My husband wants you to dream a little dream of him.

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.

This isn’t them but you get the idea.






I know. Could be worse. He could be the kind of musician who is never home. For all my bitching, I would hate that.

I think.



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10 Responses to My husband wants you to dream a little dream of him.

  1. Barb Taub says:

    Laughing. so. hard! I think this is my favorite post yet. I’m in love with Frank — watched his video all the way through twice.

    I have a wonderful piece of technology I call my “child-canceling headphones”. Slip them on and everyone else on that airplane disappears. I’m not sure if they’re up to taking on the chicken picker though…

    And to keep things in perspective: sure, Frank’s buds play music and you have to referee. But at least you’re not trapped in a room full of economists (as happens when I accompany my husband to conferences and consulting gigs). Root canals start to sound appealing.

    • ajcap says:

      LOL, thanks, Barb, I feel infinitely better. A room full of economists would turn me, I’m sure, into one of those people who can’t help spouting really bad words at really inopportune times. Can’t remember the medical term but pretty sure I’m on the edge of that at the best of times.

  2. Val says:

    Very funny, and since I am familiar with the whole situation, even funnier. What you need is a lovely little garden house – equipped with bright windows, heat and a/c, frig, your own t.v. and of course, wi/fi so you can write and surf away to your heart’s content. It would also need a warning system for approaching musicians…..of course, dogs and old friends welcome at all times.

  3. steve.capper says:

    And the pompous and superior Stephen writes; the spontaneous ailment you refer to is Tourette syndrome and it was good to see the Monty Python team not credited on the blog. Is humour genetic do you suppose? You might live in a different culture, in fact I know some who consider you are some sort of culture!, but your humour is English.

    • ajcap says:

      Pompous, yes. Superior, not so much. And that, is an indication of my Mom’s sense of humour.

      I certainly believe humour is genetic, though not necessarily passed down, just as handsome parents can have homely children. I also believe it’s a learned behaviour. Like Mom used to say, “You live with a cripple, you start to limp.”

      Dad was big on puns, such as, “Look, Amanda, there’s a cow. And where there’s one, there’s always anudder.” And his eyes would twinkle, and he’d grin, very pleased with himself. I miss that man.

      Mom, on the other hand, was sharp. Smart. Witty. More of a story teller. I fall somewhere in between, I think. One thing I know for sure, I did well in the genetic lottery.

      • ajcap says:

        Is sharp! Mom IS sharp! Yeesh, I can’t believe I referred to Mom in the past tense. She’s just in another country, not another realm.

  4. steve.capper says:

    I expect your subconscious is just preparing you for the inevitable.

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