Last night my husband got home from a four-day trip, and I was just so happy to see him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that, but it was awfully quiet around here without him. Plus, for the first time ever, it was just me and Monkey, alone together for an extended period. With Scout gone, and my husband away, we did some serious bonding. In fact, I think we got a little too dependent on each other, which was evident by the fact that I found myself carrying on entire conversations with him (the one-sided sort, but still) and that every time I left the room, he stood at the dog gate, whining as if in great, piercing pain. It was getting a little strange. So when my husband came up the front steps last night with his bags, I think we we were both relieved. Things feel a little more balanced now.

Before the big homecoming, I settled in to watch the O.C., only to feet a wave of nostalgia crash over me during the scene when Julie Cooper is losing herself in Great Hits from Hair Bands. Oh, man. The Whitesnake was bad enough, followed by the mention of Ratt (!) but it was “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” that really got me, but not for the reason you’d think. I don’t personally have some big memory from that song—I know you are shocked—but every time I hear it I think about this guy that worked on our house when we were building it. He was one of the painters, this short, kind of stubby guy. Also, when Bianca came over once to check out the house, she reported that he was wearing possibly the tightest pants she had ever seen on any man, ever. Not that you’d ever TELL him that, as he had kind of a tough demeanor, not mean, but not someone whose look you’d want to critique, either. Anyway, he’d always talk to me when I dropped in to see what was going on.

One day I came and he had a radio on and was listening to a local classic rock station, and “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” came on. He stopped painting, and sighed, then commenced into this long explanation about how the song reminded him of a girl he used to date, and how she broke up with him. He was just standing there, in his tight pants, roller in hand, telling me this. “This one night,” he said, “we were driving around, listening to this song, and she was just singing it to me….” Then he kind of trailed off, looking so sad that it completely unnerved me. The song was still playing, the house quiet around us. And then he sighed again, and turned back to the wall, shaking his head. Ever since, whenever I hear that song, I think about him, in that car, with that girl singing to him. And I don’t even know him! Or her! It’s just odd. But that’s the power of music, I guess. It doesn’t even have to be your memory it conjures: it just comes up anyway.

Have a great weekend, everyone!