I’m afraid to have babies.

I kind of don’t want to.

But there was a moment on Friday night at our friend’s father’s house during her 30th birthday party. It was the day after Thanksgiving and the house was packed with family. It was a family and a house I was familiar with, for these were our officiant Randall’s uncle and aunt and cousins, and their backyard is where we’d gathered to watch Randall get married two and a half years ago — to watch families merge and expand.

And the moment happened when we were jammed into a tiny den. Our friend Steve-o was jamming on the guitar and everyone, young and old, male and female, was dancing to Wilson Pickett's "Mustang Sally." All the younger cousins, drunk on wine, were hollering and laughing and spinning one another into each other. Our friend pulled her mother, who’d suffered a stroke a few years ago, out of her wheelchair and held one elbow as her sister held the other, and together they staggered forward half a step, then back again. Dancing.

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Recently, Bruce Springsteen released The Promise — the reissue of 1978's Darkness On the Edge of Town, plus a bunch of other good stuff. I put the box set on my Christmas list. In the meantime, I have been obsessively listening to Bruuuuuuce.

Thusly, for this week's mix I'm keeping it simple: some of my favorite Springsteen songs.

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On Saturday I went out with friends for an early birthday dinner at an Argentinian restaurant. We'd finished eating and were lingering over drinks. Suddenly, a flan with a candle jammed through the top appeared in front of me just as the band broke into the familiar strains of  the Happy Birthday song.

The bandleader, a large man in a gray ponytail and a Panama Jack hat seated behind a keyboard, called me "Liz."

Whoever Liz is, I hope she wasn't pissed that I got her birthday flan.

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In 1983, when I was three years old, I told my mother that Duran Duran was my favorite band and that I was in love with Knight Rider's David Hasselhoff.

While this doesn't give me supreme cultural ownership over the 1980s like it does for those who were the prime ages of 12-25 during that decade, it shows that I was dialed in enough to know what was up. Despite my youth, I have very distinct memories of 80s music, television, and — if my puff-paint t-shirts and tiered acid-washed jean skirts were any indication — clothing. I already made those mistakes, people. I have largely been there and done that.

Which is why I have absolutely no interest in reliving the 80s, as kids today seem wont to do. I went to a local rugby association barbecue on Saturday that included the current rugby team at the University of California Santa Barbara. These dudes were wearing — get this — neon plastic sunglasses and brightly patterned cotton shorts. One of them had a rat tail! What the hell is going on with the youth of today? What the hell is it that makes kids want to copy the trends that had already come and gone before they were even born?

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I know this is hardly an original concept, but eh. Sometimes I have to quit trying to be all perfect and just write something, anything, and hit publish. Mmkay?

Mmkay.

*********

Dear husband,

Really? Is it really necessary to DVR every episode of Hoarders?

Regards,

Concerned wife

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In a shining example of all that is good, pure, and holy about this here process of music-sharing, last week I fell in love with a band on Dana's playlist named Beach Fossils. I'd never heard them before, yet I immediately hustled out to obtain their album and have been listening to it all week.

As a consequence, my current playlist is loosely themed around that Beach Fossils sound: lo-fi, retro-throwback, beach-boardwalking, garage-rock. These songs in particular also seem to be about people in varying degrees of love and/or lust, so I guess you could call the subtheme "crushing." I've had just one single solitary hardcore crush as an adult, and boy, that did not end well. So I feel kinda bad for some of these folks, because I can see the writing on the wall. But hey, that doesn't stop me from enjoying their music!

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Lately, I have a real thing for hummus. I cannot get enough of it. I desire it with the heat of a trillion fiery suns. I want to fill a kiddie pool and marinate myself in a hummus bath. If I could inject it directly into my veins, I would. I would eat so much hummus that I would become hummus. We would become one. And I would become a wildly popular date for anyone bringing a crudité platter to a party.

For now, I am indulging my little craving. I figure cravings are your body's way of telling you what it needs. And if my body needs a few metric tons of chickpeas, who am I to stand in its way?

Here's the annoying thing, though. People tend to assume that any recently married woman of childbearing age is suddenly and indisputably on a babymaking tear. For these people, there is no clearer evidence of your rampant fertility than your having a craving. A craving for anything. Witness:

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Okay. First off, let me preface this post by saying that Wordpress.com blocks embedding except from a select few whitelisted websites, of which Mixpod isn't one. I tried all sorts of code to trick it Wordpress into embedding this player; no dice. I also tried having Mixpod post my playlist to my blog on my behalf, but it just fails and/or tells me to sign up for a blog. And yes, my login information is correct.

In summary: BLARGH.

Until I figure out a different way to go about this, I'm just going to have to go with this lame link. Do not be afraid to click it. It will take you to untold musical wonders. Or something.

ANYWAY. Moving on.

This week, I'd been planning on posting a collection of moody little indie songs. But then I realized that lately it seems like most of the people I know, both online and in real life, are in a slump. From mild malaise to utter life-questioning upheaval, we all seem to be starting November off a little down in the mouth. The universe, she can be cruel sometimes, eh?

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On Monday night, I stopped into Nordstrom. I was out browsing for a black clutch to use at a foncy wedding¹ I'm attending this weekend, and I figured it couldn't hurt to check out Nordstrom's wares. Turns out that yeah, it could hurt. I hadn't been inside the door for 39 seconds when a saleslady suddenly popped up, jack-in-the-box-like, from behind a counter and sweetly asked what I was looking for. Oh, yes, they had some of those! She dragged me straight over to the sales bin — I assumed this was a good sign — and rummaged around inside for a moment before turning up a fetching little evening bag. I am not one of those people who have an accoutrement fetish, but damn, son. This was a fine bag. I made a big show of pretending to look inside at the pockets, but I was really just searching for the price tag. And when I found it — eep! It was $163 on sale.

The saleslady was still standing there staring at me, awaiting further instruction. So I staggered around for a few minutes eyeing the other merchandise with feigned interest, the clutch awkwardly tucked under my arm as if I was actually considering buying it, while my mind raced. I didn't know how to get out of this one. She was actively watching me, so I couldn't just abandon the item and flee wordlessly as I'm accustomed to doing. What could I say that wouldn't embarrass us both? In desperation, I finally set the bag atop the bin, put on my hugest smile, turned, and said to the saleslady: "I love this one, but I am going to think about it for a bit."

Oh. That was ... easy?

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