An Opera Singer I Am Not

My husband is an evil, evil man.

Last night, as we readied for bed, he “song bombed” me.

Song bombed? What does that mean? Well, dear reader, let me explain.

There I’ll be, minding my own business, brushing my teeth/folding laundry/checking my email, when, from another room, I’ll hear my husband singing a song. Not just any song, mind you, but a song he KNOWS will get stuck in my head for the next three years days.

Sometimes it’s a romantic gesture…a song he serenades me with in his silly, soft falsetto.

Other times it may be a theme song for one of our favorite shows—one that we’ll both walk around humming under our breath. Or one that has a catchy chorus.

But most of the time, dear reader, it is one of those annoying commercial songs that have a habit of getting so lodged in your brain, it seems to take a stick of dynamite to knock it loose.

You know the kind of commercials I’m talking about, right? The most notorious one in our house—the JG Wentworth opera commercial.

I. Hate. This. Commercial.

Not because of the company, or whatever it is that they do. But because of the insanely addicting, fake opera song. All it takes is the first few bars, and the song is inevitable stuck somewhere in my cerebral cortex for days on end. I literally sing/hum/whistle it ALL DAY LONG. Seriously. See?


Please make it stop.

3 thoughts on “An Opera Singer I Am Not

  1. Stephanie

    I giggled at the way that your voice changed when you sang to the cat. I think that you’re a good singer…admit it, you were hitting those bad notes on purpose. Fun post!

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