Touch My Apple Bottom Jeans

Oh my God. I have it bad. While waiting for my change at the check-out counter in the convenience store, I just caught myself singing not-so-softly, "Touch my body, put me on the floor..." The elderly lady behind me wasn't inclined to sing with me, unfortunately. Darn it, darn it!

There ought to be a cure for the Last Song Syndrome. And it ought to be available over-the-counter in Mercury Drug Stores nationwide! Or maybe there ought to be a law against songs that sneaks its way into your subconscious, latches on to as many brain cells as it can saturate and make you sing embarassing but addictive lyrics that could ruin social lives.

Mariah Carey sings Touch My Body and when she does, it sounds so kittenish and sexy, and maybe a part of me ( a very hidden part) that wants to be just like that makes me repeat the song over and over. And what about Flo Rida's Low? I'm walking the flood-soaked streets of Monumento and I'm singing "Apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur, fur, fur..." under my breath.

What the eff are APPLE BOTTOM JEANS anyway?

Also, if I were wearing boots with fur this rainy May, everyone would know I'm coming by the smell of wet dog that precedes me.

And you know what my ultimate LSS is? The one song that I fall back to when my brain switches to automatic-pilot? For the last 10 years?

"There are places I remember, all my life..."

But I guess I'm better of than our neighbor's daughter, Jillaine, who I once overheard singin, "Don'tcha wish your girlfriend is hat likes me, don'tcha, don'tcha..." Believe me, I made no typographical errors in that phrase, promise!