We just got back from a weekend at an amusement park on the Lake Erie shore. That’s right. My husband is the type of guy who spends his Father’s Day schlepping kids around a hot, sticky, crowded park just so he can watch them smile. (Insert “Aw” here.)

This particular park has an indoor roller coaster that my daughter really wanted to ride, so I volunteered to take her. The waiting line weaved through a building illuminated with black-lights.

Upon entering, everyone wearing white tennis shoes and shirts began to glow. People had florescent eyeballs and when they smiled it was with neon teeth.

I, however, wasn’t wearing anything white. Instead the black-light revealed dirt…all over my shirt. Dirt and amusement park grime which had not been visible outside. It looked like I had removed my top, laid it on the ground and let my six year old stomp all over it.

Because I had been holding my son earlier, every mark from his sandals was imprinted like bad graphics. There were marks from roller coaster seat-belts, and shoulder restraints too.

So, while everyone else was positively glowing, I felt contaminated ala Meryl Streep in Silkwood.

I have always thought that the shower after an amusement park visit is the best shower you can take. Now I don’t just think it…I know it.

I am not a vain person. Sure, I try to keep fine lines from turning into deep trenches, and I color my hair. And, like any woman, I enjoy being pampered with an occasional pedicure. But, it’s not unusual for me to run out of the house in the morning with a baseball cap on, and nothing on my face but the wrinkles left there from my pillowcase.

When my daughter sees me looking this way, and she knows I’m on my way to the store, she’ll say, “You know you’re going to see someone you know, because you don’t have any makeup on”. She’s often right, but I normally don’t care.

Recently, I was buying flowers at a local nursery with my six year old son in tow, when he struck up conversations with various people in the check-out line. As long as he doesn’t start touching strangers, or telling folks they resemble sea creatures, I’m fine with him practicing his speaking skills.

One of the people he talked to was an older woman waiting directly in front of us.

I noticed that her appearance was much like mine. We were both in shorts and t-shirts, with dirty tennis shoes on our feet. Martha Stewart’s got nothing on my gardening attire.

But, the similarities ended with our clothing and lack of mascara, because she was much older than I was. Or, so I thought.

Suddenly, she turned to me and said, “Hey! I know you! We went to high school together! Remember? Remember me?”

I did remember her. I managed to utter something…something I’m sure sounded like a small yelp, because all I could really do was wonder if I looked like she did. No! I couldn’t! She was older than me. A whole year older.

We spoke for a few minutes…mostly about our mutual friend Julie, who I haven’t seen in years, but with whom she has stayed in contact. As she left the store she said, “I’ll tell Julie you said hello.”

The thing I said about not being vain? Well, so much for that…because as she continued to her car I yelled, “Don’t tell her what I looked like!”

My husband likes to be right. Okay…I do too. But, it seems that whenever we place wagers regarding music knowledge, he always wins.

It started years ago, when he had attended an Aerosmith concert and I asked him if they played “Home Sweet Home”. But, what I was actually referring to was the song “Last Child”. Just because, “home sweet home” is in the lyrics, doesn’t mean it’s the title. I lost some money on that one.

After we started dating, we found that we both liked the band Silverchair. Their most popular, ever-present radio song was one that I believed to be called “Fatal Massacre”. My husband quickly corrected me saying the title was “Pure Massacre”. What? That makes no sense. He may have been right, but Silverchair clearly didn’t see that “fatal” works better than “pure” next to the word “massacre”. And, they call themselves musicians?

This was followed by a discussion of Led Zeppelin’s “Ramble On”…quite possibly my favorite song EVER. My husband told me that the song was based on J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, but I couldn’t figure out how he knew that. When he said that Gollum was mentioned in the song, I went through the lyrics in my head and found no mention of that rotten Hobbit.

But, it turns out that Robert Plant wasn’t singing, “Gaw if that evil one…”, but instead was saying, “Gollum, and the evil one…”. I was wrong again. That’s right. I didn’t even know the lyrics to my favorite song…or even know what it was really about.

Quite frankly, I have made enough mistakes that I could make this the longest post in all of blogging history.

Of course, I’m not alone. Lots of people screw up song lyrics. At least, that’s my defense and I’m sticking to it.

I had a friend in high school who thought the Grateful Dead song titled “Might as Well”, was actually called “Minus Twelve”. We let him think that for a long time too.

Recently, someone said they misunderstood the song lyrics in “Hotel California”. Instead of, “What a nice surprise…” she thought Don Henley was singing, “When your rabbit dies…”

And, who actually knew the correct lyrics in “Blinded by the Light” were, “Revved up like deuce…”? You know you’ve all said, “Wrapped up like a douche…”. Don’t lie.

What I’d love to know boys and girls, is what song lyrics have you messed up?