Years ago when we were first married, Baby Daddy was lamenting his ill-fated music career. I use the term “career” loosely because he took somewhere around three guitar lessons and decided he wasn’t interested. Since then, he plays the radio.
I knew the perfect birthday gift for him: guitar lessons. I heard about a man who would meet us a dirt road in Mississippi to give overnight guitar lessons. People raved about what magnificent players he’d taught. We went to meet him, taking Baby Daddy’s guitar. He was a particularly large black man. He tuned the guitar and it was amazing. He took no cash for his trouble. Said we would just owe him later. It seemed like a good deal.
Bet you didn’t know it, but Baby Daddy can plat “Sweet Home Chicago” like nobody’s business. He can also play the opening lick to “Smoke on the Water,” but that’s not much to brag about. Everyone can do that.
OK, absolutely none of what you just read it true. Well, the part about my husband taking 3 guitar lessons is true. But we did not sell our souls to the devil as it alleged Blues Legend Robert Johnson did. It just feels like it right now.
At the beginning of the year, I wished on snow. I thought this might be a good year. So far, a tree fell on our house and I’ve been called for Jury Duty. Twice. To add insult to injury, our adjuster’s house was hit when the storms left here and went through Georgia. I’m starting to take this stuff personally.
Apparently, snow does not make for good wishing. You have to wait for spring and dandelions. Now I know. Lesson learned. But my husband is being a little obtuse about the mojo we’ve got haunting us at the moment.
Because Baby Daddy doesn’t feel we suffered enough living as hobos, for some unknown reason (allegedly to make me feel better or something), this weekend he started listing all the things that could not possibly go wrong with our house now. I think he’s a glutton for punishment. He *wants* to incur the wrath from the whatever high atop the thing. He will not take it back. He will not go outside turn around three times and spit and curse.
He says he doesn’t believe in curses. He says this is nothing more than a series of events in this play called life. In this scene, apparently the wife goes round the bend. All I’m saying is this: if anyone in my home suddenly demonstrates remarkable guitar skills, I’m going to start bathing in Holy Water. Just in case.