The Joys of Spotify

Recently, while chiseling dried oatmeal from a pot I'd neglected to "soak," yet another inane daytime talk show (chosen specifically to prevent me from thinking about anything that might, inadvertently, cause introspection) was explaining -- via a woman with very white teeth -- the joys of leading an organized life.

Not again, I thought...but my hands were all wet and the clicker was hiding somewhere under a pile of mail and newspapers on the table. 

She chirped on about bins, lists and hooks, urging us never to lose our keys in the morning because a frenzied search, prior to departure, would lead to a "downward spiral into a bad day." After I stopped laughing and wiping my eyes on a dish towel, I turned to Buzzy and said, "Ha! Miss Thing don't know from downward spirals!."

She wasn't here the morning I slipped on a dryer sheet and crashed to the kitchen floor, colliding with the cats water dish causing it to slosh all over my clean, heading-out-the-door clothes which I then had to change. This interruption of my routine later caused me to forget if I'd unplugged the iron so, about five miles from home, I turned back to check so the house wouldn't burn down but then I stepped in fresh cat vomit on the stairs (the cats puke when agitated) and now I had to change my sandals, too. Once finally back at the car and ready to leave again, I got stung by a wasp who I didn't see because he was hiding behind the door handle.

Now that, you crazy TV witch, is a downward spiral into a bad day.

On this very same talk program, another grinning idiot appeared to discuss how important confidence is for women as well as the many household uses for toothpaste. But, by this time, I was suffering from mental anesthesia so intense that I used my last conscious breath to sweep aside the debris on the table to find the clicker. 

Off went the TV, away went the panel of robots masquerading as human females and back, slowly, came creeping my mental acuity. Such as it was by then.

It is said (by me) that more brain cells are permanently killed after a stint of watching moronic TV than after equal amounts of binge drinking but, since I don't really like alcohol, I decided to finally download something called Spotify.

Spotify, a music streaming service, is something both my children had been urging me to explore and has turned out to be the smartest thing I've done in a long time. Now, I fend off conscious thought with music of my choosing for which I pay a small monthly fee. I also drive the boys insane by constantly sending them links to music I love and think they’ll love, too.

With Spotify, you create "playlists" from an endless source of assorted musical choices. Voila.

Depending on my mood, I will enjoy folk, indie, country, Tom Jones, show tunes, Italian American favorites (who doesn't like Jerry Vale and Lou Monte?) classical pieces or a selection of Irish tunes (gotta loves those three tenors). 

I play them through a portable speaker called a Jambox and my smart phone and, when I hook everything together successfully and music pours forth, I feel as I reside upon the cutting edge of technology instead of dwelling deep in the land of the elastic pants wearing throwback I catch glimpses of in the mirror as I scrub the bathroom grout with toothpaste.

The best and most therapeutic aspect of all this music? I sing along...loudly. The cats may scatter but hearty singing is very cathartic and even Seth has noticed that my spirits are better these days. He has taken to horning in on my account with his own lists and, on weekends, we bicker cheerfully about who gets to listen to what.

I urge those of you who, like me, cannot trust one's mind to be left to play alone as well as those who wish to feel au courant in a rapidly changing world, give Spotify a chance. 

I also want to thank my sons for the great suggestion. I will be sending you some Julius LaRosa for your listening pleasure later.

Sing along---don't be shy!