I’m Not the Smart One
Last night I was getting ready for bed at the ungodly hour of 9 pm. My husband and daughter do not rise at the crack of dawn in order to sweat off the effects of pasta, hormones and whatever the crack is that goes into Nachos Bellgrande. Seriously. It’s disgusting but I’m thankful that my husband has finally realized that if I even mention Taco Bell, he’d better start thinking of what he did wrong, how to fix it, what mess to clean and whether or not he needs to purchase more wine.
They were discussing the Tom Hanks produced CNN docuseries The Sixties. Go on, search #thesixtiescnn, you’ll be glad you did. Last night the British Invasion episode aired. After exhausting the subject of Roger Daltry’s fancy embroidered jackets and how lyrical poetry in the guise of songwriting became a mode of social change, I heard them start tossing around names, not the names of the British Invasion subjects on the TV of course, because George, Paul, Ringo and John would not have made me question my own intelligence. They started talking about Hunter S. Thompson and Bob Dylan. There was a recount of a discussion with a coworker about the merits of Dylan’s songwriting skills versus his mediocre instrumental abilities and his not ready for mainstream vocals. And that was from the kid. I chose to stay in my bubble bath and not join in the discussion. So while the husband was encouraging the kid to branch out her reading beyond Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, my contribution to the conversation would have sounded something like this:
“I still like 80’s music. I shaved one side of my head in high school. I wore underwear as outerwear and saw Motley Crue live. Twice. This week I read Women’s Fitness and Glamour. I thought about re-reading Catching Fire but didn’t. I like olives.”
There are reminders that I’m not the smart one in the house.