First of all, let me share my opinions on marriage. Not a big fan. Having been divorced twice by the time I hit thirty-two, I finally figured out I just wasn’t good at it. Something about that ring slipping on my finger made me sweat. Shake. Decided it would be a good idea to avoid the whole ’til-death-do-us-part thing from then on.
But I still refer to Frank as my husband because…well…boyfriend sounds too damn silly. We live together, the commitment is there, just without the pomp and ceremony. So, after all that, here is my husband performing at a fundraiser for the Soup Kitchen.
Now before you think this post is going to be a lovefest and I’m going to wax poetic about all of Frank’s many talents, let me post a little picture for you.
A kitchen table. Two laptops. And an amp. Or a speaker. Could be a woofer, I don’t know, all I know is I was there first. My laptop, my book, my manuscript. That is how it should be, that is all that should be on that table. But musicians, apparently, NEED to be heard, and since I’m the only other person in this house, I must listen.
Sometimes he takes over the television and it is not unusual for a 52 inch You Tube banjo player to be banjoing in the living room at 7 a.m. I try to hide in the basement but his enthusiasm is such that he will seek me out. “Listen to this,” he will say, oblivious to my shrieking that I’m trying to write, “you won’t believe how this guy can chicken pick.”
I admire his passion, really I do. He’s talented. Has never had a proper music lesson in his life but absorbs free lessons from YouTube. He practices hours every day because he wants to. What an inspiration. What dedication. What a pain in the ass.
Get the flippin’ amp off whatever freakin’ table top I’m working on! I’m always there first! I’m quiet, I’m minding my own business, and you’re just plain noisy! And don’t even get me started on when his buddies come over…
Actually I don’t mind when his buddies come over because they keep him occupied. Until there’s an argument and I am summoned to assure them that the proper lyrics to Spanish Pipedream is, “…for I knew that topless lady had something up her sleeve…” and then a fifteen minute argument ensues because how could a topless lady have something up her sleeve, what the hell did Prine mean by that?
Honestly, I don’t mind that part. His friends are kind of fun.
I know. Could be worse. He could be the kind of musician who is never home. For all my bitching, I would hate that.