Any Needtobreathe tune. These gritty Southern ditties will feed your brain and rock your soul.
Boyz II Men’s Water Runs Dry. I know the step-snap choreography by heart and I’m not scared to use it.
The Nutcracker score has always put a twinkle in my toes, especially the haunting arches of The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. And a 2016 holiday remix of the piece composed a new magic that left me starstruck.
ANY Disney melody is an instant transport to my happy place. From movies to parades to attractions, they all make me cheese and wish for great big beautiful tomorrows.
The Harry Potter theme song illuminates all the fun our family has had getting sorted and launching our patronus charms into the universe.
But the songs that make me the happiest are the lullabies Tucker makes up for his little brother, when he thinks no one else is listening. The just off-key, just-right compositions that lull a busy little mind to sleep. Le sigh.
Costume parties, theme parties, last-minute parties. I love them all. And grown-ups don’t have enough parties. We save them all up for the holiday season. Remember in college when breathing was an excuse to celebrate?
A great party needs the right location. Enough rooms that you can spread out (or hide), patios or balconies and a mile-wide dance floor. If money were no object, I’d have a party here.
Themes are great, too. What about 80s get-up? How can you not want to party in a side pony and slap bracelets?
Then there’s the music. Essential. You want songs that everyone can sing to. And you need dancing music–slow jams to shakedowns. Enter the world’s best party band.
Motown Philly back again.
Now we just need party snacks. A sangria fountain and butler-passed Mickey ice cream bars? Check.
All the rides would stay open, of course, and I’d have a fireworks nightcap, too.
What kind of party would I throw with unlimited money? An underwear party on the international space station. Yup.
“But, I feel insecure in my underwear. I’m not space underwear party ready.” You say to me with furrowed brow and trembling hands.
And, I take your hands in mine, and look with stoic confidence in your eyes, like a father would to a child, and speak with quiet wisdom, “Oh my precious, naive, little lamb. The international space station is anti-gravity…”
“So, you mean, my saggy bits –”
“They will rise on cherub wings my pudgy pal. Everything looks sexy in space.”
Suddenly, the realization of space sexification washes over you like a soothing ocean wave of sexy space logic. But, a new question bubbles behind it.
“What if someone gets into a fight at the party?”
Sensing your anxiety, I cup my hands beneath your chin, and quiet the roaring winds of worry behind your eyes as I let these words unfurl from my lips: “Have you ever seen anyone fight in their underwear? Of course not. It can’t be done. Being angry in your underwear is instant hilarity. Nothing can be taken seriously when you’re in your underwear. When the walls are down, compassion is set free. And by walls, I mean pants. The Dalai Lama is the embodiment of kindness, because the man pretty much just wears a sheet. If the UN would check their pants at the door, we’d have world peace in less than six months.”
And, the world peace potential of space underwear rejuvenates your faith in this party and in humanity itself – and you RSVP with sexy spacified zeal.
Oh yeah. I’d also probably play a lot of 90’s Hip-Hop. Keepin’ it G in zero G, you dig?
Okay. Your turn. Tell me what kind of party you would throw.