29 May 2008

Layla

running and hiding much too long

It's no secret that I've not been in the world's best mood the last few days.

Plowing through the business that I've talked about as well as the business I don't talk about. Making lists. Making plans. Making chicken tikka masala, pulao rice and sauteed spinach for dinner, because there's nothing quite like making a huge mess in the kitchen when I'm stretched to the point of breaking.

When I redid this side of the house a few years ago, I set it up so that my office space is in the kitchen. Makes great sense as it's very open floor plan, and it works with the flow of the way we entertain, as well as the fact that I tend to be stewing something and writing a report on some toxic chemical and helping with homework simultaneously. I have the master iTunes account on my computer, so I've usually got music playing in the background.

While I was making curry sauce yesterday afternoon, "Layla" randomly popped on.

Goosebumps.

I've never been a huge Clapton fan, but I've always liked that song. It had already long since acquired classic rock status by the time I heard it in high school, but it was the ultimate anthem of unrequited love, the musical definition of teen angst, years of warm spring nights spent pining for a beautiful, unattainable boy (the irony there, of course, is that it turned out that boy was just as interested, but while pursuing quantum physics and chaos theory and English logic, I'd missed the class in the laws of human attraction). "Layla" gave me the same goosebumps every time it came on the radio, hitting every confused nerve in my body. The first three minutes is all furious yearning passion, the last four pure romance.

turned my whole world upside down

Ah, spring. Watching the son and daughter navigate the uncertain rivers of young attraction is poignant, but also a little funny. From their point of view, of course, it's all very serious: the giggling girls calling the son for homework help; the daughter and her longtime school buddy being chosen to be "married" in a colonial reenactment--I've never seen an 11-year-old boy and girl with such red faces. I tell them I understand, explain why I understand. The son, of course, simply refuses to believe that my serious, strict maternal heart did ever, could ever, might still entertain the same tumultuous feelings his does.

The daughter, who is worried to the point of despair that she might not survive her crush on the middle school teacher who will be her history teacher next year (quelle horreur!), seems just a bit pleased by the idea that I might actually have a heart, mainly because it gives her room to tease me.

"Mommy and..." she sings the old playground song off-key.

"Quiet, you!" I order, though I'm more than amused.

Before I finally go insane

Yes, before I finally go insane, baking cupcakes for tomorrow, helping the daughter finish her State Fair display for tomorrow, getting the son ready for the first performance of the school musical tonight. Before I finally go insane attending to all the other business that requires my attention.

Right, cupcakes. That's actually the easy part.

Go listen to some good music: "Layla" from the album Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs by Derek and the Dominos.

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