Don’t worry that it’s not good enough, for anyone else to hear

I can't sing. Like, at all. For some reason, people are often surprised by this.

Curly was. She said something about how my speaking voice made it seem like I'd not only be able to carry a tune, but I'd do it in a pleasant, unique way. The World's Greatest Copyeditor asked me to come up on stage and do a ditty with his band one night. When I said, "You do know that I can't sing, yes?" he responded with, "What?! No!" Even The Roommate, who I'm quite proud of for grossing people out by drinking milk out of a turkey baster onstage last night, said I look like someone who'd be able to sing.

Thing is, I love to sing. It doesn't get much better than belting out Janis Joplin songs in the shower, or busting out some Fiona Apple while I do the dishes. I give it my heart and soul. I sing like Murphy Brown, really. Only worse.

Last night, after consuming just enough wine at dinner to want to do something reckless, Miss Amanda and I desperately needed some karaoke. We couldn't convince Curly, so we bit her adieu and headed off to that new place on 2nd Ave.

Now, when I'm getting my karaoke on, it's usually in private rooms with frienda and acquaintances. Sometimes I sit at the bar at Sing Sing and well, sing, but that's always more of a group thing than a solo thing. The thing about the bar last night was it was packed. And you couldn't just sit at the bar and belt out a song – you had to stand in front of everyone and do it. This made me a bit nervous.

Two gin and tonics later and I gasped when I saw Fiona Apple's Criminal come up on the screen. I quickly jumped up and said, "That's me!" to the boy I'd been talking to. I grabbed the mic and got to work.

Miss Amanda insists I sounded great but really, I could hear myself falling off key every 4 seconds or so. The thing I realized last night, though? When you're in a bar full of drunks, anything that starts with a throaty delivery of "I've been a bad, bad girl" is pretty much going to be a hit.