Summer volume

I sing a lot. It's what I do. Especially when I'm home alone (which is a lot), I tend to crank the tunes and let it fly. I'm not bad, actually. In fact, a dear friend recently said "you have the voice of an angel." And while I don't agree with that assessment, I do acknowledge that I know where the tune is, and generally I can carry it.

So last night when I got home from work, I opened all the windows, jumped in the shower, and afterward hung out in my towel for awhile, tidying up Chez Mags and rocking to the tunage.

Alicia Keys' "No One" came up on the rotation. I wailed. Again, it's what I do.

I have zero reservations about singing. I figure I am no worse than the thumping-bass-jackass in the hoopty driving in the next lane, so I tend to be unabashedly vocal when in the confines of my own home.

"No one, no one, no one ... can get in the way of what I feel for you ... "

Just as I'm finishing the song, I look out the window. There are two people across the street, staring up at my window. Either they're wondering who is begin tortured up there, or they're trying to figure out who's singing so loudly. I giggled, went to the window (again, clad only in my towel) and waved down to them. I refrained from taking a bow.

So consider this your fair warning: if you're wandering the streets of Arlington Heights on a warm summer day, I won't apologize for what you might hear. And if you really love me, you'll let me buzz you in so we can do a duet.