There. I said it. I’m in Paris, watching fireworks over the Tour Eiffel, galavanting on the Cote D’Azur, and all I really want is to be home in the sweltering mid-atlantic of the good old U.S. of A.
I feel guilty just typing those words. But it’s true! I’m missing all the good stuff: Snopocolypses, Top Chef DC, earthquakes — what’s next?Unicorns prancing down Pennsylvania Avenue? It would be just my luck. It’s like being out of the office and coming back to find out everyone got a raise AND a pony while you were gone.
I try to keep in touch with people back home as much as possible, which instantly raises my spirits. But that high usually devolves quickly into a bad case of the I Wannas. My sis and bro are going to the pool? I wanna go to the pool! Dad’s going to a crab feast? I wanna go to a crab feast! Best friend is wrestling her 2 toddlers at the grocery store? I wanna…Wait. Nope. I no wanna. But you get my drift.
It’s a downward spiral of inconsolable (and irrational) despair that tries to suck the life out of anything around. My only hope is to devise a distraction. Sometimes I go for a run. Sometimes I make cookie dough for immediate consumption. Sometimes I just watch Glee for 3 hours straight. But usually I just gotta sing it out.
I’m not a shower singer. I like to fulfill my wildest musical theater dreams in the car, in the summer, with all the windows rolled down. You know, so people can hear me. But since I’ve only got a bike here, I’ve moved my performances to the kitchen. I crank up the iPod speaker just loud enough to make my voice blend in with Aretha’s, and commence with making dinner.
I was doing just that the other evening, waiting for Husband to get home from a late night at work. A particularly good run of shuffled tunes came up as I was washing dishes, so I proceeded to belt it out like it was my last chance on American Idol, my hot lyrics wafting through the open window and bouncing around the inner courtyard.
CAUSE SHE’S THE CHEESE AND I’M THE MACARONI!
BABY I CAN SEE YOUR HAAAAAALO-OH-OH!
I was preparing for the final chorus of that winning number when I finally shut off the running water and heard the doorbell ringing. Hmm. Maybe it was Lady Gaga coming to sign me as a backup singer? I do like costumes.
I peeked out the window to the front door below. Husband was standing there shaking his head. Seems he forgot his keys and had been knocking on the apartment door for 10 minutes before he gave up and tried the front buzzer for another 10 minutes. All the while listening to me bellow out the window.
I buzzed him in. We laughed until our sides hurt. And at that moment I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.
* * *
Alright enough of the sappy crap. Time for vocab! Today’s phrase is:
Elle chante comme une casserole.
Pronunciation: El shant com oon casserole
Definition: Literally, “She sings like a casserole.”
Which is what you’d say when someone’s singing voice makes your ears bleed. Which is odd, because just last night my lasagna did a charming rendition of The Rose. Oh well.
“Sweet geezus am I the only one who thinks Mary J Blige chante comme une casserole?!”