Wild indiscretions of youth can return to haunt you in so many forms. I was one of many to own a shiny black Yamaha keyboard as a teenager. Fancying myself 'avant garde', my repertoire consisted of odd commercial jingles, Muppet Movie soundtrack songs, and a superb little book that featured the sheet music for some of the 1960's era greatest hits. Yeah, well at least I wasn't pretending to be a missing member of Erasure or New Order like my friends were, okay? So, I played the best selection from the 60's book, 'The House Of The Rising Sun' more often than the others. Naturally I set my keyboard's tone on ORGAN mode to try and replicate more closely the dramatic, whorehouse themed sounds of the Animal's recorded version. The best place for acoustics in our house was the very spacious hallway bathroom and that's where I liked to take the keyboard and hang out. One day I received a phone call while sitting in there and my stepfather bellowed for me to come and get the phone, to which I replied loudly, "I can't. I'm in the bathroom playing with my organ". Oh, good gracious, as soon as the words escaped my mouth and I heard my stepfather laughing uncontrollably, I knew what a truly hideous exchange had just transpired.
That man never let me live it down either and he tormented me practically until the day he died four years ago. We had invited him and my Mother over to dine with the missionaries at our home in hopes of saving their heathen souls. Yes, the evening's dinner conversation revolved around how many things my Mom can cook with beer and other assorted alcohol products, foods that make us experience explosive diarrhea, and of course, regaling our bemused missionary dinner guests with the classic "I'm playing with my organ" story. I couldn't look them in the eye afterwards and felt secretly glad that they transferred out a short time later. Apparently, the art of proper mealtime conversation is dead, well, at least in my family.
7 comments:
My brother worked with a man who shared this true experience: he called a friend of his, who was a golf fanatic, and got the young son instead. When the kid yelled to his dad that he was wanted on the phone, the man replied, "Tell them I'm busy washing my balls and I'll call them back." Uh...ooops.
Another true story: my husband works with a woman whose last name is Wiener. Her husbands name is Richard. Guess what he DOESN'T go by? Richard or even Rich. Guess what he DOES go by? Yup, Dick.
In my sister's ward, just after a new family moved in, the father in the family stood up in priesthood meeting to introduce himself. He said, "My name is Richard, but you can all call me Little Dick." He was totally serious. I don't think any of the men in that ward could look him in the eye for months.
I WOULD ANSWER YOU BUT I AM PLAYING WITH MY ORGAN NOW.....
This brought back a forgotten incident from the start of eighth grade, a traumatic time to say the least: our teacher told us to state our names and say something about ourselves. Most people claimed some sport or activity i.e. they played piano, liked to run, play baseball, whatever. I had no musical skills and sucked at sports, and everyone knew it. I couldn't decide which sport was the least sucky - baseball? Golf? Basketball? So of course at my turn I panicked and said in an overly loud, clear voice,
"I like to play with balls."
Thanks so much for "helping" me retrieve the memory. ;-)
I'm going to be giggling all day after reading these. Sorry I don't have any good ones to add!
Elastic, do you still play?
You made me laugh as always Julie. I wonder if Little Dick's dad ever came for a Sunday visit. Can you imagine the introductions at Church? Little Dick and Big Dick. Although I've personally known and occasionally dated a few of the latter in my day.
carrot, Mormon doctrine doesn't support the idea of ghosts and would probably excommunicate you if you hired one to write. Plus they recently rejected a contract to join the official Ghostwriter Union. You can get in a lot of trouble in this country trying to hire non-Union people.
yes mimo, as a matter of fact I DO still play with my organ.
radioactive, your story reminded me of a time my kids were playing in the front yard and we had just bought some of those fruit scented plastic balls. Typical in our house, two of my kids started fighting over them and I heard, "MOM! Buster won't let me smell his balls".
Not in the same league I know, but my mother almost wet herself during my rendition of 'Rock my soul in the bosoms of Abraham'
I just didn't have anything to say but I sure loved reading these. :)
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