Musical Monday: Don't You Want Me

Fourteen-year-old Scotty couldn't speak, was blind in one eye, deaf in one ear, needed a daily enema to move his bowels, was severely mentally challenged, and basically couldn't do much but sit in his wheel chair waiting for a fresh diaper and a spoon full of soft food that he would spill out of his mouth as he tried to chew; however, when Don't You Want Me by The Human League sang over the radio, he'd light up like a glow worm. Not only will I forever remember Scotty's bright smile and gurgling sounds over this song, but I still think of him whenever I hear it. Here's to a special boy, hopefully turned man, Scotty.

Come join Music Monday and share your songs with us. Rules are simple. Leave ONLY the ACTUAL LINK POST here and grab the code below and place it at your blog entry. You can grab this code at LadyJava's Lounge Please note these links are STRICTLY for Music Monday participants only. All others will be deleted without prejudice.



PS: Because of spamming purposes, the linky will be closed on Thursday of each week at midnight, Malaysian Time. Thank you!

Happy Birthday, Judy!

Today, June 21st is the longest day of the year, and in 1990, it most certainly was. The result of my labors was a beautiful seven pound, ten ounce baby girl.

Judith Miriam

She was always a precious little girl.

 

and she made us proud at her Bat Mitzvah.

Twenty-three years have passed and my little girl has grown into a beautiful young lady. 

Happy Birthday, Judy!
May age 23 be the best year ever! 

#GBE2: Siblings

I was told I was part of the family because of a trade with the Indians. The tribe received beads, while my family got a little papoose with a red spot on her forehead. That birthmark was the true coloring of an Indian girl, me. It might have been okay if my brother and sisters had told me they were teasing; however, this stunt continued for years with little me believing it all. Okay, so I was gullible, but isn't that part of being tiny among the mighty sibs? 

They had an 8½, 6½, and 4 year jump on me, and they used it to their advantage. I was their trained mouthpiece in acquiring what Mom and Dad would have never agreed to. As the Chevrolet ventured down the road, with the three of them shoulder-to-shoulder in the backseat while I sat wedged between the adults in the front, he-who-must-not-be-named would point out the window and say, "Look, Joycie. What do you see?"

Next came my hopping dance, "McDonalds! McDonalds! Let's go to McDonalds!" Sure enough the car would slide into the lot for hamburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes, which no one would have gotten if one who wasn't so stinkin' cute had asked.

I was also subjected to constant bouts of tickling from He-who-must-not-be-named and TV high jacking, too. I don't know which was worse: being held by the arms and tortured or forced to watch Bonanza. Tickling is a definite form of abuse, especially when Gilligan's Island is on, but I was too little to stop it. 

Then there were the other set ups. 

"If you tear your blanket, 

you'll have many." 

"Why don't you go ask Mr. Slatkin,

the famous conductor neighbor, 

for his autograph early in the morning?"

Laughter as a piece of liver is shoved in my mouth 

or 

hearing fart sounds as I bite into a chicken butt.

He-who-must-not-be-named gets angry when I write about him, but he was by far the most lethal sibling. I wonder if he would have subjected me to constant torture if he knew that one day I'd have a blog.