Not Alice's Restaurant
Specifically, the period of our discontent came when we were choosing our wedding song. Coincidentally around this period, I started thinking that it would be best if we were “just friends”. Preferably ones who lived on different continents and exchanged mis-addressed holiday cards. For our wedding song, I wanted something along the lines of the Osmonds’ “I’m a Little Bit Country, I’m a little bit rock-n-roll”, but the version where Donny takes the country route and Marie does rock and roll. NearlyExFianceinka immediately refused, with a “it’s a wedding, not a freak show” slam. Then he said that he would not agree to anything Tom Petty because he couldn’t stand him nor anything Celine Dion or any other wailer. I don’t remember what he did in fact want, but for arguments’ sake, let’s say that it was “Alice’s Restaurant.”
I just mentioned this post and “Alice’s Restaurant” to Husbandrinka and he called it “pure fabrication” on my part. I suggested that he use his blog to rebut my version. He said that if he were to rebut all my versions, he would need to quit his job and I told him to leave the humor to me. Then he repeated “humor” and put air quotes around the word and then I had to explain that I was using “Alice’s Restaurant” not literally but as an example to plant a hint about his sanity without actually making a libelous allegation. He pretended to be really focused on something that he was reading.
Anyway, we finally agreed on a song, but it was a torturous process, made particularly difficult because it came on the heels of my coronary crisis. The coronary crisis consisted of my having sharp chest pains every time I went to my wedding dress fitting and included chest xrays, EKGs and my researching potential heart donors for an immediate transplant. You guys are lucky that I wasn’t blogging back then, because instead of that Poll over there asking what blog topic would you like me to focus on, I’d have a poll up asking for your blood type and how you felt about lifesaving heroism. The fact that there appeared to be nothing wrong with my heart according to the “doctors” did not deter me, because I fully believe that I know my body better than any medical professional and I was fairly certain that I was having a heart attack, or maybe a stroke, whichever one of those comes solely at dress fittings. It was not until my therapist suggested to me that we explore the possibility of an anxiety attack brought on by making a lifelong commitment to a man while I was so young and the possibility that it was, like all marriages, a huge mistake, that I started to breathe easier. My pre-husband, on the other hand, became mildly outraged. “A mistake?” he said. “And so young? You’re thirty. I’m rescuing you from spinsterhood!” Aren’t you glad that he doesn’t have his own blog? And that you trust my version of events completely?
As I often tell Husbandrinka, next time I get married, I’m eloping. And you know what he had the nerve to say to me? “Me too.” Can you believe it? What kind of man talks to his wife like that?!