When my daughter was only three months old, I bought her a fancy toy microphone that amplifies one’s voice, plays a few melodies, and also records about 90 seconds of audio. I repeat that she was only three months old when I bought this toy. She couldn’t even hold it in her hands at the time and she was just cooing and babbling out a few tiny sounds. She wasn’t ready for singing, but I was. My husband knew immediately when I put this toy in the cart, “Is that toy really for you?” Yes, it was.
Sometimes, I like to pretend I’m a rock star. I was totally addicted to American Idol when the show first aired. I voted every time, although I must embarrassingly admit that I voted for that curly haired Justin kid the first season when Kelly Clarkson was the winner. I grew tired of that show though, especially after crazy ass Paula left. My favorite comment was when she told one male singer he was so cute that she wanted his head hanging from her rear view mirror. What the fuck, Paula? That kind of crazy is, however, why you will be forever my girl. Heart icon.
I have now moved onto the Voice, because I love Cee-Lo and his random cat. My husband, on the other hand, was never a fan of either show, and must endure my viewing. If I just had the show on and quietly observed the contestants, I probably would not annoy him so much. However, I must evaluate every singer – often far more harshly than their judges/coaches. Quite frequently, my evaluations include the commentary: “Shit. I could sing that soooo much better.” This is when my husband rolls his eyes.
When I am alone in my car, or it’s just my two children in the back seat, I sing along loudly to radio or whatever CD I currently have on heavy rotation. Lately, I’ve been rocking along to Rilo Kiley. My daughter loves it when I sing, and I adore her for this because she’s part of a very small fan base (yeah, I think it’s just her and me). Often, I will pick up whatever item even slightly resembles a microphone that I can find lying in the passenger seat and sing into that. Last week, I could be observed in all my rock-star glory singing into a travel bottle of Febreze. It was pretty bad-ass.
I do occasionally still sing karaoke, because there are about five songs I actually sing well. In my mind, I have been developing a play list of approximately ten songs I would like to do an acoustic set to sometime in my life – and that would be enough to be my ultimate rock star moment.
When I graduated from high school, my brother’s band at the time (then called Plastic Dog Face … I know, WTF?) played at my party in my father’s pole-barn. Since it was my party, I asked if I could sing one song. I started singing, and my brother literally pushed me off the make-shift plywood stage about three lines into it. I should probably share that the song was Liz Phair’s flower, which begins, “Every time I see your face, I get all wet between my legs.” Again, I know … WTF?
Since I was abruptly cut off at age seventeen, I’m still waiting for my rock-star moment at thirty-four. I am fairly certain it will never happen, but I will always be a rock star in my own mind. My daughter and I are also now both able to enjoy that toy microphone. She sings “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and I usually follow her act with Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacherman.” I then ask “any requests?” as though we have an audience. Not so surprisingly, my husband never suggests any song titles, but has suggested I stop singing. But it makes me happy, so you still might pass me in your car someday belting out lyrics into a wrapped snack bar or baby bottle.
I had only kissed a boy. No one even touched my boobs, but these are the lyrics I wanted to sing at my high school graduation party. I recognize I am crazy.