This is verbatim a snippet of a phone conversation between me and a friend of mine a couple weeks ago:
Hello?
What you doing?
Listening to Chuck pick out a James Taylor song on the guitar that he's heard all of about two times.
@#$%!! (expletive). Tell him I said I hate him.
I know that all mothers are amazed by their children's abilities. I get it.
I am truly baffled by mine.
He had that damn banjo home for all of a couple of hours and had already learned a song. By ear, of course. BY EAR. Looks like the banjo won't be as much of a challenge as he originally thought.
As I am lying on the couch fllipin' through pages on Pinterest, I hear the chords to a very familiar song. I smiled to myself. That is effin' amazing. My next thought was, That is effin' disgusting.
Try as I might, I will never possess his ear for music. Or my daughter's artistic ability and eye for fashion. Ever. I should be happy for them, right? Proud even. Well screw that. I am proud of them and I do admire them for their abilities. I am also envious.
Okay, okay, I'm outright jealous. There. I said it.
My susta and I have names for people who possess things we want. We call them "whores" (lovingly, of course). Seein' as how that's not really appropriate when referring to my churen, I am open to suggestions.
p.s. It is impossible to play the banjo quietly, turns out. There is no escaping the TWANG of that thing anywhere in the house. Even if I shut him up in a room with all doors closed and retreat to my bedroom with the noise machine on, for instance. Nu-uh. Still.Doesn't.Work.
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So, did you get a text from your susta tonight?
'Bout what?
Your diddy?
Um, no. What's up?
He took a Zumba class tonight.
Shutyourmouth!
::hysterical laughter::
On the topic of wonders never ceasing, any of you who know my father will automatically see the
And all of y'all.
Oops.
