Here’s something you won’t often hear come from Naomi de Plume’s mouth – I can’t. Even if others have deemed this to be a truism, I refuse to admit that I am not able to do something. A majority of the time, I am correct… because I pay the bills and she who pays the bills is always correct. So I continue to repair electronic equipment until it is nothing more than glorified sculpture; I paint masterful works that leave even Supermom’s little Logan and Tabitha scratching their heads and on the annual “Staff’s Day Off” at Place de Plume – I call a caterer because I don’t care to cook any more than I am adept at it.
However, there is one thing I cannot do and that is sing. I know, who would have thought it? Certainly not I when I was younger and Father was the richest man in town, obligating everyone to never utter a harsh word in his daughters’ direction. I was given solos in every choir I joined, I sang Christmas carols from the town’s square; people swooned – and generally bled from their ears. I got a dose of reality when I went off to college. For some bizarre reason, those professors felt academic integrity was more important than stroking one of their biggest donor’s offspring’s ego. It was my third class that my chorale instructor asked me to do society a favor and never so much as hum another note. Well, I can take a hint – I dropped out of his class and found people who were easily swayed with cash; and then crooned my beautiful little heart out.
Thomas told me he adored it when I sang and I believed him when he said the cotton he used was for his Swimmer’s Ear (which I should have suspected in the dead of winter and no indoor pools.) But Thomas could not deny me anything that made me happy so he smiled and clapped as I belted out all my favorites (perhaps that “accidental meeting” with the streetcar wasn’t so accidental after all.)
Albert despised my “warbling” so I sang all the time, as loud as I could, for hours.
Rémy would smile and pat my nose with his index finger and say, “Tu, ma chere, es belle, mais tu chantes comme un millier de chats meurent.” Which roughly translates to: “You are beautiful but you sing like a thousand dying cats.” He usually followed it up with a little present so I allowed it.
Today I spin a tune whenever I get a chance. The Chateau is large and there are many places for the staff to hide. Besides, regret is not something I choose to feel often. So come by and drink my wine, eat my food, enjoy my home… but you may not silence me with harsh words or severe critique. I may be tone deaf, but I know how to have fun.
My point is, darlings, joy and beauty need not be linked.