B-I-N-G-O

Now I think I have some talents: I can make a souffle at altitude, I make an amazing lavender martini, I find myself to be funny and I am ding dang good at math. So when I make the following statement it is not intended to be one of those teenage girl "Don't push me in the pool, don't push me in the pool" moments while I stand next to the pool, hoping to get shoved in. "Ohmygawd, he pushed me in the pool, can you believe it? Do you think he likes me?" SIDEBAR: This is Reason #258 why I am very thankful I had a son. Teenage girl stuff drives me insane. I did not even like myself when I was a teenage girl...


But back to the point: I have a singing voice that can curdle milk. Seriously, it is awful and I know it. Even my Dad who thought I hung the moon once said "it's okay that you can't sing, you are pretty." This was how I got the news that I can't carry a tune. Therapy bills later... I am now actually fine with this fact because I only sing in the car and only then when I am alone and the windows are tightly closed. I, occasionally, sing to sweet bebe because I think that is what good moms do. However, he only tolerates it because I am his mom and he thinks that I am the yummiest thing ever, in spite of my singing.


So I am with potential Japanese clients in Germany and, after the ridiculously expensive dinner ($9000 for 8) complete with champagne (that I paid for), after dinner cocktails (which I paid for) and a strip club (story to follow at some other point, perhaps. Still traumatized by this incident), they want to go to a karaoke bar. Oh egads. I would rather go to another strip club and that was one of the low points of my life.


Fortheloveofgawd, it is 3 in the morning and I am taking a bunch of Japanese men and one uptight German guy to a karaoke bar. I better get a huge bonus complete with stock options for this one.


Now in business school, I learned that it is supposedly tacky and poor form to refuse to sing when a Japanese person offers you the mike. I start panicking. How am I going to get out of this if offered? I can't sing in public. I can't sing in front of clients. I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this. Good lawd a-mighty, can I fake laryngitis? meningitis? hepatitis? any -itis will do.


I IMMEDIATELY start praying. It goes something like this "Hi God, it's me, Joy. I know it has been a while. Sorry about that. I know, I know but I have been busy. Listen, I need a huge favor. I know it is tacky to only call when I need a favor but this is a biggie. Please don't let them give me the mike. Please, please. Thanks! Oh yeah, and please fix Sudan. Love, Joy."


Most of the Japanese guys have taken the stage with a FULLY PREPARED ROUTINE. I mean, they have choreographed moves, gestures and pauses. Seriously. And why are they insisting on singing classic American songs by Jackson, Sinatra and Elvis with Japanese accents in a German bar? They are awful and I am getting as drunk as possible as fast as possible just in case (always a Girl Scout). And I am still trying to cut a deal with God, "Okay, I will give 10% of my bonus off this deal to a charity of your choice. And I will stop swearing. And be nice to my little brother. And clean my room."


Next, the bell tolls for me. Shit! I am now spending that 10% of my bonus on a Dior handbag. Screw starving children, it is all about me, bae-bee. I explain to everyone that I have a horrid voice but this is not a deterrent.


En route to the stage, I am yo-yo-ing between terror/humiliation ("the ONLY way this could be worse is if only there were birds on stage") and total bravado ("hell, my voice sucks but at least I am fluent in English. Maybe I will sound better to foreign ears").


Then I have a brilliant idea, perhaps my best idea ever. "Oh, Joy, you are a clever, clever girl. You ARE indeed Wile E Coyote, Super Genius." I will have everyone else sing on my behalf and I will make half the song silent. Hell, it works for the Bare Naked Ladies in "If I Had a Million Dollars," it can work for me.


So, I chose the song B-I-N-G-O. Here is where hatching a brilliant plan and being drunk start their collision course for tragedy. I get the song wrong and it starts off with "Old MacDonald had a farm" and instead of saying "E I E I O" I start blaring "B I N G O." Even to my tone deaf, booze-altered ears, I know something is wrong. Then I see that they have a screen to help you out -- who knew?


But now I am panicking because 1) I don't know the words to this song (did I miss a lot of kindergarten? I swear to God, I first saw the Chicken Dance when I was 25) 2) the next five minutes will involve more singing and less clapping and 3) I don't have my glasses on so I can't even read the words on the screen. And, oh yeah, and I am in a crowded bar on a stage with potential clients thinking I am some drunk, juvenile-obsessed buffoon.


Once again, brilliance strikes! I decide to lounge lizard it up. What I lack in talent (a significant deficit in case you had not sorted that out yet), I more than make up for in chutzpa and bravado. So I start zooming around the crowd and having them fill in the animal sounds. You would be amazed at how different cultures represent the same animal.


I am now Tom Jones sans the chest hair and diamante. The crowd is loving it and people are clamoring (seriously CLAMORING) to "moo" and "baa" into my microphone. I am merely zooming around the room randomly saying "you people are beautiful" and "don't forget to tip your waitress" and having everyone else do the actually singing.


Self talk: "Joy, you are a genius. You have actually pulled this off. What a coup!"


The song ends and I get a standing ovation. Yeah me! And then they start cheering, I kid you not, "one more time, one more time."


Self talk: "Flippin' moron. You could not just sing an Engelbert Humperdinck song and teach these people a lesson. Noooo, you have to be funny. Way to go, fool."