There’s nothing like the sound of young love.
Well, except when I try to eavesdrop on my son and his girlfriend. Then the sound of young love – “dub step” — is, well, not “moon/June/spoon”- inducing.
Back when John and I fell in love, well, things were different. Music was wonderful, made to share. And so I did.
About three months after John and I started dating, I made him a tape. (For the youngin’s amongst us, it’s like a portable playlist that can be played on any appropriate device available in the prehistoric period in which your parents were, ummm, young.) Yes, I made my love a cassette tape of my very favorite songs from that and every era. It contained, among other songs, the following:
Juice Newton, The Sweetest Thing
Joni Mitchell, A Case of You
Bonnie Raitt: Home
Linda Ronstadt: Blue Bayou
It was too late when I learned that not only did John not love the songs I loved, he hated them. Every single one of them. Over the years, he has solidified his position. For example, John has threatened to divorce me should I sing Blue Bayou within range of his supersonic ears, an approximate 5 square mile range.
Let me tell you this: It is not an ideal situation for a critically acclaimed former singer to be banned from singing her favorite songs. Especially when the ban includes those rare times when I am actually doing housework. It has been a rather sticky issue for 26 years now.
I try to be accommodating because I am wonderful. And because I have a huge repertoire of first verses of songs that will get stuck in John’s head for when he really pisses me off. John has been accommodating by vacating the house immediately when I begin singing/playing/thinking about any of these songs. Generally he is in search of a divorce lawyer.
But you know what? Payback is hell.
You see, in the past, I’ve often told John that he needs to outlive me, because I don’t want to have to deal with all our financial issues. Seriously — I haven’t balanced a checkbook since we got married, and I don’t intend to start.
But now, after reading an article in today’s Reuters.com, I’m reconsidering my position on who gets to “go” first. You see, I read that there is:
Because now I can get John a specialty coffin complete with seriously impressive stereo speakers, hooked up to the latest iPod/music technology. And I will get to choose the playlist.
I wonder if I can find that cassette.
Payback is, literally, hell.