My Glamorous Life as a Rock Star’s Wife

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What’s the difference between a large pizza and a musician? 


A large pizza can feed a family of four.

It’s an old joke, and perhaps one even rooted in a bit of truth. We artsy types aren’t exactly celebrated for our ability to hold “straight” jobs. Still, Mr. Wright doesn’t completely fit the stereotype of Starving Musician—he has other skills that people actually pay him for, like selling real estate and lobbying politicians.

You wouldn’t know it by his last gig, though. I’m pretty sure he ran the gamut of stereotypical behaviors for musicians.

Always arrive late. The musician must always arrive late; so late, in fact, the people who hired him must be scratching their heads at 30 minutes before the curtain, wondering if he will actually show up. Mr. Wright met this challenge by making an eight-hour drive before showtime, and getting stuck in Labor Day weekend traffic.

Be disorganized. The musician must always leave an amp cord or microphone behind, causing the entire band to scramble and pray for miraculous provision before sound check. Mr. Wright is a drummer, so he doesn’t have an amplifier or cords, but he rose to the occasion by tossing every piece of his kit into the back of our Expedition, willy-nilly, and forgetting to pack spare equipment—a glaring oversight noticed mid-show, when his snare drum experienced a blowout.

Have an attitude of expectation. The musician must earnestly believe every person in his life is there to appreciate his talent and yearn to serve him. As Mr. Wright casually grabbed a glass of wine and chatted with his bandmates, Pockets and I were left to unpack the equipment. If you are the child or spouse of a musician, you may as well get used to being a roadie. The role is not optional.

Be broke. The musician must bum money off friends and relatives, because his gig money rarely pays his bar tab. Mr. Wright “borrowed” my last ten bucks cash, right before sending me off in a car with a gas gauge hanging a half-inch below “E.”

Be mysterious. The musician must have an air of mystery about him. People must wonder what creative beauty is churning in that brain of his. Mr. Wright actually failed on this count—at least as far as I’m concerned—but I’ve known him for more than ten minutes. 90% of the time he’s thinking about one thing, and the other 10% of the time, he’s thinking about food. Still, those dark sunglasses he wore probably fooled some of the audience.

That’s my man… over forty, father of seven, and still living his rock and roll dreams. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing Spandex onstage. Back off, ladies—I saw him first!

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You Know You're a Great Role Model When...

I've been trying to get across to the members of my family that Curlytop and Snugglebug are like over-sized camcorders these days. Anything we say or do is likely to be played back for us by one of our little cinematographers - most likely at the most humiliating or improper moment.

So far, this has included choice phrases uttered by adults and teens in the household (not terribly appropriate for either set, and definitely inappropriate coming out of the mouth of a kindergarten student). Sometimes, it includes an interesting pose or gesture.

Sometimes, it includes both.

Yesterday, Snugglebug walked up behind Curlytop, grabbed her sister's posterior and declared, "Ooooh... that's NICE!"

Pepper and I stared at Snuggle in disbelief, then looked at each other. "Did she just do what I think she did?" Pepper asked. I nodded. "Where did she learn THAT?" Pepper wondered aloud as I explained to Snugglebug we don't do that and it's not okay and her sister's bottom is her sister's bottom, and we don't touch it.

I knew the answer, of course, but Pepper confirmed it when her father came home, entered the kitchen, kissed my cheek and copped a squeeze. "Ooooh... that's NICE!" he announced to everyone within earshot and a decent line of vision.

Then, he scooped up the four-year old attached to my leg.

Where did she learn that, indeed?

Meeting Mr. Right… Or was it Wright?

Mr. Wright and I will celebrate a number of years of marriage next week. Unfortunately, there is some question as to exactly how many years we’ve been married. The number of years isn’t actually in question by anyone but me, but I’d never admit to Mr. Wright that I can never remember what year we got married. Remembering my son’s birthday, along with the birth dates of six children I didn’t give birth to, completely exhausts my Important Dates to Remember function.

I remember the first time I saw him, though – August 25, 2000.

The summer tourist invasion had retreated from Chelan, leaving the locals bleary-eyed and stumbling around their little resort community; tired but already missing the extra cash liberated from out-of-town pocketbooks during the peak season. By the time mid-August rolled around, the college kids had returned to school, families were all settled into their fall routines, and the only people drinking in the bar were the local folks who’d served and smiled and suppressed weary sighs all summer long.

I managed the bar in a Chelan restaurant and, delighted by the opportunity to clock out early for the first time in a long while, I scooted onto a barstool, ordered a cup of coffee from my capable employee, and began entertaining a few friends seated at the end of the bar with an animated story.

My riveting tale was rudely interrupted by two boisterous out-of-town dudes who obviously didn’t get the memo signaling the official end of tourist season. (You know the famous local question, right? “If it’s tourist season, does it mean we can shoot ‘em?”) One of the guys ordered drinks from the bar, while the other sat on the vacant barstool next to me and commenced loud conversation with everyone in the room. Everyone, that is, but me.

The foolish newcomer spent nearly ten minutes greeting and engaging every single person in the place, leaning across me to talk, while his companion chatted with the bartender. The loud one was very good-looking, but he never so much as glanced at me.

The Gonzo Mama is unaccustomed to being ignored.

Nonetheless, that’s exactly what the oblivious male next to me did as I sat, arms folded, and fumed. Finally, he took a deep breath, looked directly at me, placed a hand on my arm and asked, “Oh – and who are you?” His tone said, “Why, I didn’t even see you there! Let’s be friends!” but his teasing eyes said, “I can tell it’s driving you crazy that I’m ignoring you, and I’m enjoying driving you nuts.”

“Who am I?” I sputtered. “Who am I? I’m Christina-Marie. I’m the manager here. This is my place, these are my people, and that’s my spotlight you’re warming your rump on. Just WHO do you think YOU are?”

The man flashed an arrogant smile and said, “Me? Why, I’m Mr. Right!”

With an impatient laugh, I countered, “Look, I’ve been a bartender for far too long. I’ve heard every lousy pickup line in the book, and that’s one of the oldest. You need new material.” I rolled my eyes and waited for him to slink away.

Instead, he handed me his business card.

As it turned out, the “W” is silent.

Photo: Snapped by a friend a couple days after Mr. Wright and I met. Look how young we were!

Dear Mr. Wright...

Someday, after I get around to having that flap of stretched-out skin (You know, the one that hides my rock-hard abs?) surgically removed, you may wake up and realize that you are the father of an insane number of children, and that I am not as young as I was when we met.

I'll understand if you want to get all Talking Heads on me: This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife! You may ask yourself, Well... how did I get here?

However, I want to make it abundantly clear that I will not have a sense of humor about you taking up with my plastic surgeon's 22-year-old daughter, especially one as classy as Jon Gosselin's new, um, mistress. (I can't make myself say "girlfriend." He's still married.)

If your new plaything's friends feed the press photos like this:

...or this (Hmm. What's she holding?):


...or...

...for the entire world - and our children - to see, I will personally see to it that you have a new, eunuch unique respect for your old (but freshly tummy-tucked) wife.

Just so we understand each other.

Bad Gratitude Monday (Blushing Bride)

Look... I had long hair once. That's me, June 30, 2004. Any guess what I was doing that day?

This week's Bad Gratitude Monday is all about Mr. Wright, as we prepare to celebrate our five year anniversary.

Let me tell you, readers: Mr. Wright's list of talents is extensive, and I am grateful for each one of those talents. He is, in no particular order:

• gorgeous
• a wonderful cook (he even caters to my vegan diet!)
• a rock-solid political strategist
• my Sanity Management Director
• a rockin' drummer
• a top-notch snuggler
• the only person on the face of the planet who FULLY "gets" my sense of humor
• a compassionate sounding board
• my equal when it comes to useless trivia (a huge feat, folks)
• the guy who tirelessly plays the "random lines from Eighties movies" game with me
• the sweetheart who picks the non-vegan Jelly Belly jelly beans out before giving me a handful
• a bigger deal than Bob on the Enzyte commercials, if you know what I'm saying...
• the only guy who has ever beat me at Scrabble
• the dorkishly sweet man who carries pictures of my boobs around on his computer when he's away on business
• my favorite travel companion
• a phenom on the dance floor
• the sacrificial prince who makes coffee before waking me up and drives 30 miles in the middle of the night to buy me an emergency Diet Coke
• the attentive companion who makes sure I eat when I'm manically working on a project
• a guy that even my girlfriends like to have around on Girls' Night because he's so darned cool
• the wonderful father of our seven children
• my biggest fan and cheerleader (or is that "cheer king?")
• a saint for putting up with me

His favorite of our wedding photos:

My favorite:

That was back when we only had five kids, after all...

A friend recently asked me if I was a "trophy wife" when we wed, since I'm a newer, sleeker version than the original. "Maybe," I answered. "And I'm totally okay with that!"

GRATITUDE.

What are YOU grateful for?

Wedding photos by Dean's Photography