Today I found myself in a hair salon talking about George Clooney. Now that is the life.

I’m on Christmas vacation still, technically, although I have to say there’s little about life with a toddler that qualifies as a vacation. So today I sent the young pup to daycare and took a day to myself. Full of guilt, but also knowing how mentally necessary it was, I spent 6.5 hours alone. During that time I did the following: Went to see Up in the Air. Sat (!) and read (!) the new Barbara Kingsolver book. And finally, after 2.5 years, got my hair cut.

Oh bliss.

On the way to and from the movie, I of course scanned. Actually, that’s a lie. After my matinee, fully relaxed, meandering homeward in the sun, with the heat cranked on high, I left the radio on an Easy Listening station.

I am always alarmed when these stations provide so many wonderful songs in a row. Same goes for the Easy Listening section in any music store. Apparently I’m Easy … like Sunday morning. (No smart remarks, TGOTS.)

Anyhow I heard any number of songs that would make good fodder for posts, and my mind was all over the place. But since I’ve already rambled on too long, I’ll keep it short: When I hear “Bette Davis Eyes,” I think Kim Carnes, who in my head looks like Kim Basinger, and then I think of Kim Cattrall, and then I think of Betty from the Archie comics, and they all roll into this one lovely woman with long blonde hair, and then I refocus and remember we’re talking about Bette Davis here, all dark-haired and squinchy.

That’s about as deep as it gets, which was fine for this sunny day off.

We’re only two days back from our Christmas trip to Vermont. As predicted in my earlier post, many things about that trip went according to a certain routine. But much of the music was missing. The most glaring example was that my parents did not, according to 35 to 40 years of tradition, blast “The Messiah” on Christmas Eve after I went to bed. Only then, as I lay there in silence, did I realize how much of my anticipation, glee,and general Christmas Eve-ishness is tied up in hearing the strains of that piece.

Music. Emotion. Memories. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of. And blogs.

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