Mick (the GH, not the Jagger) and I had the radio on last evening whilst preparing the evening meal. "How olde-fashioned!" we exclaimed over our Kool-Aid and chicken strips. "How gleefully so!"
Before he arrived home with the green beans and sesame seeds, I was bouncing around the kitchen, singing "I Wanna Be Sedated" at the top of my lungs. Then "Hungry Like the Wolf" came on and I was sucked into a bubblegum-scented, smurf-loving, big hair-having, behind-the-gym-smoking eighties flashback in which my friend Cree and I spent the weekend in her bedroom in a Cheech & Chong haze listening to Duran Duran's Rio LP over and over. We were in that grade school crushed out on rock stars phase, which involves kissing magazine photos, having pretend weddings ("you look so lovely, MRS. LEBON"), and analyzing song lyrics until they had no meaning. "I smell like I sound, I'm lost and I'm found..." Yes, yes - we SO knew what he meant. At least, I thought we did until Cree put the bong down and, after a long contemplative silence, said the following: "Wow, he's really, really hungry, right? Like when you first wake up in the morning after a gymnastics meet. Or when you go to McD's at lunch to cut school with your friends but don't have money for your own Big Mac, so you have to watch your friends eat and your stomach is growling. That's really hungry."
Yes, Cree. He is really hungry. That's what "hungry like the wolf" means. Post-gymnastics hungry. No McD-money-having hungry. And, now that I know it well, he was probably carb-deprivation hungry too. There have been times when I felt like I could chase a bunny into the woods and come out with rabbit stew.
I snapped out of my