Ah.....Brendan....not in front of the neighbors...

Ok, so my husband Brendan loves to sing and dance. Love may not be a strong enough word. Brendan is infatuated with music. He can't stop his body from moving. I don't mean just when there is music, because he is usually doing this "performance art" when there is not.

(Brendan on our wedding day)

My husband is the smartest person I know. We are talking photographic memory kind of shit. But when the suit is off....let's say Brendan lives like he is in his own personal musical. This is a constant cause of eye rolling on my part. It's funny to most of our friends, amusing to onlookers, and curious to passersby...but to me...it's my everyday life.

Now I like music, and heck I like a good jig now and again, but I like the quiet too. Ah, there is sweet serenity in silence. I am a creature of the night. It is me at my finest. Me alone. I escape to it because, from the moment I wake up (Brendan "serenading me with James Brown's "Get up...get on uppah") to dinner time (Brendan and his gumbo song "hey gumbo gumbo, hey gumbo gummmmmboooo") to singing along with commercials, music while on the computer, in the shower, in the car and finally the lovely stylings of his snoring nighttime slumber, it is constant. CONSTANT! I am subjected to it. I marinate in it.

And the dancing! It's always at least a foot wiggle, leg shake or neck twist a la Billie Joe Armstrong. The movements, or series of gyrations garner attention that would discomfort the norm...but my husband...left unabashed. It's cliche, but he does march to the beat of his own drum. No...he is the drum, vibrating, echoing, rhythmic.

It gets aggravating...irritating...enraging! It's just mortifying to have to duck in the car when we drive up to a red light. I don't have curtains to keep the neighbors safe.

I have told Brendan to grow up. That men over 30 don't constantly dance and sing. I don't want to be an extra in his Staying Alive musical anymore.

I have been this bitch, this eye rolling bitch that doesn't let loose at inappropriate times. I have been an absolutely self obsessed, self-concious grown-up.

See I take for granted that my husband is basically always happy. He hears music in my silence, he dances while he pees! I am envious! Gone are the days when I sang "A Chorus Line" songs day and night, gone...the nights I snuck out to dance to 80's music with the high ponytail and blue eyeliner. Those were the best times of my life...and my husband...he has that everyday. And why do I care what people think? So he likes Madonna...I mean she IS like a virgin. Why am I embarrassed when Brendan cares not? I don't know...maybe I'm just...jealous? Sometimes...I get this glimpse, unafraid to really see...his soul. He is so free, and happy, and alive. I sit in my bathrobe, fondle the remote control and circumvent any sort of happiness that isn't buttoned up and presentable. Who knows why?

He is going to be an incredible father one day. You know the kind that plays on the floor with his kids. He's going to teach them to laugh at themselves, and be excited when the alarm goes off, a bright and shiny beacon for the day to come (or some hokey shit like that). I can't wait to have this little being in my life that will so love and adore his/her father, because Brendan...is one of a kind.

I probably won't forgive being woken up to horrible James Brown impersonations, I can't stand it when he sings during my favorite tv shows...but I guess he's pretty cool...he's on his own permanent high...forever young. He loves his life. I love him. Brendan...Bren. My husband.


****Just run if you ever meet Brendan when "You gotta fight for your right to PARTY" starts playing****


that's all for now,
Brandi