"we're getting out this time there's nothing stopping us."-Foo Fighters

"...you can get married too easily, and divorcing is just too hard."


That's what somebody told me the other day. I agree on the marriage end. But the same goes for so many things, including being a parent—or I should say creating a baby. Being a parent is something else. As a non-parent, non baby creator, I'll just crawl away from that argument. It's kind of like me telling Bullwinkle how to be an appropriate moose. Honestly though, I think he does a good job on his own; he doesn't need my advice. That Rocky though, totally a screw-up squirrel.


Anyway, I do think it's too easy to get married. I still say, the best way to learn about somebody is immersed exposure. Take a long road trip. If both of you come back (dead body in the trunk does not count) then stick with it, you should be able to get through anything.


MyWife and I drove from Milwaukee to Palm Desert in a loaded down 79 Camaro. We had some rough spots, but we made it. Denver was a rough spot. Not so much for us, but the car almost died. There's this big 90 degree hill, and like I said, my car was loaded down with everything I owned, and let's not forget, my bride-to-be towing behind--What? Don't look at me that way, she's into that. No I'm kidding, she took up valuable "Robstuff" space in the seat next to me. Are you happy--Halfway up the hill, I'm standing on the accelerator, and being passed by U-hauls and mopeds.


The car was already in low gear, and I juiced it for all it's worth, muttering my monosyllabic mantra: please, please, please, please…MyWife eyed the backseat, negotiating what things of mine were worth more as ballast thrown from the window than as eyesores and paperweights in her new apartment. Together we rode it out, and we reached the top, me, MyWife, my stuff. My car made it to Palm Desert, but died within a week.


Sometimes that's all it takes: Just riding it out.


Other times, it's about silent concession. On our first anniversary MyWife and I drove to Las Vegas. If you ever go during summer, the most common site you'll see will be dead cars on the last hill before town. I remember looking to MyWife and saying, "Man, that's gotta suck. It's at least 105 out there."


"Yeah." She glares at me knowing what curse I've just invoked. Moments later, the car starts revving really high.


"Does it sound like it's revving really high to you?" I ask.


"uh…" she says. It's all she needs to say. I hit the overdrive, because I know that she's knocked it on.


That stopped the revving. Actually that stopped the everything. Smoke billowed from under the hood, and the car coasted to a stop. You don't have far to coast uphill with locked power steering either. We still limped off the road.


Standing beside the car, I futz with the cell, trying to get a signal. I think we were using a pre-pay, and were roaming; some AT&T operator was having a staticy hissy in my ear about the potential fees I'm incurring, and how can she be sure I really am going to pay them back. I could barely hear her over all the moving traffic. I stood corrected: it had to be 110 out there. In the meantime, MyWife had a better time flagging down a passing cop car. I hear them ask her if she needs help. She's leaning in the air conditioned window, pretending not to hear him.


"What? Well my husband is calling for—Yes, yes we do!."


15 minutes later, a tow truck arrives. We were supposed to spend 2 days in Vegas, instead we spent a week: we'd melted the transmission. I'm not sure how that's done, but that's what they said we did. Oh that and all the little plastic fuses were now fused together from some co-related overload. I'm not sure. But you know what? MyWife never mocked "Does it sound like it's revving a little high?" the whole week, and I know she wanted to—bad. Especially the day we went to the timeshare lecture for fun. We were out of money. There's nothing to do in Vegas when you're flat broke. Casio owners stood at the door barring our entrance.


"I smell poor people."


We stayed in this little dive at the end of town waiting for our car to be repaired.


See, and these are the things we should have to go through before getting married. People don't come with manuals and we need to know when to go toe to toe, when to stand quiet, and when to sigh 'cuz it's all you've got and there's nowhere left to lean. If you can do these things, you stand a chance.


Oh sure, point to my failure. That's fine--it is a glaring eyesore--I will say this though: We survived then, but there's no way we could last 20 minutes in the same car right now. Hell, last week we drove separate cars to get groceries. Ok, that did have something to do with her needing to sign rental paperwork after the grocery store.


Something to do with it, not everything.


Somewhere we forgot how to get along, now we're like little kids making time in the backseat,


"Stop touching me!"
"I'm not tou-ching you! I'm not tou-ching you!"


So I guess I don't have the right answer to this one either. I'd like to though, because I will meet somebody again someday. I need to be sure they're the right somebody. Maybe if there were some DNA test or something. I don't think that works. A DNA test would prove that she was related. I probably want to know that.


No, for me, I'm hoping the "once bitten, twice shy" methodology will prove useful. Maybe a neon sign saying "Hi Rob" would help.