Sing, Sing a Song

I live my life in a constant state of live, musical theatre. I'm talking a full-on Broadway musical right here between my double oven and my dishwasher. This daily production is complete with constant singing, repetitive and sometimes intricate dance steps, and even an occasional, quick wardrobe change. It might be reason #273 why my neighbors hate me.

Maybe I just drink way too much coffee, but I am constantly either belting out a song with my microphone (okay, a wooden spoon) or tapping out a syncopated rhythm like I'm a member of the percussion line in a competing drum corps. My family is downright lucky that I don't own a pair of tap shoes. I could really bust a move with those babies buckled on.

Several years ago, I actually tried to involve cheerleading jumps into my dance routine. That lasted only a few days until my high-kicking aerobesk went terribly, terribly wrong. So, I was forced to hang up my pom-poms forever and stick with what I knew…bring on the music.

And when American Idol comes on, you might as well get out of my way because my game is ON. I sing all of the contestants' songs immediately after they perform them, usually during the judges' comments. Then, because no one else is around or even remotely cares what I'm doing, I critique myself on my performance. I think I've grown a lot as an "artist" since I started a few months ago.

I'd like to think this erratic behavior is from my many years of band or choir throughout my schooling, but in actuality it's probably just me and my undiagnosed ADHD tendencies. I've been trying for years now to involve my family in my musical escapades, but my accountant husband doesn't seem to want to participate. I'll sing a bar of a song I know he knows, hand over the "microphone" and say, "take it away, honey!" He just stares at me, shakes his head, and slowly walks away, wondering how in the world he entered into Holy Matrimony with a loud, singing lunatic such as me. I'm not discouraged, though; I have full confidence that one of these days he'll come around and join one of my many musical numbers.

My 8-year-old, on the other hand, can carry on an entire conversation with me by only quoting lyrics from a 1988 classic by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. "Mommy," he'll say, "that's why I Hate Myself for Loving You." Can't say I didn't see that one coming, but at least he's on board. At least he isn't quoting Aerosmith or AC/DC back to me. See, it could be much worse.

And I'm pretty sure my 4-year-old is the only child who can sing Survivor's Eye of the Tiger. He may not have the most intelligible speech, but that boy can downright hum the bass guitar line.

I really need to switch to decaf before it's too late.