I am the world’s best singer … when no one is around.  I can wail like Aretha when I’m alone in my car with the radio cranked.  I am practically Pavarotti in the shower.  And I’m pitch perfect when I’m hiking.  I might as well be Debbie Gibson.

But in crowd situations (like church or karaoke), I’ll only half-mumble, half-speak, half-sing.  In my youth, I USED to sing out loud and sing out strong.  Then trauma.   Turns out I had unknowingly been singing the wrong words to a lot of songs.  And, shocker! — no one bothered to correct me.

In my elementary years, I was fully immersed in the disco era.  I was knocking on wood.  I was shake, shake, shake (shake, shake, shake)-ing my bootie.  I was turning the beat around.  I thought Donna Summer was pretty cool.  From what I could discern, her music was not only catchy, but also relatable.  Take for instance, her song “Potluck”.  You may know it by its original title, “Hot Stuff”.   When I was seven, I distinctly remember running around the house singing “Going to a POTLUCK, baby, this evening … going to a POTLUCK, baby, tonight!”  It seemed logical because at the time as we were going to potlucks, and I figured Ms. Summer was down with that.  Imagine my genuine surprise when I found out she was singing about “looking for some hot stuff”.   What the hell was hot stuff?  Like green bean casserole?  What the hell was she talking about?

When The Go-Go’s hit the airwaves, I loved their music.  I especially liked their ode to Lucille Ball.  To this day when I hear “I Love Lucille” on the air, I immediately wax nostalgic about the late, great Lucy.   I also wax nostalgic that I never knew the song was actually entitled “Our Lips Are Sealed”.   Turns out it was a song about breaking up.  Admit it … if you didn’t know any better (and weren’t paying attention), there’s a chance you too could have assumed Belinda Carlisle was warbling about the redheaded comedienne, right?

No wonder I didn’t have very many friends growing up.

After lamenting about this “problem” for years … one of my friends got me the perfect gift.  It’s a book called “‘Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy … and Other Misheard Lyrics”.   Yes, it’s a book written about people who epically butcher undecipherable songs.  Now I don’t feel like such a moron when I naturally assumed John Travolta’s opening line in “You’re the One That I Want” was …

… wait for it …

… wait for it …

“I’ve got SHOOOOOES … they’re made of plywooooood … and I’m loooosing control!”