Posted on December 3, 2013
“Go, Go, GO,” I yelled at the movie-theater-wide-screen T.V. I’m out of the leather recliner seat I’m engulfed in, in our friends über cool entertainment room, jumping up and down. With one second left on the clock Auburn scores the winning touchdown, clinching the SEC– West title. I am clapping like a wild-woman and doing the victory dance.
Moments later I am downing a celebratory shot of Captain Morgan’s rum with eight other people, seven of whom I don’t know from Adam. The other fifteen or so folks (also mostly strangers to me) weren’t so happy. Most of them are sulking on their bar stools or other chairs in the huge family room. One was hurling expletives but he’d had one too many. I’m assuming that once he sobers up he’ll be nicer. Sad….but nicer.
So I’ve got this feeling that those of you who know me are just a tad worried. In fact, I’m sure you’re all scratching your heads: What in the world has happened to Cristina? Trust me folks….I don’t even recognize myself. This is not Cristina. I’ve never met this version of Cristina before in my life. The Cristina I know positively does not like football. Ask my hubby. He’ll tell you in no uncertain terms; the game has been a source of many…um… disagreements…shall we say…between us. Cristina also does not “do” shots….let alone shots of rum (well, only one time and that was during a trip to St. Thomas many moons ago). I’m sure my mamma’s head is spinning and it wouldn’t be about the rum. Mamma is like-minded about football. We’re of the soccer ilk thank-you-very-much. A tad more civilized, IMHO, than huge, over-inflated men wearing tight clothes, enormous helmets, and black paint on their faces crashing into and on top of one another forming one mountainous heap, over and over again… after a silly shaped little brown ball.
Yet there I was Saturday night….wearing an Auburn T-Shirt, cheering an Alabama football team (and a college one at that!) and eating tummy-upsetting “poison” party food.
It gets worse folks!
The night before I was at a Songwriters Series venue in downtown Huntsville. The series features the songwriters who penned country music songs that became hits. Yep…country music. I haven’t told my mamma about any of this mind you. She’d likely want to send in the cavalry to rescue me from living in middle earth (I know one particular California friend for certain who wants me outta here!). Or, mamma probably thinks I have been abducted by aliens and was experimented upon, then plopped back down into the city of Huntsville in the middle of the night with an entirely new alien-infected brain.
You see, I grew up on classical music: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart…etc. And while my musical tastes have significantly broadened, particularly during my undergraduate years, it stopped abruptly short when it came to country. Country music was…and still is for the most part… like nails on a chalkboard to me. It’s that wretched slide guitar that makes my head want to explode. I’m convinced that would be a better form of torture than water-boarding. Moreover, country music lyrics are thoroughly depressing; After two songs I feel like throwing myself off a bridge.
My Rocket-man hubby loves country music. I usually have to ask him to switch stations when I get into his car because he’s listening to country. Thankfully he complies in an instant….he loves me so! When we moved to middle earth the first thing I did was search for a classical music station on the radio. Good thing I didn’t have high expectations because I had no such luck. This is middle-earth after all; no Trader Joe’s, no Whole Foods, no selling of the spirits on Sunday until after noon, etc. Happily Spotify saved me; it’s made daily life here more enjoyable that’s for certain.
odd as it may sound (and it is thoroughly odd to me)….some country music is growing on me….kinda like mold. Hubby would describe it as “boiling the frog” phenomenon. In the seventeen months of living here I’ve been to the Songwriter series a total of four times! And on Friday, as I sat by my hubby enjoying a glass of wine, listening to the four songwriters sing their country tunes on stage, I’m shaking my head in wonder in a moment of reflection while toe-tapping to the guitar beat. Yes indeed. Rafe Van Hoy who wrote for LeAnn Rimes and Dwight Yoakam, among others, is going to town on his turquoise-colored electric guitar (that would be GEE-tar) and I am swaying back and forth to the beat. Oh God. Not only that, I went to a Trace Adkins concert and swooned like a school girl! What’s up with that?
I’ll reiterate…I don’t recognize myself. Oh My God…maybe I was abducted by aliens!
Before long I’ll be wearing blue jean overalls!
I fervently hope that if I get to that point my sis or my “Evil Twin” in Northern VA will force an intervention and slap me silly to my senses.
For now, I’ll plead temporary insanity to going nuts over a college football game. It was ONE day folks. Trust me….this WILL NOT happen again.
Not for another 364 days anyway.