In the Mood

I have noticed the past few years that my choice in music is dictated by my mood.

When I’m home – sunshine warming the living room, ball of fire playing in the yard, the smell of wood polish on my hands – we listen to a lot of Beatles and Aretha Franklin.

When I’m in the car – skipping from one lane to the next, sun roof open, breeze in my hair – it’s more like Muse, Foo Fighters or Audioslave.

When my tennis shoes are tied and it’s time to run, I have a clever mix called Dance, Dance, Dance that combines the best of Lady Gaga, Gold Frap, Depeche Mode and a little Pink for spice.
For writing, it’s metal or nothing.

Lately, my house must be dominated by the moon of estrogen because I crave a soulful voice. I need the mellow sound of love and longing. That deeper well of desire and loss. This can only be filled but Sade, Sarah McLachlan, Tori Amos, Jill Jack, and Alicia Keys.

The one drawback to answering this siren’s call is my own melody. I have a tendency to sing. Out loud.

I am a decent singer, but when you can’t hear the tune and it is bits of song floating by, it’s hard to determine the quality of my voice.

Usually when a co-worker walks up behind me, they tap me, maybe say, “Caught you!”

I laugh, ask them what they want. Then it’s: “Now go away so I can put the music back on.”

Maybe I’ve had a touch too much estrogen lately. "Even a glamorous bitch can be in need."