By CC THE TRAINED MONKEY
So here it is, June, already. Not much happens in June. There are no federal holidays. Lots of weddings though. You always hear people talking about June brides. Is that supposed to be some kind of good luck charm or something? Like, if you get married in August you’re 50% more likely to get divorced?
I’ve been around long enough to watch the majority of my L.A. friends get married and divorced … and remarried … and redivorced. A June wedding didn’t seem to help.
I’ve never been married, so I can’t really say what that tipping point is that makes a couple go, “You know what, this blows. I’m outta here.” But I hear a couple of recurring complaints. The first one is, “We don’t have anything in common.”
Does that really matter? Because I know this Missoula, Montana couple who have been married for 50 years and they have NOTHING in common. Seriously. Nothing. I know this because they’re my parents.
My mother likes rock and new age – my dad likes country. My mother likes to travel and went to Ireland with me – back in ’75 my dad accidentally drove across the North Dakota border but turned around and came back once he realized his mistake. My mother has an air of elegance about her – my dad wears suspenders and the crotch of his jeans sags down to his knees.
So the “nothing in common” argument doesn’t really fly with me. Another complaint I hear is, “There’s no romance.” To that I’d like to share the following transcript of an actual phone conversation I had with my parents a few years ago.
Me: Do you remember proposing to Mom?
Dad: Yeah. It was in Bozeman
Mom: You wrote me a letter. No, you called me.
Dad: No, it was in person. Not in Bozeman. In Billings. I was on my way to Bozeman. I don’t know, I’m watching the game.
So, how did this odd couple with no romance and nothing in common manage to survive for 50 years? One word.
Garage.
We have two garages. One attached to the house and one in the back next to the alley. Guess which garage belongs to my dad?
Summer, winter, fall and spring he could be found out back in his garage. He built furniture in it, hung dead animals in it, sang off key to Hank Williams in it and stored all of his prized garage sale bargains in it. Sometimes, he even parked his car there. That garage was his sanctuary and the glue that held their marriage together.
Don’t get me wrong, my parents still fought … I think. They never actually did it in front of us. I suspect that happened out back as well. But I could tell when something was up, because I’d see my mother standing in the kitchen, her posture so rigid that she would have shattered into a million pieces if you tipped her over. But, because they each had a corner to retreat to, they had time to cool down and get some perspective. You can get a lot of perspective in 50 years.
My dad’s retired now. You’d think my mother would get tired of always having him under foot, but she doesn’t. See, we also have a one-bedroom apartment in our basement. They used to rent it out, but they don’t anymore, so now my dad has a garage AND an apartment. My parents have never been closer.
Case in point – my folks came out to L.A. to visit me once. Once. One time. I came into my living room to find them on my couch, and my father was sitting there with his arm around my mother! I was like, “Who are you, old man, and what have you done with my dad?”
So, you see, marriage isn’t so much about romance or mutual interests as it is about space. Space gives you the opportunity to build a chair, or watch reruns of Murder She Wrote in peace and then hook up with your spouse for a nice dinner together.
Now, remember, I know nothing about marriage, however I have lived with the same roommate, who is a total creep by the way, for the past 12 years, so at least I know a little about coexisting with a man you’d kill tonight if you thought you could get away with it. And that’s why I advise all of you starry-eyed June brides who may one day find yourself struggling with your choice of mate — forget the couple’s retreats and the marriage councilors. Take that money instead and invest it in a garage and some Hank Williams CD’s. You’ll be happy you did.
Missing Missoula,
CC the Trained Monkey
Like this post by CC the Trained Monkey? Chances are you’ll LOVE her post on Drill Bits, Memories of Being a Sentinel Orchette, or What the Fox? or In a Roundabout Way. You also may want to check out all of Make it Missoula’s bloggers.
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BIO: Carol Chrest is a bitter old spinster living in Los Angeles. When she’s not working ridiculous hours at her cruddy day job, she writes screenplays. She drinks.
Marriage is a 80/20 plan as long as you share who is getting 80% and who is taking the 20% and you allow the changing of ownership…..then you can get to that California couch and share the experience of the Bozeman or was if Billings letter that starts this plan…..kids help, so they are part of the plan.
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I don’t know, Jonboy, it sounds like math to me. I suck at math. Hmm, maybe that’s why I’m not married.
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Around my house it’s more like 80/40 and you’ve got to stay on top of things because the divorce rate is at 125%.
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CC, I think you are more right than you know. After 27 yrs of marriage, I would say space is a vital element.
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Twenty years into it, I prefer very little space between me and my man.
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Oh my god, were you two that couple who sat in each other’s lockers and made out all day back in high school? Seriously, did you guys not have any classes? Because you were ALWAYS there. I’m really happy you have a house to do that stuff in now, ‘cuz it was hard for the rest of us to watch. Your husband looks like a pretty good kisser, though.
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THat must have been Verina and SOMEONE ELSE, Carol…we didn’t date until 10 years out of high school….hmmmmm….
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So, I guess now you know you weren’t her first choice.
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God bless the Man Cave–or in the case of a recent 2,700 mile road trip–ear phones and an I-pad!!!!
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Never had the man-cave, wish I did. Now I have a man-HOUSE. Much better! And got married in August so that was 2 strikes against me right outta the shoot.
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Don’t worry, you’ll get it right next time.
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Hey, this one’s a pants-wetter. I know your mom and dad. I don’t remember them being so entertaining. But I do recall, back in our high-school days, fearing for my life if I called your house past 9 pm at night. Of course now when I go to their house I’m just so happy to eat a plate of walleye. I’ve been rereading the Drill Team blog because I adore all the reminiscences of all those former dancing girls (including my own). I wish some Butte Bees would pipe up and give us their two cents. I’m also enjoying reading about the thinly-veiled lust filled marriage of Tom and Verena. Why aren’t these two writing a blog about blissfully-maintained matrimony?
P.S. I just love your image of piled up treasures, like Conway Twitty on vinyl, and the notes of softly crooning Hank Williams intermingling with the smell of a freshly-bled elk carcass hanging from the rafters. It makes the thought of being a husband very inviting.
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Tracy, I’ll have you know that now, when I come home to visit, my parents let me take phone calls until 9:30. But I’m still not allowed to use the stove unsupervised.
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Well, I guess we’ll just have to go to my house to make fried bologna sandwiches and Campbells pea green soup. (PS. I don’t think I will be able to eat that, but I’ll make some for you)
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Carol, your parents are fantastic. I don’t think I told you about what I saw your dad doing last fall. He vacuums the lawn with one of those leaf blowers. You know, he puts the blower in reverse and attaches a bag. Every day he would go out and vacuum each individual newly fallen leaf. I came home from work one day and he was standing on an eight foot step ladder reaching up to vacuum the tree. In his gravelly voice I could hear him say “DAMN you mother nature. I WILL NOT wait around ’till Halloween to clean this up. NOW RELINQUISH YOUR LEAVES!” I went into the house and rattled a couple of ice cubes into a glass. As I sipped on the amber nectar, I pondered what I will do in MY retirement.
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Vacuuming up leaves is a brilliant idea. I have often thought of that myself. It just makes way more sense. Now I know where my genius comes from.
My dad said relinquish? What, did he get a dictionary for Christmas or something?
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