Defining Moments to the Tune of Bad Music

There is one defining moment that made me realize that Mac Daddy would be my soul mate, my partner in grime as I affectionately refer to him at the House of Dirt & Noise. This moment had nothing to do with carnations or a Whitman's sampler. Really folks, those would be deal breakers. Let's add baby's breath to the list too. Mac Daddy knows my favorite flower and sent them to me in my favorite color many a time. Purple dendrobium orchids, in case you ever have a hankering to send me some floral fawning.

But first a flashback.

It was about 1994. I was in the living room of the first house we bought. The radio was blaring some bad oldies tunes while I was cleaning. I've always been partial to the likes of Neil Diamond and Abba for my cleaning soundtrack. It was a gloriously sunny spring day in Minneapolis (nevermind that it took until June for spring to spring). I moved the heavy drapes we bought to insulate us just a wee bit from the bitter subzero chills of the Minnesota winter. I now had a clear view out the ginormous picture window and delighted in seeing the neighborhood kids scampering about, dogs rummaging for long lost bones peek-a-booing from a much anticipated thaw, neighbors sipping coffee and catching up. The sun streamed in making the rays look like an ethereal galactic slide.

And then what made my ears perk, my hips sashay, my feet flounce? I had lost control. I released it all to Barry Alan Pincus. Have a listen and see if you don't unknowingly tap your feet, bob your head, shimmy your shoulders, or belt out the lyrics.

Well, in my delerium of spring fever, I grabbed a hairbrush and sang along, with passion. I added some suave dance moves and had my self a plum great time bee bopping singing about Rico and Lola.

Cut.

My husband gasped, eyes bulging, giving him the odd appearance of a toad with a hyper thyroid. He whisked the drapes closed lest the neighbors see me dancing around like a Mandy-crazed lunatic. He screamed, "Stop that! The neighbors are going to see you!" Note that I was not nekkid or doing a strip tease or anything. I was fully dressed all the way to covering my head with a blue bandana. I laughed, thinking he can't be serious. But boy was he red and raging.

So I took my hairbrush outside and sang and danced up and down our front walk. Some neighbors bust a gut and joined in. Jeff fumed and flushed with embarrassment inside.

SCREECH.

I suppose I never talked about being married before I met Mac Daddy. I'll save the deets for another post. Suffice it to say my starter marriage didn't last long. Soon after the Copacabana incident I moved out. You see, that was also a defining moment for me. That one small exchange showed me that he was a boring dud with no sense of sponteneity. He was bringing me down, and I him.

A few years later, enter Mac Daddy stage left.

We had been dating for just a short while. We were still in that googly-eyed phase in which you don't dare fart or admit you have to take a dump in front of each other. There for sure was no post-poop commentary. Sidebar: Is it just mine or do other husbands feel the need to tell you about their bodily functions? I feel that there is no need for editorializing one's private bathroom time. Please do chime in so I can use your fodder to make Mac Daddy stop this turd laced commentary. Anyway...

We were watching some goofy movie that I'm sure he acquiesced to, thinking it would add to his action currency. The ending credits were to the consummate 80s Friday Night Videos tune by the Buggles. Video Killed the Radio Star. True to my nature, I grabbed a pen off the coffee table and started jumping around a la Bananarama and sang along. Mac Daddy had scooted off to the kitchen to grab something. When he peeked around the corner and saw me bopping about, he grabbed himself a wooden spoon and joined me. He took to the air guitar like a natural while I tickled the ivories on the air keyboard. Note that there was no alcohol involved. We were simply having a good time.

I was smitten.

Now 12 years later, we continue Dance Party USA, as we have dubbed it for our children. Our family favorite is an aptly named song by Journey. Bird and Deal rock out with toy guitars. You'll find Mac Daddy on air drums. And I'll grab whatever's in my reach that can stand in as a mike.

And no one cares who's watching.