Must You Sing?

The Hills are alive with the sound of me, me, me

Warning to all with sensitive ears:  I'm a compulsive singer.  Throughout the day, and often into the night, I sing, sing, sing.  Do I have a good voice?  Let me think about that.  Survey says:  No!  Does that stop me?  'Course not.  I make up ditties about my dog and family, substituting names depending on my mood.  My people are so used to it, they often accompany me.  I'll be in the kitchen, pouring myself coffee, and break out one of my original show tunes, prompted by nothing in particular:  "He's the Dusty man of luvin'."  From upstairs, hubby #1 will chime in: "He's the Dusty man of love."  The fact the I'm singing about a dog, and not a man, matters not.  Logic never factors into my song selection, which would probably irk the @#$% out of Simon Cowell, but in the home of the SJG, it's the message that counts.  At the core, it's all about the love.  If I'm feeling the love, I've got to sing about it.  I must!  I can't help myself.  There's a musical interlude perfect for everything occasion. 

It's not always about the love, though.  Sometimes, it's about the venom.  Case in point:  This morning, sleep deprived yet again, thanks to the putzes next door, I pilfered "We Love You Conrad," from "Bye Bye, Birdie," and made it my own: "We hate you party boys, oh yes we do, we hate you party boys, and this is true, when you are partying, we're screwed, oh party boys, we hate you!" 

Most days, however, I have a happy go-to melody that carries me along.  Who needs an Ipod?  I've got me.  At the moment, I'm hooked on "All the Single Ladies."  I sing it constantly.  "All the single ladies," I sing while watering outside.  "If you liked it then you should have put a ring on," I sing while cooking dinner.  "Now put your hands up," I sing while walking the dog.  "Wuh oh oh!" I sing while grocery shopping.  Does this make me a nutcase, or just a gal with a song in her heart? The jury's still out on that one. 

When I'm not singing Beyonce-style, or something peppy and self-penned, I often sing commercials.  The catchiest ones stick in my brain forever.  "Living spaces!" is a personal fav.  I jazz it up, give it a Sammy Davis, conk-conk-a-cha vibe, stretching out each syllable for emphasis.  "Liv... in'... Spac..essss."  Hubby finds my rendition of "Living Spaces" most infectious.  In the car, he'll take my "Living Spaces" and infuse it with added soul.  In this way, and many others, he completes me.

Next week, I hit Broadway (as an audience member), and there's no telling what I might do, if the spirit moves me.  I'd like Kristen Chenoweth to know if she needs help with the harmonizing, I'll be right there in row R, seat 108.  I'm just sayin'.