Don’t say nothing
The other day, a small white spider crept across my windshield while I was driving home from work, completely crippling my ability to function. And the very next day, a different spider – I know it was different because I sent the first to Spider Heaven, also known as my own personal hell – sized me up on the inside of the driver’s side window during my afternoon commute.
A few weeks ago, my sixth-grade teacher Mr. Stuart randomly emailed me. And no, thankfully, it wasn’t because he’d found this blog. This may come as a shock, but I wasn’t as open and vocal about my life as a coitus-challenged cat lady when I was 12 years old. I didn’t have cats then.
Yesterday, I ordered coffee oreo ice cream at J.P. Licks. I loved every drop. And here’s the thing: I *hate* oreos and coffee. But together? A magical party in my mouth.
I couldn’t help but think that if I were a better blogger, I could find a common thread – something that ties together the unwelcome arachnids, my middle school mentor and an intolerance for unpalatable snacks that combine for a delectable dessert. But then I realized it wouldn’t add up to a blog post, but rather a folksy, socially-conscious song by the Indigo Girls. And it would be incredible, and insightful, and somehow shed light on the disappearance of small American farms. Or the unconstitutionality of Arizona’s new immigration law. Or the importance of scissoring those plastic holders on six packs of soda so seagulls don’t get stuck.
So I’ll forward that idea on to the band. You’re welcome, Indigo Girls. Because lately, I’ve been the opposite of inspired.
Outspired, let’s say.
I’m reminded of their song “Second Time Around,” in which Amy Ray laments, “If you ain’t got nothing good to say, sister, don’t say nothing at all.”
I really relate to that sentiment. For starters, I’m a sister. And for the past couple of weeks, I ain’t got nothing good to say. And I know how to tell time. It was as if they were singing about me and me alone.
And I pretty much do whatever the Indigo Girls tell me to do. They’re all, “Multiple life by the power of two.” And I’m like, “I am *on* it.” And they’re all, “The hardest to learn was the least complicated.” And I’m like, “Word, homegals.” And they’re all, “Chickenman, chickenman, chickenman, hold my hand.” And I’m like, “Umm … OK?”
Taking cues from the Indigo Girls is par for the course if you’re a gay gal. Also? Par for the course is par for the course. Because gay gals *really* like golf. It’s a hole thing. I’m not sure why.
Anyway, it seemed as though the Girls were telling me to take a break from blogging. I felt vindicated in my recent silence until the grammarian in me – and to be clear, lest you think my sex life has taken an unexpected turn for the sublime, there isn’t an actual grammarian in me – took a closer look at their words.
“If you ain’t got nothing good to say” is a double negative.
As is “don’t say nothing.”
I appeared to be confronted with the elusive quadruple negative.
I don’t know why the Indigo Girls didn’t just say this in the first place, but I think the life lesson they’re trying to convey to me is this: “If you don’t not have anything good to say, don’t not say anything at all.”
So effective immediately, like the good gay that I am, I’ll be doing that. Because the outspirational Indigo Girls told me to.
As soon as I figure out what the fuck “if you don’t not have anything good to say, don’t not say anything at all” means.