Last week I saw Funny Girl on Broadway, which I HIGHLY recommend because despite the cringy plot (really quite bad), Lea Michele’s performance absolutely blew my mind to the extent that I’m able to earmuff the rumors that she’s a card-carrying mean girl/bully/everything I hate about people/society/the world. They’re only rumors, after all, and they’ve only been verified by every single person she’s ever worked with, so obviously filing it under fake news. *adjusts headphones of convenience*
Anyway, as I do whenever I see a Broadway musical, I’ve been obsessively playing the catchiest song over and over again in my car to a degree that is certainly diagnosable as a mental condition. (But seriously, other people do this blast-a-song-and-scream-the-lyrics-on-repeat-thing, sometimes actually acting out the words with dramatic hand and head motions, right? What’s that? Yes, but they’re 9? Kkkkk.)
This ritual of playing a Broadway song ad nauseum has pretty much been my MO since seeing Rent in middle school, and I’m always so excited when I get a new opportunity to be weirdly obsessive. It’s my (arguably sad) idea of fun.
But you know what ruins fun?
Especially Even the ones you birth!
It is rare that I am in the car without one of my half-pint humans nowadays, so my opportunity to blast a song and weird-out is limited. Sophie’s fun-ruining is more manageable. She’s only 1, so her idea of crashing the party is simply to scream at the top of her lungs until you start desperately searching the car for an eject button (to eject/kill MYSELF, guys, not the baby! Jesus.)
After 13 months of her car screaming I have developed some semi-useful coping mechanisms such as day dreaming that I am anywhere but here on Earth, tearless crying (also known as soul-crying, which is far less satisfying than classic, outward sob-crying, but gotta keep those eyeballs unobstructed because hello I’m driving a small child and SAFETY), and praying to a rotation of gods (I’ve now sampled all religions, and it turns out there is no god who will rapid-fire respond to an SOS emoji text).
But Sophie isn’t actually the problem, because her age/obliviousness and the above coping mechanisms allow me to at least semi-pretend it’s not happening. You think a 4-year-old is going to let you get away with that shit, though?
The fuck she’s not.
Me: (plays “Don’t Rain on my parade”)
Nora: “Mom, what’s this song about?”
Me: “A girl chasing after
a man her dream!”
Nora: “Was this song in the start of the show or the middle or the end?”
Nora: “But why?”
Me: “Because that’s how the person who wrote the show wrote it.”
Nora: “Did the girl who’s singing write the show?”
Nora: “Then who did?”
Me: “I…don’t actually know. But I can look it up later.”
Nora: “But why don’t you know?”
Me: “Because I don’t know everything.”
Nora: “Does Dad know everything?”
Me (laughs): “Definitely not.”
Nora: “Why’d you say ‘definitely not?’ Why’d you say it like that?”
Me: “I was just being funny.”
Nora: “But how is that funny?”
Me: “I can’t really explain how it’s funny.”
Nora: “Maybe it’s not funny then.”
Me: “MAYBE YOU’RE NOT FUNNY THEN!!!!”
So anyway now we listen to Raffi.