We refinanced our home this morning – a decision my wife made to save us a bundle over the remaining years of our loan. She’s a financial genius and I play guitar.

A notary pulled up a chair at our kitchen table and walked us through the stack of paperwork, handing us page after page to sign and date. He explained the purpose of every document; the meaning of every acronym, legal and financial term. To Becky. While I just sat there apparently looking like someone who wouldn’t care about or comprehend such things.

Which is true.

I’m a singer guy who knows only enough to marry a woman who has a graduate degree in finance. I recommend this course of action to all singer guys reading this right now. Marry someone more attractive, responsible, organized and smart than you. This will be easier than you might imagine. You do have a guitar after all.

My wife’s a freakin CPA. (Freakin CPAs are a whole ‘nother advanced class of CPAs, by the way. It goes regular CPA, danged ol’ CPA, dadgum CPA, freakin CPA. In that order.)

She must exude competence in all things financial. This means I’m left out of the simplest financial transactions by others who intuitively discern my lack of financial aptitude. Everyday transactions. Like signing a receipt at a restaurant.

It’s my name on the credit card. I’m the one who hands the credit card to the server. But it never fails, the server returns to the table and hands the receipt to her – the only one at the table who looks capable of calculating a tip and signing her name.

At the end of the closing today, the notary says to me, “So, are you a musician?”

Gotcha. Loud and clear, sir. Was it that obvious? I tried to look like I understood every word. I really did. What gave me away? It was the great haircut wasn’t it?

“Yes,” Becky said, “that was it.”

“I wanna look smart too,” I said.

“Just sit there and look pretty,” she said. And with that she gave my backside a pat and walked away.

Works for me.

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