Apologies to my Wife and her Hair Stylist

barry currin, stories of a world gone mad, beaverdamusa.comI have some very, very bad news.

It turns out we have a disco ball after all.

I ran across it as I was putting something away in a closet in the room that used to be my office before it was our music studio. Currently, it’s the room “where everything gets put.” I am trying to make it useful again, but that’s beside the point.

This closet gets very little use. We had to sacrifice it a couple of years ago when our water heater played out, and we had to put our new one in there because we couldn’t find one that  would fit where the old one went.

Sometimes I think our house was built around its appliances, but that’s also beside the point. Obviously, I’m not in a real big hurry to get to the point.

Besides the water heater, this closet contains two shelves. They are impossible to put anything big on, because the natural gas vent pipe leading from the water heater to the roof runs right up the middle.

Among other things, those shelves are where I keep my stadium cup collection, four boxes of 35-year-old shotgun shells and a few other odds and ends.

Unfortunately, it’s also where we keep our disco ball.

You know in horror movies when someone opens a door to a closet to find a severed head, and the background music suddenly turns to a minor key?

That disco ball was my severed head. It’s a shame we don’t employ an organist.

This movie began back last fall when Kim’s hair stylist asked her if we had a disco ball she could use for her granddaughter’s birthday party. I don’t know why she asked us. Maybe she she thought we looked like we could still do The Hustle.

When Kim got off the phone, I said, “Why did you tell her we had a disco ball? We have a strobe light; we don’t have a disco ball.”

“What happened to it?”

“We never had one.”

“Are you sure? I think we do.”

This continued off and on for the next day or so — the way these conversations tend to do — before either I convinced her, or she got tired of trying to convince me. 

Regardless, we gave her the strobe light to use for the party, because — by cracky — we don’t have a disco ball; we never did.

I’ve been married a long time, and I obviously haven’t learned a dang thing.

Why in the name of John Travolta did I not just look for it before grandly proclaiming that we didn’t possess one?

Looking back, it seems so easy.

Kim proofreads these columns. I always need for her to say she likes them, and she always does. Sometimes she’s more enthusiastic than others, but she won’t be lacking for enthusiasm this time.

I almost hate I didn’t find the disco ball before Christmas. I could’ve wrapped it in a box with a tag saying “The Keys to Your New Jaguar,” and she still would’ve been ecstatic.

After she finishes needling me about this, I may hang up that disco ball and break out an old Bee Gees album.

Nah, by the time she finishes needling me about this, I will be too old to even remember The Hustle.

About Barry Currin

Barry tries to be funny and poignant, and he's usually satisfied when he succeeds with one or the other. (Being both is awesome. And sometimes that happens.) Email him: currin01@gmail.com

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