Because I've been a fan my whole life, I know a lot of music; I can sing just about any song that plays on the radio. And sing I do, loudly, proudly, way out of tune. What I lack in talent, I make up for in volume.
But what I don't always know are the words to those songs. Maybe it's from hearing loss due to blaring my radio for too many teenage years. More likely, it's due to my short attention span; I don't always listen carefully, and my mind wanders a lot. Whatever the case, I never get the words right. My friend Vicki says I know all the songs, and none of the words.
But hey, no big deal. I don't take it personally when people correct me. In fact, it's usually pretty funny to hear what the real lyrics are compared to whatever the heck I've been singing.
Well, usually it's funny. It wasn't as funny when Mark recently corrected me.
I was singing along to "Starships" by Nicki Minaj. Mark was singing, too, until the chorus, when he suddenly grew very quiet.
"Starships were meant to fly-y-y, hands up and touch the sky-y-y," I sang. "Let's do this one more ti-i-ime, can't stop...I ain't even trying to get this!"
And that broke Mark's silence. He burst into laughter.
"You know those aren't the words, right?" he asked, in a truly condescending voice.
"I know the words," I snorted. "I just sang them, didn't I?"
He smiled slyly. "Oh, so then you know she's saying a really bad word, right?"
"Yes, I know she--wait, what?" I said, glancing at him in the rear view mirror. My mind raced through the lyrics, but came up blank. "What'd she say?"
He smile grew even bigger.
"What'd she SAY?" I asked again.
"She said, 'Higher than..." He paused, clearing his throat. I just looked at him.
"'Higher than a...M...F..er," he finally choked out.
I almost crashed the car--I'd been singing this song for MONTHS. With Mark in the car. With my window rolled down. At the top of my lungs, with a goofy smile on my face.
"No, she said, 'I ain't even trying to get that,'" I clarified.
"Um, no, she didn't," he snickered. "And by the way...that doesn't even make sense."
The chorus came on again then, and as I listened, I realized he was right. It was mostly bleeped out, but once I heard it, I couldn't unhear it.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Seriously? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I thought you knew," he said. He was trying really hard not to laugh at me.
I immediately flipped the station.
"And besides," I asked, "how do you even know those words?"
"I go to middle school," he said. "I know more than you think."
And that's the exact moment my brain shut down. Obscenities, precocious tweens, I couldn't take any more. It wasn't enough to flip the station--I turned the radio off.
"Hey!" Mark yelled. He didn't like being punished for Nicki Minaj's potty mouth.
"Fine," I said. I turned the radio back on, but put it on NPR. If I couldn't keep profanity off the airwaves, then I'd only play public radio.
And that was when I realized I'd done something even worse than wrong-singing obscenities...I'd turned into my parents.
"Oh, for the love of Pete!" I yelled, out loud, fully cementing the transformation. Mark just looked at me quizzically.
"Never mind," I said. I couldn't say I suddenly feel very old...he already enough ammo to insult me with.
Sigh...I tried hard to be the cool mom who knows all the current songs on the radio...but in the end, I'm really just another middle-aged, overprotective mom who's shocked that young kids are singing bad words (and that her young son knows those words).
And I ain't even tryin' to get that...
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