Suzanna Danna

From one “thirty-something” woman to the whole wide world of the Internets (Thank you Bob Dole)... I have a question. And y’all, I want a real answer. I need to know. Am I insane or is the whole world suddenly sexy?

Don’t know if it is the whole damsel in distress thing that the world has going for it right now, or that I have been shoe shopping recently (which never fails to make me hot), if it is the old lovah’s coming out of the woodwork (thanks Facebook.) that make me all head in the clouds thinkin about way back when, it could even be the music that comes across Spencer (my iPod) or hell, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue made me a little mmmmmpurrrrrrroooar the other day when I was trying to be good and listen to the classical station so I wouldn’t be tempted… to… do anything really.

I suddenly find brushing my hair to be WAY too pleasurable. And the song Bat out of Hell by Meatloaf is… erotic?

Oh, God… please tell me that it’s not hormones.

If that’s it (and I’ve heard it gets worse), poor Mister.

I hope I’m not gonna be like one of those cats in heat all, “Hi there, big boy, have you seen my ass? Let me show you it. Yes, I am rubbing lovingly up against the leg of this bar stool and listening to Chant* while wearing my new shoes, eating chocolate, dreaming of sex… and brie.”

Because you know. I love me some cheese.

*Gawd.

Deep breath…. Annnnnd release.

Let’s talk about Chant for a second. Chant? Do you mind man? Do you care if I discuss openly on this site (sort of basically talking directly to Stacey here… shit, they’re in Little Rock Friday… oooh, but Monday!?!?! Sherlocks!) and talk about you like you are… for lack of a better and more mature term… YUMMY.

Okay, I’m going to take your silence as a yes.

People, if you haven’t yet, get thee to see Chant, Jerry and J.K. post haste. I am not even kidding.

Lord. Just go to the site and listen to a little bit of Forecast Calls for Pain (Mmmmmrrrooow Robert Cray…).

Pardon me, I uh, hey there Boston vertical stapler, how YOU doin?

Sorry, okay. So, go to the site, listen to a little of the song (or go to their MySpace site, the live medley starts out with a bitty portion of my favorite song of all time, Little Wing) and then think of, um.. Hmm, how to put this bluntly and eloquently at the same time?

Alright, ladies, you know when LL Cool J licks those pretty lips? Or maybe bites the lower one just a little? Yeah? Stay with me.

Okay, now. Take it a little bit further. Imagine that you have stumbled into a nice R&B bar or a Blues club, something relaxed with an air of :: sniff :: what is that? Testosterone? Talent? Joy? Now, mix those things with a voice like butter, a brilliant sense of rhythm and absolute pleasure in playing music.

In front of you see a Creole man with a nicely trimmed goatee/mustache combo wielding the force of innate musicability (is so a word) and a guitar like it is his lover.

Listen close, hear his passion impregnating (shut up) every note, every syllable with blues, with obsession, fervor and excitement of playing. Now see him bite his lower lip then ask (in song) “Let me love you**!”

**Picture yourself here. As the YOU. The YOU that only a tortured soul of a blues musician will write music about. About the soft skin of your neck, your sweet smell, how your lips taste and the succulent beads of sweat between your shoulder blades when you are… making love, mowing the lawn, darning a sock. It doesn’t matter what you are doing, but YOU (hypothetically) caused some talented young (lover) musician to write a song about you.

I need help.

Alright. I know, I know babies. You need the cool water of something totally NOT SEXY to bring you back down to the world of the unhot. Hmm. Um. I’m all out. I can’t rein my mind in. Even Norah Jones sounds hot to me right now. I almost lost it this morning with a cell phone commercial on television using Joan Jett’s Do You Wanna Touch Me?

Indeed.

I’m only thirty six. Is this going to get worse? Please tell me that I will not be distracted by … oh hell, anything at this point. It’s a gamble to go to lunch for Pete’s sake. “Hey, nice way to deliver my water with a slice of citrus waiter… or waitress.”

Seriously?

Seriously.