HOLY SHAMOLY, people, this has been the schizzel.
So, recap, the book launch, mega success…then, this morning, I’m in the study and Bear’s in the living room and he yells out, “Hey, if you had a piano, do you think it would help your writing?”
Now, I’m well-used to my husband reading random articles and then bellowing at me (all the while the t.v. is on, my music is going) and the conversation runs like this:
“Hey, Honey.”
Silence from me…I’m trying to do an extinction process with this (behavioral conditioning) that still hasn’t worked.
“Honey! Brown!!”
“Did you hear– ——- ——- squirrels— —– and flannel. Can you believe that?”
“Honey, I can’t hear you!”
Then I stamp out, all annoyed and self-righteously upset because 1) We’ve talked about his bellowing (2) I even bought us walkie-talkies, but apparently, it’s just SSOOO much better seeing me walkie-ing and talkie-ing.
So, he’s yelling about pianos and writing and I figure this is some article on Beyonce or Alicia Keys or some such, so I come out (because I’m so NOT in the mood to yell “what?!”) and say, “Yes, of course it would. Anyone who’s creative will turn to other creative endeavors when their first passion isn’t going so well…I think that’s why I’ve been cooking lately.” (Because I made this clam in white wine and garlic sauce, pasta the other night).
And he kind of turns green at the mention of my having cooked (yeesh. What’s a little food poisoning between loved ones?) and says in this strangled kind of voice, “Oh, right. The cooking.”
“Yeah. In fact, I think I’m going to do it more often.”
This makes him turn even greener and he clutches my hand, hard, and rasps (rasps, I tell ‘ya. He rasped), “I’m buying you a piano.”
“Really? You’re going to buy me a piano?”
“Is that what the article said?” Because now I want to read this story and see what it says about diamonds and flannel p.js.
To which he says, “What?”
And I say, “What?” Which just proves that apparently, there are a certain number of whats I have to say in a day for the earth to orbit on its access.
So, look at me, the proud new owner of a piano (whose brand I can’t remember or technical specs I can’t remember), but it’s shiny (of course) and so pretty…it’s an upright, tall (not regular sized–although in a trademark Brown move, I didn’t even know there were regular and tall uprights, so after the salesman tells me this, I look over at this crazy tall one, and say something exceedingly intellectual like, “With these tall ones, like this one, what’s the main difference in their sound?” and he gives me this look and says, “ma’am, that piano is on a rack.” And I nodded like, “Oh, of course I knew that, I was talking about the other tall pianos,” but my mouth kicks in and I say, “Thank God. Because this thing looked like Shaq’s piano, it’s so tall.” and he smiles in that pained, Why Couldn’t I Have Been Born Into Money way and asks me to please not touch anything, especially anything with a sharp end)…my MIL has already decreed that I play Christmas carols, so when you hear a loud crashing and see people fleeing into our cul de sac on Christmas Eve, that’s why.