I'm in the final prep stages for my upcoming weekend at Ladies Rock Camp where I'll be learning how to play the electric guitar. I'll admit that I'm fairly excited to have a little "me time." But I can't decide which is better: that I'm actually learning how to play the guitar. Or the fact that I'm learning to play Rick Springfield's guitar. Tough call -- I'll take the latter times two.
While I had the guitar restored last Fall, there were a few problem areas that still needed to be mended before I hauled it to camp. Over the weekend, I took a trip to my local Guitar Center to see if they could provide me with all the essentials to be a rockstar supermama.
Walking into Guitar Center is daunting, especially when you have perhaps one single iota of knowledge as to what you're in search of buying. The loud music. The gorgeous guitars. The big amps and drum sets. The very knowledgeable sales dudes who would laugh at me in about two seconds after I ask for a whatchamacallitthingy.
I really had to mentally prepare myself for the experience. I knew that if I wanted to be a rockstar supermama, I needed to start acting like one. But my dorky, insecure 15-year-old self was hanging on standby. So I threw on some digme lipgloss, pulled my shades back over my hair, grabbed my guitar, and walked into the store. And then I did what every reporter does at some point in his or her career: I pretended to know what I was talking about.
Lucky for me, the guitar is like magic: an instant icebreaker. With a huge chunk of wood missing from its body, everyone wants to know the story behind it. And I'm always, always willing to share the sordid, silly details.
Also lucky for me, the store's assistant manager, Scott, was my sales dude. It took him about ten seconds to assure me that the store had every single item so that I could begin my quest to be a kick-ass guitar-playing diva.
After about 20 minutes, I was outfitted with a Roadrunner Electric Guitar Case, a white-tipped Fender tremolo (the original was lost on a stage when Rick Springfield bashed the guitar), a set of black straplocks, a black suede guitar strap, crazy wild confetti-colored Fender guitar picks and a black and silver checkerboard guitar cable.
As I walked out of Guitar Center with my new case in hand and fully stocked with the essentials for my weekend, I felt confident and dare I say it? Yes, I dare. I felt sexy.
Let's rock n' roll, babies.
