Thanks a Lot, Paula Abdul

I turned on my XM station this morning as I was getting myself and the kids ready for the day when a song came on. It was an old Paula Abdul song, "Straight Up" late 80's awesomeness. I listened for a moment and realized that honestly, the girl never really could sing. She can dance, I'll give her that - and I'd be willing to bet that she can down a 40 in under two minutes flat. But sing? Notsomuch. And yet I distinctly remember being such a huge fan back in my grade school days, thinking that maybe if I teased my hair up into a gigantic wave and choreographed a dance near my hall locker, Keanu Reeves would be all mine.

I mentally scolded myself for ever enjoying such generic, talent-free music. I snickered, even, at the thought of the American Idol execs scanning through a list of musicians, finding Paula, and saying "That's IT! We want her!" What, was Bobo the Singing Groundhog busy that day?

After the referee rang the bell on my mental Abdul-bashing, I went about my day. It wasn't too long though before, seemingly out of nowhere, a song became lodged in my head. A song so horrible, so painful, that it makes Paula shine like a gold-encrusted turd.

Mambo Number 5.

I haven't heard this song in years, and let me tell you - those years were pure bliss. Clearly, this is a case of bad musical karma. Three hours later, it's still stuck in my head and I want to get down on my knees and apologize to the powers that be so that my soul might be released from the torture that is Lou Bega.

Paula, if you're reading - I'm sorry. You are still my homegirl. You may be zonked out on prescription medicines but you rock those sequins like nobody's business and besides, we share a birthday...that has to count for something, right? Could you please call off your musical revenge before I have nightmares about Angela, Pamela, Sandra, and Rita?