He's doing it again.
Hubby and I were grocery shopping together tonight. I was picking out bananas when I heard an offensive noise that felt like a disturbing attempt at accompanying the store muzak. Looking up, I saw my husband walking toward me. Whistling.
I couldn't hold my tongue this time.
"Do you realize how off key you are?" I accused.
"Yep" he replied, undaunted. "That's why I do it so loud."
In the car he managed to ruin yet another of my heartbroken-teenage-girl-memory songs.
"A total eclipse of my farts . . . " he wails.
Next up was his haunting rendition of Journey's Wheel In The Sky. Haunting as in seriously scary. Like it will give me nightmares for a month. Like I wanted my mommy . . .
And then came The Who's Baba O'Riley.
"Out here in the fields . . . " he shrieks.
Part way through the song I start begging, "Please don't sing the really high parts. Or the really low parts." Or anything in between . . .
He and his trusty air guitar just keep right on jammin' with Pete and Roger.
"I was destined to be a rock star!" he announces proudly. "Only I have no tone. Or rhythm. But I make up for it with enthusiasm! . . . The exodus is here . . . "
I grip the steering wheel so hard I lose the feeling in my fingers. I grind my teeth til my fillings make sparks. "Do you know why I only played the classical station in the car for all those years?" I yell above his tenor. Or counter tenor. Or counterfeit tenor.
" . . . it's only teenage wasteland . . . Because I couldn't sing along with Beethoven and Mozart?" he grins mischievously. Darn it. He got to the punchline before I could.
"THEY'RE ALL WASTED!!" he passionately cries in his best rock voice. And then he launches into a wicked multi-air instrument solo. Townshend windmill and all . . .
I begin to mentally divide our assets.