Yesterday, I wrote a song with @ninicamps and @garrisonstarr. I'm not going to say much about it other than Garrison and I high-fived at its completion. The most important thing you should take from that statement is the word completion. You don't always complete the song you set out to write on these "writing dates." So the fact that the three of us completed the song is a miracle unto itself. Add to it high-fives at the end, and it made traffic on the drive home actually tolerable. I listened to our writing session via my little voice memos app on the iPhone all the way down the clogged L.I. E.
I had to get home early enough to meet the life insurance man who gives physicals. I'm not sure what else to call him. When you have two babies, I don't need to explain this do I? You stop smoking pot for a few weeks and take a physical for the sake of the little ones (I'm just kidding, mom. I don't smoke pot. I would take pain killers, however, if they were at my disposal).
So, I skid into my driveway just as the physical man is knocking on my front door. And he's exactly why I prefer the internet to live-in-person-encounters. I think people reach a certain age where they should stop meeting new people. That's a whole other blog, though. Let me get to the story.
"Hi, I'm Mark, be sure you have your driver's license," he shouts to me as I'm climbing out of my car.
So, detecting an opportunity to be witty, I reply, "I don't have a license."
Fortunately, @thisisdevon was at the front door and gave my reply the well earned laugh it derserved. Physical Man flat-lined.
We head over to the kitchen table, passing the babies eating dinner in their high chairs. He pauses to make this intelligent observation: "One of the boy's has hair and the other is bald."
Thanks for noticing, Physical Man. The pink shirt and pig tails might have tipped you off that one of the boy's is actually my daughter.
Now onto the awkward small talk around my kitchen table.
"What do you do for a living?" He asks me.
"I'm a musician," I really need to carry a tape recorder with me so I can just hit play in these moments.
"What do you play?"
"I play guitar...."
Insert Charlie Brown voice for remainder of discussion about his nephew who plays whatever with whoever wherever.
Then he asks, "And what does your husband do?"
OH, PHYSICAL MAN! I'm about to face plant on the kitchen table from you. Just take my blood pressure, let me pee in the cup, AND LEAVE.
"My husband is a woman and she's the marketing director of Real Simple Magazine," I say.
"Oh..." He paused for barely a second. "I've never heard of your band or that magazine."
Had my answers been, "Pussycat Dolls and Penthouse," in that order, a light might have gone off for him.
I'm not even going to mention the part about how I'm STILL bleeding from the way this guy drew blood from my arm. Just the thought of it makes me woozy.
I write these blogs during the babies nap time as Public Service Announcements. You might not become friend's with the man who comes to your house to give you your life insurance physical. Pass it on.
Not actually the guy who gave me a physical, but pretty close.