Karaoke, Swishy style
So yesterday, I took a little road trip for work. I like to keep myself entertained in the car, especially when I'm the only one IN the car. This often includes talking to other drivers, singing and dancing to random songs such as, say, the Electric Slide, and, on particularly long road trips, pretending I'm on Oprah and she's asking me for my life story. (Look, it sounds weird, but it's very therapeutic and it makes the ride go VERY quickly, I'll have you know. One late night at work, I made the mistake of mentioning that and YEARS LATER, to this day, I still get asked how my conversation with Oprah was when I get back from road trips.)
Anyway. Along with my camera, dental floss and three-year-old mascara, I also happen to carry a tape recorder in my purse. I was driving along, singing to the same old songs, when I got struck with the BEST BRAINSTORM EVER! I was going to sing along into the tape recorder, so that it picked up the music AND my voice, just like real karaoke, and then listen to what I sounded like! Genius!
First up was an Avril Lavigne song, which I belted out with the requisite angst and gusto. I hit rewind, play, and ...
It was the worst, most awful singing I have ever heard in my entire life. Look, I do not profess to be a good singer. I do not profess to be good at ANYTHING musical, except at appreciating it. But I DO NOT sound THAT bad. I don't! Clearly, CLEARLY, I was not trying as hard as I should have been. Or I picked the wrong song. Don't they say all the time on American Idol that song choice is everything? Why yes, they do. It was just the wrong song.
So, on to the next one: Midnight Train to Georgia. I put my whole heart into it this time. I was soulful. I was sassy. I did the "whoo-hoos" for the train and the "leavin'!" echoes in the background. This was, like, demo-worthy, I was sure of it.
Um ... yeah. Let's just put it this way: After I hit play, I was so completely mortified, BY MYSELF in the car, that I couldn't even get through the first line before throwing the recorder in the back seat and trying my hardest to pretend the whole sordid incident had never happened. I almost tossed it out the window and ran over it at 75 mph just to destroy the evidence, I swear. It was the kind of thing that sends small children screaming into their mother's arms and into years of the most intensive therapy money can buy.
That Cameron Diaz karaoke scene in My Best Friend's Wedding, where it's like, ha-ha, she's so terrible? Not even close.
The other significant moment of the trip: Some college boy walked up to me and asked me to give him a blow job. And they say romance is dead.