So, I got a portable docking station for my iPod so that I can listen to my playlists when I’m moving around the house, picking up the assorted crapola that comes with living with people other than yourself. I’ve got my playlists named by what I’m usually doing when I listen to them or what kind of mindset I’m trying to get into. For example, I’ve got one called Dean’s List that I listen to when I study. It’s exclusively classical music, Tchaicovsky, Mozart, Bizet, that kind of thing. I can’t study with music that has lyrics because then I start to sing along and then I start writing things like, “It’s Britney, bitch,” instead of median nerve of the brachial plexus. And yes, I do listen to Britney Spears, but it’s not like I own ALL of her CDs. Anyway, you get the idea. I have is called, Size 8, that I listen to when I’m dying a slow and humiliating public death running at the YMCA. I have a Casino Royale playlist of all James Bond theme songs. And then I have another one of the leftover stuff that I can’t categorize into anything called AlphaBits. Yeah, I don’t get that name either, but it stuck.

AlphaBits is my go-to playlist when I’m at home and need some background music over the incessant toddler chatter about Disney Princesses, who really is Cinderella, why Co-dizz has to be the Beast, how come there aren’t any more Fruit Snacks and whether or not it’s time to watch Wonder Pets on Noggin. Pretty tame stuff on AlphaBits — no Uncle Luke, no Black Sabbath, nothing that would get a parental adivsory label on it. Just some feel-good music, like Eye of the Tiger. I mean, c’mon, who doesn’t get all Rocky-fied when they hear that song. I hear the opening bars and feel like I might just could get the vacuum down from the laundry room and actually DO something! Might. Just. Could.

Turns out, Mo-dizz is not immune to force of that Survivor powerhouse. Now, if I could just get her to pick up the crayons and puzzle pieces in between verses. . . .

And no, she didn’t get those moves from me.