Sassy Is Mad At Ingrid For No Real Good Reason

You might have noticed we've been listening to Ingrid Michaelson lately. (By which I mostly mean "I've been listening" far more.) It was accidental, she popped up on my Pandora one day. I noticed her song You and I and liked it because it had a great line about wanting to do what bunnies do (with you-know-who). Awwww.
Shut-up, it's cute. It makes up for an exceptionally stupid line about "having our love to pay the bills". Last time I checked, the rental office doesn't accept love on the first of the month. Anyway, I'm going to leave a link here and you can click on it. Or you can not click on it. (But you know you wanna.)

The lyrics are sweet and her songs are generally nice (a la Regina Spektor or Colbie Calait, who I'm not terribly impressed with). I liked her better...and then I stopped liking her. Why? She pissed me off. Why? Fair question, she's not particularly dis-likable. I'm going to tell you why, even though it makes me sound like a small person.

Pfffffft, I said to myself: I can totally do that.

The singing, I mean. God knows I struggle with my mandolin, as the purple lines on my un-callused fingertips make me play all bitchy. (Unfortunate, I know.) But seriously...I can sing just like that. Maybe if I was in a real surly mood, I'd say I could do better. Give me a grand piano, microphone and a set of Ella's standards and I'd entertain you all night. I used to tell my best gal-pal that if everything in life fell through, you'd find me singing in a smoky cigar bar to pay the bills. (Because, see above.) 

I realize that I sound like a jerk. Relax. I'm not really mad at her, you see. I get frustrated at myself for not doing what I am able, what makes me happy. Then I take a deep breath, go do yoga for awhile, and try to remember my favorite word...tacked neatly to the end of that fretful nag of a thought: I'm just not doing it yet.

I work full-time dammit, shit gets busy - this is what I want to whine. Then I try to give myself (and poor Ingrid) a break. I have a bit of a dream job, so I'm not complaining. I work from home and take my kiddo to school in the morning, go home and work, then pick him up again in the afternoon, take him to afternoon care, go back home and work, and he comes home with Kid later on. I'm challenged in my job, I get to be creative, I work on my terms for the most part, and I get to make the coffee my way all day long. Perks, I tell you!

But the best parts? Ohhh, those have nothing to do with my job.

I live for the moments when Kid blasts the iPod stereo in the bathroom at 6:30am, or when the kiddo and I sing our hearts out all the way to school. I continue in solo all the way home, and I'm shameless now. I used to care what people thought if I was rocking out. Now? Nope, I'll grin at them (with or without my kid pretending he's playing drums in the backseat).

I have no aspirations to be some nifty rock star. The lifestyle sounds unappealing, it's not my style. But I'll tell you, when the blank computer screen starts looking intimidating I've considered singing the damn blog. If I can find a proper microphone, you're in for some trouble.

For now, I'll just concentrate on not being mad at Ingrid for doing what I like to do.  

P.S. If anybody has had a bad day and needs to go write the word "fuck" somewhere, apparently our comments section is the place to go. Even your local Kindergarten teacher does it. We're like Romper Room, but for stressed out adults with acutely discerning senses of humor.