Wednesday mornings are great. My husband doesn’t have to go into work and so we sit around the house in our pajamas til at least noon, playing with the toddler, browsing the Internet and doing all manner of lazy, slothful family things.
This morning, basically incapacitated by a bout of the worst heartburn ever experienced by anyone who has ONLY JUST HAD WATER TO DRINK, I laid in bed upstairs while my husband and son hung out in the living room.
Hubs was messing around on iTunes, organizing his record-setting library of music. Really, we have external hard drives full of this stuff. If we had to put it on CDs, we’d need another house.
Soon, I began to hear the strains of late 90s and early 00s pop music wafting up the stairs.
Really bad pop music.
“I’m so calling you out on Twitter for jamming out to Sugar Ray,” I threaten.
“I am not the kind of guy who gets embarrassed about listening to music that’s suddenly no longer fashionable!” he yells.
“Suddenly? It’s been like 15 years,” I mutter.
“Next on the list is LFO and I’ve got some Smash Mouth with your name on it!” he volleys back.
This is why I married the guy, y’all. Not for his awful taste in music, but because he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about it. Not even me. He’ll cruise down the street blasting the Don Giovanni Overture followed by some Sinatra and somehow, it just works.
Yeah, all you girls who let this one slip through your fingers? You missed out on waltzing in the kitchen to Kelly Clarkson. Be jealous.