'What money?' One would naturally ask.
'The money your mother gave you for singing lessons.'
This unkind expression invariably followed any impromptu vocal performance, be it in the shower, while vacuuming or just while shooting the breeze.
OK, I admit, as a family we are not known for our crooning capabilities. As performers, we were all great cooks.
Which is why it is only biological that the short one carries on in this fine familial fashion.
Let's be honest here.
She can't sing her way out of a wet paper bag. She couldn't carry a tune even if it was handed to her in a Louis Vuitton. This child's vocal range scares small children.
Which is exactly why I was quite surprised yesterday with her genuine lack of empathy.
Loudly singing her way around the aisles of the local grocery store, unaware of the pained expressions of everyone within earshot, she leaned over to me and whispered...quite audibly, 'Do you think everyone is enjoying my singing?'
I mean, it's such an arbitrary expression, isn't it? How does one quantify enjoyment? How does one extract enjoyment from pain?
Without a doubt, these innocent bystanders, upon whom suffering was unwittingly meted, may at the very least reconsider their shopping routines from now on...