Kid Conductors, Sleep, and Other Quick Takes


Wednesday night, we took the kids to a symphony concert. This one was about visual art inspired by music. At “family concerts” they also let the kids come up and take turns conducting for a few bars. The kids had a lot of fun. Nicholas Conducting blog

(no idea who the little girl with Nicholas is, hence the blacked-out face. Can’t ask permission.)

A and J conducting blog


It’s been a high-powered few weeks, and I am tired. So very tired. I go to bed when I should and I lie awake, trying not to retreat to the couch, because Nicholas already thinks the couch is Mommy’s regular bed, and because Christian tells me forlornly how much he misses my presence when I’m not there. Earlier this week, I’d just drifted off when a storm ripped across the state and Michael sat bolt upright in bed, screaming, while the sky beyond the blackout shades resembled a dance club with a strobe light on maximum.

Photo via Wiki Commons

I don’t sleep while my children are in bed with me. I merely lie there and try not to get wound up until the storm passes and I can move them back to their rooms. That night, I winced in anticipation of Nicholas and Julianna waking up, but they didn’t. I thanked God for a day at the lake, because those two were so shot, they slept through the storm. Otherwise it would have been triple the fun.


On Wednesday night I decided to capitulate and take a Benadryl to help me sleep. And not to set my alarm in the morning. It’s a sacrifice I don’t take lightly, because that early morning hour is a big chunk of my productive time on any given day, but I knew I needed it. Christian got up and went running. When he came back at 6:20, I was still in bed. He came over to me. “Are you okay?” he asked with deep concern. “Why, because I’m still in bed?” I said groggily. “Well…yes!”


Later, I went to swim lessons and realized I had forgotten to bring my Things To Do. Basically I never go anywhere without Things To Do. This block of time, beside the pool, I had intended to devote to singing through music for a concert next week. Instead I ended up…gasp!…simply sitting there and watching my children’s lesson for half an hour. And some of the tightness in my chest went away.


And then we had choir practice, only for reasons too complex to explain in a post with the word “quick” in the title, I was not leading but instead watching everyone’s kids while they rehearsed. It was a lovely evening, and I took them onto the school playground. Eight kids, to be exact. One good-hearted uncle along to help, thank God, or that trek to the bathroom-and-water-break would have been quite an adventure–but the point is, again, no Things To Do. Because with eight kids to watch, you’re pretty much committed to doing nothing but, well, counting to eight repeatedly. But it was surprisingly relaxing.


Photo by east_mountain, via Flickr. Yes, I know it’s a piccolo, not a flute. But Lego Star Wars storm troopers? That’s just too perfect for my life right now.

I’ve been practicing lately–regular flute practice! what a concept!–and it feels good. I have scheduled a recital for this fall (locals: September 21!), but somehow that has not been as high a motivator as I had hoped. Next week’s performances, however, did the trick. I’ve been practicing just about daily to get my chops in shape, and man, it feels good. But it is not like it was in  college and grad school. My practice sessions are accompanied by little boys taking toy cymbals and crashing them together right beside me. I can barely hear myself think, let alone play. I have to do most of performance analysis by how it feels. :) I never thought I would reach the day when it was a simple joy to clean my own flute. Something I do at a tiptoe, hoping to sneak out of the basement before the boys realize I’m done playing and start fighting over who gets to push the stick and cheesecloth through the flute.


On a serious note: I’ve been reading the book Generation Me lately, bit by bit. Every so often something electrifies me. Like this:

“A 200 study of almost 20000 teens found that those who watch TV with a lot of sexual content are twice as likely to engage in intercourse as those who watch less. ‘The impact of television viewing is so large that even a moderate shift in the sexual content of adolescent TV watching could have a substantial effect on their sexual behavior,’ said Rebecca Collins, the study’s lead author. Watching sexually explicit TV led to teens having sex two to three years earlier, with media-savvy 13-year-olds acting the same as more sheltered 15- or 16-year-olds. Another study found that young black women who watch many rap music videos are more likely to have multiple sex partners and to acquire a sexually transmitted disease.” (p. 170-171)

Good reasons to be strict about policing screen time. 7 quick takes sm1 7 Quick Takes in which I demand beverage service during turbulence, laugh way too much on the radio, and try to decide whether to root for Argentina or Germany

Published in: on July 11, 2014 at 6:07 am  Leave a Comment  
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A Stream Of Consciousness Rant About Pop Music

Katy Perry dancing with others at the Buda Cas...

Katy Perry dancing with others at the Buda Castle with fireworks bursting from them. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Katy Perry was singing on the radio when Nicholas popped out with, “Is this song called ‘Tiger Rahr’?” I chuckled inwardly at the way his brain changed “roar” into “rahr,” and then suddenly chuckled at myself, because all our kids yell “rahr” instead of “roar” as a result of being chased them around the house by me, growling thusly on all fours before tackling them to tickle and chew. And why, it occurs to me, do we say “roar” in the first place? After all, it does sound more like “rahr.”

Pop music has been on my mind lately. From the time I entered college in 1992 until about a year ago, I had only the most tenuous connection with the contents of the radio stations. I spent a long, long time immersed in classical music to the exclusion of all else, and when I poked my head up it was in the presence of a boyfriend/fiance/husband who preferred country. When I started Jazzercise last year, the instructors were always shouting “who is this singing?” like a pop quiz I was doomed to fail.

I started paying attention, because there were quite a few songs I really liked. And these days it’s a matter of mood, whether I put on pop or the classical/NPR station. I keep a list of songs I want to download until I have enough to burn a CD. (No, I do not have an iPod. I don’t need music with me anywhere there isn’t a CD player, and I can’t even keep track of my wallet and sunglasses; I don’t need one more thing I’m worried about losing.)

Yet at the same time, I get really frustrated, because some of my favorite music ends up being on the list of things I can’t buy because of the lyrics.

Example A: Enrique Iglesias. Man! Some of the most creative music out there, and such filthy lyrics. That example isn’t one of the worst, but you notice I didn’t embed the video. As one of the Jazzercise instructors said, “Whatever happened to all that ‘I wanna be your hero’?”

Example B: Pit Bull. Okay, so rap is all the rage, and Pit Bull cameos on approximately a billion other people’s songs. I’m not a rap fan, but that song that goes with the Fiat commercial is actually a really good song. Except what’s up with that repeating lyric “sexy people”? I can’t play that in front of my kids. These people have got to be interested in picking up the next generation of fans; why make that lyric so prominent? It’s not even what the song is about, for all that it’s the title. In fact, that song seems to have three lyric strands that are only slightly connected: the beautiful love song about Sorrento, stuff about immigrants, and this befuddling “Sexy people”, implying, I suppose, that all immigrants are sexy? I don’t know…maybe I’m missing something.

The problem is, I really, really like these two songs. Or rather, I want to, and it’s frustrating to feel that I can’t actually listen to them, because–as noted above–there are little ears listening.

Of course, there are some really wonderful songs out there, too. Katy Perry seems to specialize in songs that affirm (think Firework), and this Jason Mraz was one of the first I knew I wanted to download–still one of my favorites. I suppose it’s always been this way, hasn’t it?

End rant. Time to start another crazy Tuesday.

Published in: on November 19, 2013 at 8:18 am  Comments (6)  
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In Which I’m Rediscovering A Piece Of Myself

Sometimes I forget how blessed I am that what I do and who I am are the same thing. I may have a crazy-busy life with too many irons in the fire, but if you were to boil me down to the essentials, you’d be left with wife, mother, Catholic, creator. With very few exceptions, what I spend my days doing is who I am.

Not everyone gets to say that. A lot of people enjoy their jobs and are very good at them, but very few people get to go to work to do exactly what they would do anyway, because it’s who they are at the core.

Photo by Bookmouse, via Flickr

A few weeks ago I set a goal of preparing a recital. Out of all my “irons,” my flute playing has been the one that’s fallen by the wayside. The chops you need for playing church and weddings just aren’t the chops you need for playing Lieberman and Ibert (the centerpieces of my senior and graduate recitals.) So I haven’t had a lot of motivation to keep up the daily habit. But the creative muscle you exercise is the one that produces, and besides, there are little flurps in my playing now that nobody else can hear, but that drive me crazy. Fingers that don’t want to lift in unison. Lack of fluidity. Uneven, unpredictable tone quality. The only remedy is regular practice. But I’m spread too thin to be able to practice just because. Ergo: a recital.

I did pretty well as long as I was discerning a program, but then I started trying to figure out how to prepare an hour’s worth of music when I only have half an hour to forty minutes a day.

My head nearly exploded. I know how to prepare a recital with four hours’ practice a day. Forty minutes of tone study. Run the scales. Do an etude. Then pick one piece at a time and spend the last two hours thusly: hit either the problem spots or run it through for musical phrasing and endurance. That’s how you prepare a recital.

On half an hour a day? I got nothin’.

I stopped practicing altogether for about ten days.

And then I took myself in hand. Pulled out a piece of paper and started a practice log: what pieces, what movements, and what I’d worked on.

I’ve practiced 3 hours and 40 minutes since the 24th of July. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. But it’s regular and anyway, it’s all the time I have. Getting downstairs for ten or fifteen minutes, as I did a couple of days, and digging in on one small spot, is better than deciding it’s not worth it at all.

It hasn’t been as productive a summer as I’d hoped on the writing front–I set my expectations pretty low, and managed to undershoot them by a mile–because with my mix of kids who need naps, kids who think they don’t need naps, and kids who are clearly too big for naps, I have virtually zero undistracted time. It is really hard to focus on putting words, themes and concepts together when you have a constant narrative of bickering and barely-comprehensible shouting and Christmas songs and “Twinkle Twinkle” in the background. (To wit: at present, Michael’s on my lap grabbing for the mouse, putting his hands on top of mine and pushing the keyboard platform in and out; Nicholas is singing while moving his tongue back and forth across his mouth, and Julianna’s shouting “Alee! Alee!”)

Flute practicing, though–that I can do with kids around. I can’t hear everything, but I can hear enough for what I’m working on, and a lot of it is in the feel, anyway.

Why yes, I can in fact read all those ledger lines at a glance.

Why yes, I can in fact read all those ledger lines at a glance.

And it feels good. I’ve missed this part of myself. There’s a particular warmth in the hands and the lips after I’ve practiced, the warmth of small muscles well exercised, and the hum in my veins, as if my blood is carrying music around my body, filling me up until my whole person hums with it.

It hasn’t translated to musical output yet (i.e. composition), but mostly I think that’s because I don’t have time to sit down at the piano. When school gets back in session, two of the kids will be gone altogether, and another will be gone two mornings, and Michael will still be napping twice a day. Until then, I’m just trying to get done what I have to get done.

To keep myself honest, I’m going to report in periodically–probably mostly via 7 Quick Takes. Hold me accountable, people. And if you’re one of my local readers, come hear me play when the time comes. It’ll be sometime next spring.

Program (tentative; also not the most ambitious ever, considering I’ve performed two of these before, and another is high school level. But hey, it’s a place to start):

Carl Reinecke: Sonata “Undine”

Paul Hindemith: Acht Stucke

Maurice Ravel: Piece en forme de Habanera

Ernest Bloch: Suite Modale

Pierre Sancan: Sonatine

Published in: on August 5, 2013 at 8:25 am  Comments (6)  



I wrote yesterday about teaching a holistic, healthy sexuality to our children. I’d love to have more perspectives from parents of older kids. Hint, hint. :)


As long as I’m asking for advice, I have a sleep question. Michael is now four months old, and he’s having a lot of trouble sleeping during the day. He’s actually slept through the night a few times (gasp! I didn’t know babies did that!) but it’s kind of frustrating during the day. I nurse him to sleep, put him down, he wakes up. Rinse & repeat. Very tiresome, frankly. With the other kids, schedules and nice long naps seemed connected to the “learn to put yourself to sleep” stage–i.e., the let them cry stage. But I’ve never done that until they were at least nine months old–into the object permanence stage. I’m really hesitant to do that with Michael so early. But he’s got to sleep longer than five minutes in a shot!


I know the first piece of advice is going to be sling/snugli. I did pull out the Snugli last night so I could go outside with my family and enjoy the evening. But a) he didn’t sleep, and b) while I can walk behind my kids with a baby slung across my front, I cannot bend down, throw baseballs, help kids learn to bat and pedal tricycles. So I’m really in a quandary, seeking solutions to the sleep issue. Because a baby who’s tired doesn’t do well with tummy time and learning to play with toys, and so on.


This week I served as adjudicator for our diocesan music enrichment day. I went into it with a fair amount of nerves. Partly that was because the logistics were so complicated. We had to figure out how to get Alex to his Harry Potter spring break theater camp, which began at the same time I had to be on site in a town half an hour away. And I couldn’t keep the baby with me, because the schedule was so compact. So I had to bring the sitter with me, and figure out how to keep the kids safe and entertained with a sitter. Very complex logistically. I kept having visions of Julianna running off while Michael was inconsolable. Fortunately, like most fears these proved unfounded.


The other nerves came from the fact that the very first ensemble I critiqued was my gradeschool alma mater, led by my high school band director. However, it proved to be very enjoyable, and a nice chance to catch up with a teacher who had a big influence on me, but whom I haven’t seen in a long time. All in all, it was an experience both energizing and exhausting.


I have a short fiction work up today. Wondering if it works; I’ve been trying to write this scenario for several years and I still don’t think I’ve nailed it.


I’m coming up with nothing but boring stuff now, so…have a great weekend!

7 quick takes sm1 7 Quick Takes Friday (vol. 168)

Published in: on March 30, 2012 at 7:04 am  Comments (5)  

Playing at St. Paul’s in London

Photo by roger4336, via Flickr

I don’t talk much about music on the blog, which is actually rather odd, considering how saturated my life has always been with the practice and study of music. So today I hope you’ll bear with me as I share a musical story that came to mind while Christian and I were watching National Treasure 2 the other night.

My senior year of high school, I worked tons of close shifts at Taco Bell to save the money to go on a three-week European tour with the U. S. Collegiate Wind Band.

We played concerts almost every day: in the Amsterdam zoo, in a park in Paris (where I had a halting conversation in French with a lovely old man), as part of a German kinderfest, in Salzburg standing beside Mozart’s piano, in Gothic churches and places I can’t even remember. One of the last concerts–perhaps the very last–was at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, the church where Charles and Diana were married.

Our big show piece was a band arrangement of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Lots of finger work for the woodwinds, with a really big brass finale. And the brass section could not seem to cut off with the conductor. They’d been scolded for it many times over the course of the tour.

Taken during this very piece...the flutist at far left is me.

St. Paul’s was a disorienting space to play in. Flute players like live rooms–they make us sound good–but that day I learned there’s such a thing as too much reverb. It also didn’t help that there was a lot of crowd noise: groups on tours and other individual tourists chatting it up. (The famous houses of prayer in Europe, by and large, are not prayerful at all.) It was hard to hear the sections farthest away from me at all, much less play in concert with them. The simpler pieces weren’t so bad, but that fugue was something else to keep together. I just had to shut off my ears and watch the conductor’s hands.

I breathed a sigh of relief as we finished our complicated finger work and slowed down into the big, brassy finish. The conductor gave us the final cutoff…and the brass kept playing. And playing. Irritated, I turned around to glare at them (because flute players are know-it-all busybodies–I can own my instrument’s personality)–and as the brass note went on and on, I was shocked to see every instrument in resting position, even while the full brass sound rang on and on.

Speaking of instrument personalities…if you aren’t a musician, you might think I’m making this up, but it really is true that certain instruments equal certain personality types. I don’t know if the instrument attracts certain personalities or shapes them after the fact, but for example, you can expect flute players to be divas (that’s a kind descriptor, btw), trumpet players to have huge egos (so far I’ve only met one trumpeter who didn’t fit that mold), saxophone players to be very laid back, and bassoonists to have a strong goofy streak.

Musicians, you want to jump in?

Published in: on February 29, 2012 at 7:36 am  Comments (9)  

A Trip Down Memory Lane: A 7QT Post

After yesterday’s motherhood moment (it was a good one!), I decided it would be fun to list some schmaltzy, cheesy ’80s music I love. If you’re more in the mood for fiction, head over here for a bit more about Carlo and Alison. If you’re brave, take a little stroll down memory lane! But be warned…1980s vidoes are WEIRD. I’m finding that I’d rather just hear the songs! :)



(Incidentally, this song has been redone in a screamingly funny “literal” version you really must watch.)



(Beware the hair!)



Cheating with this one, as it comes from 1991, but this, to me, is the classic “night” song. Every time I hear it I am transported back to a blue Ford Tempo Galaxy at 1 a.m. as I was leaving Taco Bell after a closing shift.


There you go! How’s that for a trip down memory lane, 30/40- somethings? :) What are your old favorites?

7 quick takes sm1 7 Quick Takes Friday (vol. 150)

Published in: on November 4, 2011 at 5:05 am  Comments (10)  

Word(y) Wednesday

This is too cute to bury in another post.

For those who might be new visitors from the carnival, meet my daughter: wall-demolisher, universal charmer, mommy-mind-reader, a conduit for Heavenly beauty, and now–aspiring flute player…just like Mommy!

Uh, sweetheart, you might need to turn it around.

She is never more excited about Mommy than when I pull out my flute.  But I will never let her touch it, which makes her less than happy. ;)

Good thing Mommy has a flute student who’s less protective of her instrument. Maybe that’s why Miss K. got the hug of the century.

Sunday at church, I went to the piano to cover for Christian so he could go to Communion, and to my horror, amid “Taste and see,” I saw Julianna lifting my, um, let’s just say as-expensive-as-a-used-car flute off its peg. Is it acceptable to leave the congregation hanging in order to save an expensive repair bill? Fortunately, Christian saw as well, and rescued my poor flute from the clutches of my over-eager daughter.

(Sharing today at Angie’s Wordful Wednesday roundup , at You Capture: Fun with I Should Be Folding Laundry, and at 5 Minutes For Special Needs: Special Exposure Wednesday)

Published in: on April 6, 2011 at 4:02 am  Comments (8)  
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Let Everything That Has Breath (or: Beating a Dead Horse)

Just before my alarm went off, 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I had the most amazing dream. We were attending Mass at the Newman Center, and singing the new Mass parts. They were chants, as a matter of fact, but the most gorgeous, melodic chants I’d ever heard, and expanded into gorgeously rich harmony that made the very air hum. And ringed around the exterior of the church stood dozens of people, children and adults, bearing small percussion instruments—agogô, cabasa, güiro, and others I know by sight and sound but for which I know no names. It was a tight ensemble; I looked around and marveled at the way even the children kept the complex rhythms locked to the voices, the joy filling up the space, and my heart lifted up in gratitude not only for the existence of God, but for the power of what He created here on Earth.

It is sometimes suggested that what I describe crosses into irreverence. It is called banal, feel-good, happy-clappy, and so on. People I deeply respect in all other areas use the word “beauty” to mean “high church,” unable (or refusing) to acknowledge that beauty crosses aesthetic lines, finding itself equally at home amid chant, praise bands, contemporary ensembles, solo cantors and classically-trained choirs.

Only in the constant frustration of trying to moderate the online rhetoric do I finally realize how blessed I was to grow up in a small, rural parish where there was little pretension and a great openness to all forms of beauty in music (even though, being a small parish, we were incredibly limited in what we could do). It wasn’t until much later that I realized how strongly so many people equate God with solemn, humorless sternness. I’ve never understood it. Why must reverence equal silence, holiness equal formality? Why do we shush children, try to make them behave (defined as sitting still and being silent, things utterly not in their nature, things which cause them to yell “church is boring” and help them not at all along the road toward understanding what’s going on and becoming active in participation)—why, when Jesus very clearly said “Let the little children come to me” and “whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it”? Why do we use worship as another venue to drive wedges between people, to separate them into groups that can be labeled “Us” and “Them”?

Don’t get me wrong. You know how I crave silence, how I find God in it. I think the lack of silence in modern life is a real problem, one that people are reluctant to address. And certainly I’m not suggesting that we should abandon the pomp and grandeur of high church. I know, without a doubt, that the ideal held up by the aforementioned people has real power to lift the heart to God, when it’s well done. But so do other forms. Look around the world. God created kangaroos and slugs, mountains and valleys and deserts and oceans, skin in black and white and all variations in between, and inspired people in all of them to create unique forms of beauty. How can we claim that there is only one way to worship the God who created such diversity? When any of us try to set up our own personal preferences (whatever form they take) as the only way or even the best way, we put God in a box.

Well, thank God He won’t stay in that box, that’s all I have to say.

What I experienced in that dream would be hard to achieve this side of Heaven. But it reminds me yet again that the human race, in all its diversity of custom and culture, truly is good.

Today I am grateful for all the things that support the song of the people of God:

hand drums and drumsets

electric guitars and keyboards

pipe organs and glorious trained choirs

chants and Renaissance polyphony (okay, so that last doesn’t support assembly song, but it can still lift our souls)

Handel and Haugen

Pope Gregory and Rich Mullins

for the inSpiration that touches all artists, whether they choose to make good use of it or not

for the constant renewal of the Church in the gifts of its members

for the constant tension between embracing what is good from contemporary culture and holding on to truth—however imperfectly the balance is held

for online arguments that remind me never to take for granted the blessings I’ve been given

Counting to a thousand with the Gratitude Community at A Holy Experience

Confessions of a National Anthem Singer

christina aguilera

Image by D.S.B via Flickr

I’ve been singing the national anthem at sporting events for six or seven years–on again, off again, depending on the state of my exhaustion level on the day of tryouts. And I’ve been a pastoral musician for two -plus decades, which means every time I get up to sing the anthem, I want nothing more than to start out by saying, “Please join in singing…”

On Super Bowl night, I was cooking sausages and onions in the kitchen when I heard Christina Aguilera flub up. “Did she just screw up the national anthem?” I said. I couldn’t believe it.

Our national anthem is hard to sing, with words that make no sense, and IMNSHO we ought to be singing something like America the Beautiful instead. However, that would take an act of Congress and we all know they’re too busy bickering about other things.

In the meantime, soloists routinely butcher songs that ought to belong to the everyone. For days after Obama’s inaugeration I couldn’t listen to news coverage, because everybody seemed so enthralled by Aretha’s performance that they played it over and over and over: “My coun…..(GASP, because it’s far more impressive if I only sing two syllables before I breathe!)…TRY ‘TIS of thee…”

It’s time to stop having soloists do these things altogether. The more life becomes a performance, the less engaged we are. And that’s a tragedy, because over time, as people’s opportunities to sing in community are pre-empted, they come to believe they can’t sing.

And because someone else has already written this argument more eloquently than I can, I direct you to the St. Louis Post Dispatch’s arts columnist, Sarah Bryan Miller. As she says, it’s time to take back the national anthem. And everything else, besides.

Published in: on February 8, 2011 at 8:08 am  Comments (11)  

Kate goes on a Christmas song rant

In honor of the season, I present:

Songs that should be banned from Christmas airwaves

  • Anything by the Beach Boys. I mean, no amount of jingle bells can make the Beach Boys sound Christmasy. It’s just annoying.
  • Most of the 96 million versions of “Feliz Navidad.” It’s not the song itself I object to, it’s proliferation of really hokey versions. Do they play them in a misguided attempt to appear multicultural?*
  • “Jingle Bell-(hiccup), Jingle Bell-(hiccup) Rock.” Hall & Oates have their place in pop history, but this version makes me want to run down the street shrieking in agony.
  • “I’ll ha-ave a-a Blue Christmas…” Need I say more?

For some reason I cannot fathom, at least one of these songs, and usually more, play every single time I turn on the radio. Of all the thousands of versions of hundreds of Christmas songs out there, every single station feels a need to play these three songs five to ten times a day  an hour. Can someone explain this to me?

Then there’s Rudolph. Julianna’s bus driver decorated her bus with red and green streamers and hung gold ornaments from the center. (We have an awesome bus driver.) She also perched a plush singing reindeer on the dashboard. Voila, Julianna has a new favorite song. She asks for it like this:

"Deer" in ASL

So I’ve been singing Rudolph several times a day hour for the last week or so. And being a song writer myself (albeit nowhere near as successful), every time I do, I gnash my teeth. What were you thinking, Johnny Marks? “Do you recall the most famous reindeer of all”? Come on, if we know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen, why would you even ask if we know the most famous reindeer of all?*

Okay, now that I’ve gotten that particular little bug off my chest, it’s your turn. What songs do you think need to be banished from the December airwaves?

*In posting, I discovered that Feliz Navidad has ITS OWN TAG on Word Press. What the…?????!!!!!

**Disclaimer: yes, I know it’s a song to introduce a reindeer nobody had ever heard of. Fully aware. Leave me alone. I’m ranting.

Published in: on December 8, 2010 at 6:14 am  Comments (14)  

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