Until Next Time, Iggy

>> Tuesday, May 15, 2007


I drove to work today all by myself -- like a big girl! My husband took the girls to daycare so I could take a class tonight. (Did I mention he's wonderful?) I didn’t even care that I had to drive the “Granny Car” (our ‘97 Civic), or listen to music on our broken-down radio that suddenly drops to nothing and then bursts to ear-crushing volumes.

I listened to music. Sweet, uninterrupted (sometimes soft... sometimes LOUD) music. Ten minutes into the drive (with the heat warming my toes, a bagel sitting next to me, and a plastic Dora cup of Pepsi), Punkrocker came on the radio. It’s a new song by the Teddybears featuring Iggy Pop. Yes!

So, not only do I get to drive alone and listen to music, I get to indulge in one of my domestic survival fantasies. A DSF, for those of you who don’t know, is something domestics do to survive domesticity. I fantasize about “whatever blows my skirt up” (as my neighbor Ida May used to say.) It’s like taking a long drag on a smooth cigarette. Or taking the first swig from a bottle of Corona. When enjoyed in moderation, a little DSF eases the stress of domestic life.

So I’m driving and suddenly there’s Iggy Pop at some rocker party. And I’m there, too. He comes over to me when someone tips him off that I’m the writer of Domestic Irritation. Turns out, he’s a huge fan of my blog! He has kids, too, (several it seems) and works hard to balance being a punk rocker with fatherhood. We talk about music and what it’s like to be a single parent. (See, in this DSF, I’m a single parent. It’s way more punk to be a single parent living in the LA area, than a married one living in the San Diego suburbs.)

I indulge in Iggy for a few miles until I notice my exit for work. Ah, reality. My DSF ends simply and quickly enough. Iggy and I talk all night, drink a few beers, and then have raging sex in his tour bus.

As I walk into work with a grin on my face, I make a mental note: Download Punkrocker from iTunes.

Life is good.
 

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