Never fear, Billy Paul. Amy Winehouse has got your back. I think.

The thing I hate about having children is I can't rock out in the car anymore. I'm not exactly opera material (or even Karaoke), but I sound pretty good if the real music drowns out my voice. Rocking out in a moving car is my only option, because the neighbors complained when I tried it at home. As long as I keep moving, nobody has to listen for too long. My taste in music is questionable, according to my husband. He doesn't get the theme, though. As long as I can sing along, I like it. I do a great Kanye West, by the way.

This afternoon, we were listening to Me and Mrs. Jones, sunroof open, windows down. I was in rare form. And O. just had to tell me something. The more I'm rocking out, the more likely it is that one of my children will have to tell me something. Very important. Right now! Dutiful mother that I am, I ignore them as long as possible and, when I can't take it anymore, I turn down the music and groan,

"Whaaaaaaat?"

The answer varies, and it's never interesting. That's the thing about children. Most of what they have to say is very, very boring. I love them, with all my heart, but I just don't really care if Patrick (not, incidentally, one of my children) got a new soccer ball. That is so boring! In this case, O. wanted to tell me that Baby J was rocking out to Me and Mr. Jones, which I have to admit was pretty darn cute. But then they started telling me boring stuff again, so I turned the music back up. Unfortunately, I had lost my momentum and couldn't get back into the groove.

Until the next song on my iPod started. And I was Paula Abdul.

"Lost, in a dream, I don't know Which! Way! To! Turn!"

And along came Neneh Cherry, still hanging in a buffalo stance, whatever the heck that is. Next up, Save Tonight. I'll award ten Schrute Bucks to the first person who can tell me why those two songs are together on my iPod.

Then Amy Winehouse came on, Me and Mr. Jones. I've looked up the lyrics to that song and I still have no idea what they mean, but I like to think that Amy is consoling that poor cuckold, Mr. Jones. So Mrs. Jones and Billy Paul can be free to indulge their thing, which is, frankly, much too strong to let go now.

Namasté, y'all!