There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza...

First I will explain the title. My beloved Dad, who passed away in 1992, used to be fond of singing silly songs to us girls when we were little. On the hit parade were gems like "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, sittin' in the corner eatin' worms." I loved it. One of my favorites, because we could keep it going for inordinate lengths of time was, "There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza, there's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, a hole." The next verse, equally repetitive, was "Well fix it, dear Henry, etc."

I'm not sure what I liked the best. That it was silly? That it could be neverending (after several back and forth suggestions and epithets, we come back to bucket with the same hole— you get the picture)? Or that, given my nascent quasi-feminism, Liza was having none of Henry's patriarchal b.s. assertions that it was her job to get the damned bucket operational.

Whatever the source of my enamorment (is that even a word?), I was reminded of it when thinking about what today's topic would be. I think about my blog waaaay more often than I get to actually write my blog. Every day, hundreds of bloggable thoughts enter my head. And apparently exit just as quickly (perhaps the accommodations are lacking?). I was trying to come up with a way to express the feeling these fleeting thoughts— well, they aren't really fleeting, they stick around rather for while, just not long enough for me to pontificate on them in print— give me. And then I remembered this song.

So! Enough about that! If you came to hear the Sirens concert in either Houston or College Station, thank you and we hope you enjoyed it. Bring even more friends next time. If you missed it, here's my wagging finger.

I was going to say something else, but it fell out.