I don’t listen to music. 

No, seriously. I don’t listen to music. Like, not ever. 

I don’t know lyrics.
I don’t know musicians.
I don’t know genres or song titles or band names.
I don’t go to concerts or have spotify or create playlists.
I don’t hum songs or whistle or play an instrument. 
I don’t sing in the shower.

It’s not that I have anything against music, really. It’s just that music just isn’t something that occurs to me. 

(Caveat: each December I play Christmas music for about two hours while I’m baking cookies before I get tired of the noise and have to shut it off.)

***

A few years ago, one of my coworkers announced to the bakery at large that people who don’t listen to music don’t have souls. When I told them that I don’t listen to music, they were, much to my amusement, flabbergasted, and they peppered me with questions, trying to find a crack in my facade.

I’ve thought about that exchange a lot since then: how it is that an un-music-curated existence is so normal to me — it’s something that I barely even think about — and yet it is so utterly incomprehensible to so many.

***

A couple weeks ago I attended a music festival for a few brief hours. I’d never been to this particular festival and it was pretty darn impressive: Giant music tents. Children everywhere. Shaded walkways. Big fields. Food stands. Thousands of happy, smiling people in their funky festival outfits. Square dancing. Babies. Twinkle lights. Energy. Unbridled joy. Community. Music, music, music. The place felt like magic. It was magic. 

And yet, I didn’t like it. The noise was deafening. My ears hurt. There were too many people. I felt trapped. So intense was my craving for silence and birdsong and cool running water and quiet shade and doing things that I felt like I might crawl out of my skin.

What was wrong with me?

On the air conditioned car ride home, as my raging crankiness gradually subsided and my mind cleared, I said, “I just don’t like being uncomfortable.” 

***

When I told my mom that I didn’t like the festival, she gasped and then half accusingly, half triumphantly tumpeted, “You’re getting old!” 

“I don’t think so,” I said because I’d already thought that one through. See the following:

1. While I was there, I ran into a friend whose husband had stayed home. “This isn’t his scene,” she explained, and then I was like, Oh, right. Just think of all the people who aren’t here because it’s not Their Thing.
2. There were lots of old people at the festival having a humdinger of a time. 
3. I’ve since talked to music-loving young adult festival goers who were in royally pissy moods because of the heat, so disliking being uncomfortable is not age related.

ALSO.
4. It’s okay to not like something!
5. My ability to identify what I like and don’t like, and make choices accordingly, is perhaps a sign, not of old-aged stuck-in-the-mudness, but — get this — WISDOM and SELF ACCEPTANCE and CONFIDENCE. I know what I like and don’t have to pretend otherwise.

But could I change my mind and decide to enjoy the festival? Absolutely. It’s called Knowing What You’re Getting Into, plus determination — and ear protection.

***

I might not listen to music, but I very much enjoy it. Here are three songs I’ve been savoring.

A college classmate…

My brother and sister-in-law (starts at 1:16)…

Strangers…

***

Bellydance photo circa 2010 (and there’s another thing you might not know about me!) by Steven Johnson.

This same time, years previous: the coronavirus diaries: week 70, the quotidian (7.9.18), the puppy post, let’s talk, zucchini skillet with tomatoes and feta.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Vinegar by the gallon: tis the season!

Zucchini relish, restocked: time to grill some hot dogs.

Supper delivery prepped: pepperoni rolls, plus salad and mint chip ice cream.

Veggieeeeees.

Mold: don’t freak, just scoop it off.

Petals and locks.

Pig puddle.

Just a-swinging.

Father’s Day delivery: one gift to make his life easier, and one to make life harder (stay tuned!).

Look who’s back!

Circle left.

Redwing.

This same time, years previous: cracked all-the-grain sourdough, banana pudding, mushroom burgers with cheese, the quotidian (7.8.19), fresh strawberry cake, nose spots, reflections from Kansas City, the quotidian (7.8.13), grilled flatbread.

This evening I turned the oven on to preheat and then, when it was still cool, I slipped in a grape pie before sitting down for supper. Supper finished, I noticed the oven still wasn’t to temp.

Oh dear. 

And then we noticed that the house smelled like burning something or other. Not gas, but carbon monoxide maybe? My husband says, nah, it was “incomplete combustion.” Whatever.

We turned the oven off, I removed the raw pie (maybe it will still be bakeable at a later point?), and now my husband and I are settled on the couch, each on our respective computers, me crowdsourcing via writing this post and him researching stoves and grumbling all the while:

“I don’t want to pay for a bunch of shit that I don’t need. I just want an oven that works for the next 25 years.”
“Why do we have to have smart features? People don’t even bake! Ooo, look — I can turn on my oven from Japan.”
“What’s with all this air fryer crap?”
“For half the price of a stove, you can get a warranty!”
“Maybe we should get electric. Heat is heat, right?”
“I don’t want the best of 2024. I want the best from ten years ago that’s still running.”
“It doesn’t have air frying capabilities. [Bleep.] What are we gonna do.”
“Oh, here we go. A Viking. It’s only ten thousand dollars.”

We purchased our newly-deceased stove about 6 years ago (six years!) and since then my husband’s replaced the ignitor about 4 times. He’s had enough.

So here we are on a Friday night with a half-baked pie and loaves of sourdough proofing in the cheese cave and an upcoming oven-based company dinner … and no oven. This time, we’re willing to pay more money (because we have a little more than before), but we don’t need anything fancy. We just want a range that’ll last. 

So please, please, pretty please tell me about the stove of your dreams. What do you have? What would you love to have? Taking all your best suggestions ASAP, please and thank you, from the depths of our grumpity hearts.
xo