Really. Here I am working diligently, hard, in the back room that is my office. Jessie has come home with her new boyfriend, whom I will call Drummer Boy (because he plays the drums, luckily we don't have drums ), before I drive both of them to H'Art studios for a new Thursday night art session (where old boyfriend, Tall Thing, will also be, that should prove to be interesting!).
They are in the living room. Talking. I am in the back room. Working.
Jessie comes in and turns on the stereo, thoughtfully. She mutes the speakers in the back room, leaving the ones in the living room on where she and Drummer Boy sit. I wait to hear maybe Disney, Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez, even Blink 182. I listen and expect to hear dance music, hip hop, funk. Because they both love to dance.
But instead, loud and insistently filled with gag-reflex romance (okay, guess I'm old and have turned more toward jazz) and hormones (the teen ones, not the middle-aged faulty ones) I hear "Time of My Life." From Dirty Dancing.
You know the one: I've had the time of my life ... and I owe it all to you ... and lots of oh babies and woooo hoooo and mmmmmmm and with my body and soul I want you more than I'll ever know... and then lots of silence from that front room.
Hmmm. Gotta go!
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