Blame it on Bubl

This is how rumours get started. I blame it all on Michael Bublé. Well, him and the over-active imaginations of my children. Honestly, my kids say the craziest things. I wonder where they get such notions.

It happened in a car ride with my two children in the back seat discussing playground politics and other worldly issues. I was driving, my mind adrift on important matters like if I remembered to put the wet stuff in the dryer, or did I pull out my yoga pants to line-dry and where was the cat? Did I put the cat in the dryer?

That’s when a commercial came on the radio for Michael Bublé  concert tickets. I didn’t notice. My daughter did.

“Oh, this is the guy Mommy said she’d want to kiss and be boyfriend-girlfriend with if she didn’t marry Daddy,” giggled precocious, all-knowing female child. Did she really just say that? Goodness, I’m sure I’ve never made any such statement. I mean, really, what an imagination (blush). Note to Self: concentrate on driving. Pretend you don’t hear a thing. You are now eavesdropping on your own love life, as witnessed by your own children. Insert theme music from Twilight Zone here.  Ignore thought of “what love life?” Don’t be negative. Be positive. You have a love life, it’s called Post-It-Note sex and it’s better than nothing.

“What did you say?” inquires male child, already typical in his masculine ability to ignore female voices.

“Mommy said that if she didn’t marry Daddy, she’d have married Michael Bublé, because he sings good and he’s really hot,” she affirmed (Lies. All lies. She has no proof). “She’d either kiss him or that other singer guy she likes who sings all the crazy songs, that Dave Matthews guy.” My passengers erupt in a fit of giggles.

Sigh. Okay, maybe I said that. Yes. I did. I have been clear with my spouse that in another life in my fantasy line-up of mates I would take fav­ourite song-writers on my team. Yes, team. It’s my fantasy; I can pick as many as I want. Let’s face it, if we had the chance for a buffet of lovers, no strings attached, no children, no self-esteem issues, we’d do that.

The Carpenter has a fantasy team that includes super model Elle and Jennifer Aniston, the woman from the television show Lost, and probably a group of leggy women that I don’t even know about. I go for poetic talents and handsome features; he goes for Botox and swim-suit models. Whatever. Fantasy is fair game.  

The radio plays a Michael Bublé  song and my son makes the musical connection. “You mean this singer? Eww. Good thing she married Daddy and now she kisses him. Bleh.”

The boy has a point. I’ve made a lot of crazy decisions in my life based on fantasies that were not real. Love is grounded in the muck of every day reality. It’s about kisses in the kitchen, nuzzled noses on pillows with a newborn baby tucked in between. It’s about overdraft and under pressure, night terrors and night sweats, flooded dreams and basements, full belly laughter and heart-beats accelerated. It’s the faith you feel when the doctor says, “I’m sorry to tell you this,” and you know you are not alone. It’s Michael Bublé on the stereo while you dance together on the dirty floor. Real.


Kelly Waterhouse