The term earworm describes a catchy song or tune that runs continually through a person’s mind. 

This is the story of how I planted an earworm into the Carpenter’s linear brain, simply because I like to keep life interesting. Besides, he had it coming. 

They say opposites attract, which is why the Carpenter and I work so well together. Well, that and the fact that we never actually work together on anything, ever. We have never painted a room together, renovated a kitchen, put down a hardwood floor or built a deck. This is also how we stay married. Stronger together, but far more effective apart. 

Some weekends we barely cross paths, so on Sunday nights, when we settle into the reality that it’s back to work tomorrow, I ask him a simple question: did he have a good weekend? If the answer is no, the conversation ends there. If it’s yes, his response includes a list of his accomplishments – the longer that list is, the more satisfied he seems. 

For example, if he cut firewood, planted something, dug a hole somewhere, he’s happy. If he fixed something that he broke, like a power tool that he claims was stupid, uncooperative and useless, then he is ecstatic. The man is happiest when working solo. Freak. 

I am happiest when I’m not working. I was born to play. Sure, I could help in the yard, but I’m not even allowed to cut the grass because of that one time I went rogue. Who doesn’t want a smiley face cut into the deep grass? The Carpenter, that’s who.  

Hence, my chores are inside. Vacuum. Sweep. Dust. Sort laundry. Fold laundry. More laundry. I have yet to figure out why I have to clean the underside of the toilet seat when I can’t physically pee on it. (A discussion for another time). 

To keep myself entertained, my house cleaning includes Kelly karaoke. Recently, Neil Diamond’s, Sweet Caroline, was on my playlist. “Hands, touching hands, reaching out …” You know the line.  Naturally, I paired this with some dramatic dance moves as I washed down the countertop. 

Honestly, I was nailing this song despite vocal range that was both off key and off-putting. I didn’t see the Carpenter walk in, but his face said it all. He didn’t approve of my music. He didn’t appear to approve of my singing either. To each their own. 

He should have kept his opinion to himself though, especially since I happen to know the Carpenter likes Neil Diamond. You should hear him sing after a few beers. Yep. Sweet Caroline, indeed. Howl. 

So, I waited for him to go back outside to his garage, his happy place, resuming whatever it is he does out there so he could avoid me for at least another three hours. I opened the door and sang out loud and proud, “Sweet Caroline, ba, ba, bah” and promptly shut the door. 

I heard him yell, “Ugh, I’m going to be singing that all day now, thank you very much.” He muttered something rude after that, which I ignored. Then he started, every so quietly, to sing Sweet Caroline. My work here was done. 

Earworms are fun. And the Carpenter needs more fun in his life. That’s what I’m here for. 

And yes, I had a great weekend. Thanks for asking.

WriteOut of Her Mind