linked up with Liz and KLZ for #iPPP and was inspired by Literal Mom’s post at Just Be Enough.

So tell me. What would you let go, if you could?

After receiving my official bib and promo-bag, I headed to the shirt-distribution tables.       I’d requested a Medium at registration, but the volunteer glanced up and said, “Oh honey. You’re a Large,” before tossing me white polyester and a wink.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the four safety pins I’d need to affix the bib to my clothes on race day. Then, because the forecasters were predicting heat, I bought a tank top just in case.

I picked Size L, of course, as I’d been told.

These are my souvenirs; do they look large to you?

I realize people expect measurements to be skewed in the world of running; many assume that anyone taking to his or her feet for 26.2 miles must be rail-thin. But if you have participated in or even watched a race, you know runners of all shapes and sizes hit the streets. In fact, a good percentage of entrants in a race of any length are there because they’re working on weight control, getting fit, making a change.

Believe me, I have no problem wearing a Large; but I knew there’d be a segment of women at the expo that day who were bigger than I was stepping up to the tables to claim their shirts. What would they be told when the volunteers glanced at them?

Unfortunately, such size discrepancy isn’t  exclusive to race-wear; and these days, it heads in both directions.

I have jeans that currently fit but come in drastically different sizes because many manufacturers have begun assigning smaller numbers to bigger measurements in order to “flatter” their customers.

Here are four different sizes that slip on equally well but span seven numbers. Can you correctly guess which pair is the biggest/smallest?

I realize variations exist between brands; however three of these are from the same designer, purchased in different years. And this inconsistency serves to both lower and raise expectations of thinness at the same time.

It can’t be helpful (physically or emotionally) for a woman who’s working toward a healthy weight to be misled into thinking she’s prematurely reached her goal; nor is it realistic (physically or emotionally) for a size-6 woman to think she should suddenly be a 2 because brands have started cutting their clothes larger.

Accommodating designers add size 0 and 00; ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.

But herein lies the disconnect: We are a nation of body-loathers who – instead of getting thinner – are growing steadily more overweight. Our real-size spectrum contains dangers at both ends: eating disorders on one, obesity-related complications on the other.

It’s a battle we’ve made difficult to win. And if I’ve become the barometer for Large, who can blame overweight women and men for feeling perpetually defeated? Conversely, in a world of inflated/deflated double-zeros, the already-thin may continue to seek ever-smaller sizes.

Instead of inaccurate numbers or vague S, M, L, XL designations, I’d love more descriptive sizes for shoppers who require inspiration with their fitness and their fit; big blank tags that we could fill in for ourselves.

Imagine a new mom wearing a size Hooray! I can see my toes again!

At the holidays we’d choose It’s Thanksgiving. Waistbands can suck it.

But then try on New Year, New Body. Go!

Perhaps one of these sizes would apply to you: Thanks for the good metabolism, Mom. Or Thanks, I work my ass off at the gym for this body.

Or how about this one as a goal: My partner thinks I’m sexy and I’m trying to believe.

So tell me, friends. If you could, what description would you write onto the blank tags of your clothes?  If they were being honest, my pants would admit this:

I often eat healthfully. Sometimes I eat cake.

I know. It is a mouthful.

Of the most delicious kind.

If not, then hurry over because Missy’s not only sweet, funny and thoughtful but she’s also a super-smart writer who shares my love of good grammar and calls herself an un-athletic athlete. What could possibly be more perfect?

Nothing, right?

Because nothing IS perfect. Which is kind of what I’ve suggested in my guest post.

You see, I recognized long ago that I am not the type who can or even wants to Do It All. I’m okay with prioritizing that which is most valuable to me and letting areas of lesser import take a back seat.

While someone else might spend time searching for exciting new recipes to delight their families, I tend to throw the same ingredients in a crock pot each week and call it dinner. Still, I make time for us to eat together, so. This is my trade-off.

The truth? We all have passions, chores, talents, weaknesses. So where is the compromise between Jack of all Trades and  Master of Everything? And do we – as well-intentioned parents – sometimes put too much pressure on our children to be more than we’re able to be ourselves?

I want to hear what you think. So please visit me at Wonder, Friend. Then follow Missy on Twitter and Facebook.

It’s even easier than cooking with a crock pot. Probably.

Grammar. She just won’t shut up about it, will she?

I know. I hate me sometimes, too.

Especially when I find myself wasting time wondering how many people signed off on the incorrect wording of an advertisement or sign. Like the postings on the ski lifts at Mammoth Mountain that sported this bold warning:

Loose control, loose your ticket.

No one noticed the extra Os? The distinction is important because to me, loose control sounds kind of awesome. They sought harsh admonitions for overly-daring skiers but I saw subtle oxymoron:

Stay loose, but also in control, yo. This may, in fact, be my life’s great motto.

In light of said looseness, you may find it hypocritical that I’ve also calculated how many people dozed in the recording studio when the lyrics to certain songs sneaked past them; and I’m not referencing lyrics that simply don’t make sense.

(I’m looking at you, Brandon Flowers. Are we human. Or are we dancer. Or are we perhaps a wee bit pretentious? I love The Killers, but seriously. What.)

No, today I’m highlighting three crazy-popular songs that – although I *get* what they’re saying – still challenge my ears, my brain, my tolerance for stretching the laws of English.

1. “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol.

 
Don’t get me wrong; the song’s lovely. But the writers have included in the chorus the verb To Lie (of which I’m a noted fan) three different times using two conjugations in a single sentence:

“If I lay here…if I just lay here…would you lie with me.”

Didn’t anyone consider that at least one of these would have to be wrong? The only way to salvage the lay (no pun intended) would be to say, “If I lie here…if I just lie here…”

Alas, the damage is done and that which is right sounds wrong to almost everyone’s ears.

2. “Empire State of Mind by Jay-Z.

I admire Jay-Z. And his talented wife. And his Blue Ivy.  But his posse missed an opportunity to inform him and Alicia Keys that concrete jungle where dreams are made of has an extra preposition at the end; and not of the don’t end a sentence in a variety; it’s a don’t use any preposition at all kind of mistake.

Sadly, one can’t exercise the quick fix – removing the of – while maintaining the meter. Still, I’m reasonably sure Jay-Z doesn’t care. After all, an entire state chose his song as their anthem and I’m sitting on a stool typing at my kitchen counter in a house that’s smaller than his daughter’s nursery. So who’s the fool?

3. “God Bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood

I know. People love this (intimidatingly) patriotic song.  And if you’re one of them, please join Brandon Flowers in remembering I sometimes hate me, too.

Especially when my kids sang this song at their fifth grade culmination ceremonies and I couldn’t help muttering through my tears, “American is not a place. (Sniff.) American is an adjective. Or a Noun. (Sniff.) So he can’t say American is a place where he knows he’s free. Even with the at least caveat.”

(I think my husband might have found another seat at this point. He sometimes hates me, too.)

For redemption, I’ll suggest that future singers of this well-intentioned ditty replace “an American” with “In America” and then all our nation’s problems will be solved.  (At least!)

(Okay. Not really. I only wish I could be that helpful outside the walls of Grammarville.)

But perhaps we can still work toward healing here. And to that end, please share some lyrical conundrums of your own. I want to hear what confuses or annoys or amuses you in the world of music. In the meantime? You can find me applying for a job at Mammoth Mountain as their newest lift operator.

I’ll be the middle-aged ski-bunny with Loose Control freshly tattooed on her forehead.