Natural, Schmatural

On the way to and from work I'm still listening to Carole King read her autobiography, A Natural Woman, but I don't know if I can take it much longer.

I mean, her insistence on using this supposedly correct pronunciation of Boise as Boy-see  is already nails on a chalkboard to ears that are used to hearing Boy-zee, but the story she's telling is prompting more audience reaction than a horror movie at an urban theater.

I just got finished hearing about her abusive relationship (!) with husband number 3 (!!), who conveniently died from a drug overdose (!!!) before she could wise up and leave him (!!!!).  During those chapters I did a lot of talking back to the stereo, expressing my, uh, intense disagreement with her life choices and subsequent rationalizations of said choices.

I've only gotten more outspoken now that she's waxing poetic about the joys of her ultra crunchy-granola/"low carbon footprint" lifestyle in Idaho in the late 1970s. The guy in the next lane looked at me strangely this morning, possibly because while I was stopped at the light I was yelling, "Noooo! Baby girl, you have money. You do not need to be living in the middle of nowhere for three years with some hippie loser you just met, milking goats and washing your clothes and dishes in a stream. WTF is wrong with you?!"

Oof. Her poor kids. Whom she had to home-school because they were living in such an isolated area, one where mail had to be delivered by friendly randoms on skis and supplies had to be hauled in by snowmobile. Theoretically the summers were better, but still: Ugh.

Anyhow: Can't wait to find out who husband number four is, but I'm trying to avoid spoilers on her Wikipedia page. If it's this Teepee Rick character she's been shacking up with, expect a lot of screaming from the driver's seat.

1 comment:

  1. Amy, miked here. Email me at my gmail pub quiz address! I have an email I need to send you, but can't seem to find your addy! THANKS!!!