When I was fourteen, I dreamed of eventually owning a huge house- an estate, really – with lushly-landscaped gardens, a pool, and a separate little cottage I could make into an art studio. And somehow, that seemed totally obtainable. Oh, how things change. Not only do I now have a better idea of what is realistic given my career aspirations, but I also just can’t imagine wanting to maintain such a large property. My dream house now has these stringent criteria: more than one toilet; enough rooms that Nick and I can each have a designated area of our own; sufficient closet space; enough of a backyard to grow some vegetables and herbs, but not so much that there is a huge lawn that has to be mowed; and a place for the litter boxes that is not in a room that we frequent. Okay, and a kick-ass kitchen.
When I was fourteen, I also dreamed of marrying a musician. (An architect was the runner-up because, hey, that might come in handy when designing that dream house.) But in contrast to the totally-reasonable expectation to take up residence in a historic estate, marrying a musician seemed pretty far out there.
It’s funny how things work out.
There are things that fourteen-year-old Sarah didn’t really anticipate about marrying a musician: it means a lot of spouse-less Friday and Saturday nights (which turns out not to be such a bad thing when you’re a graduate student), walking into the bedroom and finding not another woman, but a guitar, on your side of the bed (okay, this happened once), having to repeat more than half of what you say (thanks to your quiet voice and your husband’s hearing loss), and discovering guitar picks under the couch, in your shoe, or wherever else the cats batted them.
Still, I have to admit, it turns out that at thirty years old, having a man write a song about you is pretty much just as awesome as you imagined it would be when you were a teenager. Not to mention how cool it is to spend your life with someone whose talent and creativity never ceases to amaze you. I mean, in the course of an afternoon, while I’m sitting in our living room studying, Nick will be downstairs in the basement of our apartment building, where he carved out an area of our storage space to set up his recording studio. And a couple hours later, he’ll come up and play something that he wrote and recorded in a couple hours. As in a full song- with multiple instruments (all of which he played) and vocals and everything. Which brings me to my point for this whole rambling…
Nick knows a ridiculous amount about music, and has lots to say about it. I’ve been encouraging him for quite some time to consider writing a blog. And as he has been working on and getting ready to complete a solo album over the last few months or so, he finally saw a good reason to start writing, and started his blog, overcompressed. He’s starting to post entries about creating this album and has a link to the first song. If you like 80’s music, you’ll probably like this song.
Nick’s endeavor is obviously quite a different focus than my blog: expect more music, more obscenities, fewer vegetarian recipes, and probably a comparable amount of cats. However I’d like to think that a good number of people who stumble upon my blog have diverse enough interests that they might be intrigued by what Nick has to say as well.
For the record, I’m not the kind of wife who passes out flyers for her husband’s gigs or tries to convert people into fans. Despite the fact that I referred to this as shameless spouse promotion, I’m really sharing this with you because I am so proud of him for putting this together and I just want people who might like it to have the opportunity to check it out.