I did something the other day that I sort of promise to never do again. Or maybe I should say, I'll never do it again, at least until next time, which should be, oh, say, three weeks from now.
I had to do a CD review so I figured, hey, let's make this a family deal. I took the CD home, stuck it in the player, my 11-year-old rolled his eyes and left the room, while my boyfriend and I each took notes on the music.
Understand, he's a musician, he knows about these things. My musical experience is limited to my car radio. I figured he'd be perfect for the job.
And yes, if I'd inserted the latest Tool CD, maybe it would've been a great night of family entertainment (at least for him--I still don't know who Tool is).
But nooooooo. Instead we were listening to a half-folk-artist-half-cabaret-type singer.
In a word, it was awkward.
And I felt awful for dragging him into this and making him endure it.
I almost felt bad. Ok, well, I didn't feel bad, per se, just sort of sorry for him that he had to help me get through this. He's the other half, see, which I figure obligates him.
Last Saturday, he took me for a drive through the country.
Guess what he's going to do this Saturday?
We're going to re-trace our steps and re-do our drive through the country so I can do a photo page for "Our Valley," the special section that highlights our area and beyond through photos.
He's going to do it and, by God, he's going to enjoy it.