Cooked Goose

Frank Zappa:  “I detest ‘love lyrics’.”

“Yes, Frank! I hate love songs too.” They’re lame. “I can’t live, if living means without you…” “Oh, my love, my darling  I’ve hungered for your touch … I need your love  I need your love  God speed your love to me!” “I”m lying alone with my head on the phone, thinking of you til it hurts. I know you hurt too, but what else can we do? …” Geez. Kick me in the head.

Nope, not just generational. I listen to my kids’ music. The same lameness. “I’d catch a grenade for ya Throw my hand on the blade for ya I’d jump in front of a train for ya You know I’d do anything for ya See I would go through all this pain Take a bullet straight through my brain Yes I would die for ya, baby But you won’t do the same.” Bruno, that’s not love; that’s a big fat lie. The same ol’ whinny, sappy, sorry stuff.

The trouble with “love songs” is there’s really very little love in them. It’s all “me, me, me”; “I, I, I”. Then they glorify the “extraordinary” at the expense of the “ordinary”. From our youth, they make us sigh and long for a life not our own. As the years go by, as gravity pulls our “love” down to Earth, we bemoan, “You don’t bring me flowers … anymore.” C’mon. The pinnacle of love can’t be youthful intoxication.

Love goes something like this: “I’d watch an episode of Glee for ya  I’d clean our baby’s pee for ya  I’d jump in line at Macy’s for ya  You know I’d do anything for ya  See I would go through all this pain  Wash the dishes, clean the drain  Yes I die a little each day for ya, baby  And you don’t have to do the same.”

Beer Cart Girl

Like Pavlov’s dog, seeing an oversized beer cooler on wheels sputtering toward them gets the foursome of middle-aged men at attention – salivating, the tail involuntarily wagging. And then you see her, behind the wheel – shapely, cute, barely-out-of-her-teens optimism. “Hi, guys!” She bubbles. She can’t be happier to see you. “You guys need anything?” Can it get better? She actually wants to serve you beer! Bless her heart, she’s been scouring the golf course for you, to refresh you ’cause God knows beating up a golf course is hard work. What a nice girl.

When she steps out in her cute little outfit – the tiny shorts, the snug shirt so as you don’t miss any of her youthful perkiness – you say to yourself, “DAAAAAMN.” As she happily digs in to grab you your beers, her enthusiasm says in effect, “Not only do you deserve to be out here away from wife and kids, it’s really hard work breaking 100. Let me get you an ice cold beer.” By this time, you don’t even care that she’s charging you $5 per. In fact, you’re so grateful you’re ready to chip off the biggest tip of your life. As she drives off, she gives you a delicate wave, “See you guys later.”
“Okay.” (For proper effect, insert own doofus mimicry)
Ah… Why can’t my wife be more like the beer cart girl?

Wake up dude! You’re wife can’t be more like beer cart girl ‘cause beer cart girl is not real. She’s a player in a five-minute vignette of a male fantasy. First of all, she was cast in the role. What do you think are the hiring criteria for beer cart girl? Do you think they give ’em a driving test? She knows; she’s dressed the part. Secondly, she meets you on a golf course! Your happy place. When she meets you, she just needs to be happy for five minutes. That’s it. Man, beer cart girl ain’t happy to see you. Look around. You’ve fallen into a distinct demographic: Ugly, middle-aged men who’ve been forced to trade in games requiring running and jumping for a game of walking. And then even the walking became too much and so you’ve opted for motorized assistance. She’s smiling ’cause she knows how easy it is to separate you from your cash. And if the thing isn’t stacked enough, she rolls up in a mobile beer cooler.

Your wife can’t be more like beer cart girl because beer cart girl is not real. Anyone can be bubbly for five minutes. Your wife, she has to live with you – love you for real.

A Vow

It was pouring rain all week. That Saturday morning I awoke to the brightness of that unfiltered sunlight following the rain. My first thought was, “I’m getting married.”

About five hours later, I said, “I do.” It was the only thing I said in that beautiful ceremony. The short answer was to a long question: Do you take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold … To a serious question: …for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health … until death do you part? “No matter what happens, until one of you dies, you promise?” It was and remains the heaviest question I’ve ever been asked.

In the 70s the “No Fault Divorce” became law in California. By the mid-eighties, it was the law across the country. The “No Fault” law stipulates that the dissolution of marriage does not require a showing of wrong doing by either party. “‘Irreconcilable differences,’ you see.” Essentially, we have legislated an easy way out of marriage. It’s interesting that the language makes no mention of the vow you took.

The way I see it, when I said, “I do” I took a vow. Like I said, it was the heaviest question I’ve been asked, so much so, we gathered all the important people in our lives to bear witness to my answer. The point being: It’s a serious promise, one that will be tried. There will surely come days when reneging will seem like the only way to come up for air. And so the vow was taken, not in secret but out in the open.

More than an institution to step in and out of, I’ve thought marriage in these terms: Marriage, a promise to someone; and divorce, a breaking of that promise. Furthermore, since we have had children, our children have become a part of the promise I made to their mother. When I think in these terms, it helps me to “blow up” divorce as a real option. The “No Fault” law makes it easier to get out. By taking the “Vow” perspective, I have welded and bricked up the door, and caved in the passage to it. “Stop looking around, honey. We’re in it to win it.”

One simple practice for me on this has been to never say the word or anything related to it. Man, it doesn’t even exist.

A Note: One of my five readers suggested this new category. I thought, “Perfect, another thing to which I cannot claim expertise.” Thanks for the suggestion. You know who you are.