Mr. Wonderful’s band, the Gerratrix, was sked for a gig last Friday night at the beautiful downtown Silver Spring pub the Quarry House. Then a water main broke and the entire street of restaurants etc was closed. Cue much disappointment.
It ended well, the owner of the Quarry House also owns Jackie’s – a few more blocks down the road – and not effected by the water main break. The show went on – three 45 minute sets of original R&B and R&R. I can no longer mock the Gerratrix, because they were fab.
People not related to us OR co-workers of band members gave them rave reviews and wanted to know about upcoming gigs. Everyone asked me “Who are these guys?” The old men felt like rock stars.
Now my Son is charged with putting together a web site on Facebook. Sometime in the future – I will be able to provide a link. Watch this space!
The next day, Mr. Wonderful showed our Son how to wire new light switches and electric plugs. Then they installed a new faucet (I’m renovating bathrooms now). They didn’t talk much other than basic directions, but somehow communication happened, because the next thing I knew, Mr. Wonderful was demo-ing the art of making piecrust. The boys made two blueberry pies.
“What was that about?” I asked later as I inhaled pie.
“The second pie is for a girl,” Mr. Wonderful informed me, “making a good pie is a huge chick magnet skill for life.”
I have good men in my life and I love them fiercely.
In other news of the life – I did write back to the mystery man of my past (see last post). I thanked him for remembering me and told him that I was still alive and happy.
I got a letter back almost immediately – he remembers me with a degree of specificity that was flattering and made me realize how long 30 years truly is. The girl he remembers doesn't exist anymore.
I had to stomp all over his rosy recollections with my muddy reality boots. In an ironic twist, he owns a very successful pharmaceutical software company and is recently divorced. Am I missing my big chance to be a (old, fat, gray) trophy wife?
“He doesn’t know how loud you snore.” This was Mr. W’s contribution.
“He also isn’t a Rock Star who makes pie,” I assured him.