My husband, J-Dub, is a music nut. He can tell you a song after hearing 2 notes played. He knows the lyrics, the artists, the name of the album, and the year it was released.
I, on the other hand, am a music flunkee. I make up lyrics. Whatever sounds close, that will work for me. I mistake the sound of a fiddle for an electric guitar. I think a woman’s singing when it’s actually a man. I think The Beatles are The Monkees, I think Robert Palmer is Ronald Palmer. Big deal. I’m laughed at regularly, but I’m used to it by now.
Today J-Dub is trying to win a radio contest. It’s a big one. Five hundred dollars to be given away to the ninth caller who can correctly identify a song by its first 3 notes that was played earlier. And guess what? J-Dub knows it. He’s 100% positive. He and his buddy had the cassett tape and rewound it over and over and over. He’s appalled at the guesses of the people who have actually been caller #9. All day he’s been trying to win this contest. He only receives a busy signal, and the one time he did get through, he was caller #7. It’s not as far-fetched as you might think. He’s won several radio contests. Maybe a free CD, maybe a couple of tickets to a show, but never anything as win-worthy as $500.
He’s been hauling hay all day, so a radio and a cell phone have been right handy for him. Since he’s been home, we’ve been listening to the radio, ever attentively listening for the little jingle that signals the time to try to be caller #9.
But now, he’s gone outside to do the chores, and I’ve been left in charge of winning this contest. Me. He has left me, the musical flunkee, in charge of remembering the name of a song I’ve never heard before. Oh the pressure.
However he knows me oh-so-well, so before he walked out the door, he programmed the radio station number in my phone, and handed me a yellow sticky note on which he has written the name of the song, the artist, the phone number to the radio station, and which caller I’m supposed to be. Just in case I need to know all that stuff. And just so I won’t act like an idiot if I actually do win, he’s even written down what I’m supposed to say when they ask me, “What station makes you a winner?”
Knowing my luck, I’d have to stammer and stutter….”uh…..uh……100.3? 93.1? 87.9, The Car? The Cat?”
I wonder if they’d still give me the money if I was unable to identify their radio station? Would they know I was a fraud? Someone who never listens to their station, only when I’m forced to by my beloved?
So here I sit, needing to go to the bathroom. But instead I’m frozen into place, ear turned to the speaker, white fisting my sticky note in one hand and my cell phone in the other while blogging with my tongue. The ink on my sticky note smearing from my sweaty palm to a blue smudge by the time I make it to caller #9.
The stress is too much for me.
J-Dub, where are you?????