Experts who claim the key ingredient to a healthy marriage is “mutual respect” or “open communication” or “meeting one another’s emotional needs” are all wrong.
I mean, sure, those ingredients are important, but no more so than a mutually agreed-upon toilet seat status. In our house, the lid stays closed. Period. This arrangement is largely because a closed lid keeps the dogs from helping themselves to a drink. Of course, Maisy has figured out a work-around, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m all for Fletch sharing his feeeeelings, but the minute I take an unintended late night swim, his ability to express himself will be neatly eclipsed by his ability to quickly run away from me. (Actually, having separate bathrooms will exponentially increase your odds of making it as a couple.) (Move if you must.) (You’ll thank me on your Golden Anniversary.)
Regardless, if I had to highlight one factor that keeps us together, it would be Google.
For example, last week we were in the car on the way to the city and we started to squabble over whether or not “ear cancer” was a real malady. But instead of arguing about whether or not it could exist for the next hour while we navigated rush hour traffic, I looked it up, found the answer, and we quickly moved on conversationally… largely because I was right.
Ear cancer is TOTALLY a real thing.
Which brings us to last night.
Earlier in the day, Fletch scanned the shot of us with the Second Place Monkey from this summer’s Banana Derby. While he replaced it in the frame, we started talking.
Fletch: I felt like I had to put this back immediately, what with it being a treasured family heirloom and all. Kind of like the Scott Pilgrim DVD.
(Side Note: Apparently while Fletch was rectifying our bank statements for taxes, he discovered that I’ve had Scott Pilgrim Vs. the World out from Netflix for eighteen months and said membership has cost us approximately six hundred dollars. I sort of haven’t heard the end of it since then.) (Yet I maintain that I WILL watch this and when I do, it will have been worth it. Michael Cera as a nebbishy ass-kicker? Worth it at any price.) (But I digress.)
Me: I’m itchy every time I think about that monkey. I had welts every place he touched.
Fletch: I can’t believe how strong he was. Did he hold on to you?
Me: Not really, no.
Fletch: I was astounded at his powerful grip. Like, I can’t believe such a tiny creature could hold on so tightly.
Me: I can.
Me: Duh, that’s why there’s monkey grip glue.
Fletch: No, there’s not.
Me: Of course there is. The Rolling Stones even wrote a song about it.
Fletch: There’s no way that’s true.
Me: (singing) Good old monkey grip! Monkey grip! Good old monkey grip!
Fletch: This is an Ambien hallucination, like when you told me you were going to build a raft out of hamburger or when you fixed yourself a caramel apple sandwich.
In the old days, this would have devolved into an argument. But not now, thanks to Google.
Me: (grabbing my iPad) See? Here. Actually, I was a little off. The song is by Bill Wyman of the Stones. I remember because my brother had the album. Anyway, I’m pressing Play now.
Four astounded minutes later…
Fletch: What do you think happened? Bill Wyman came into rehearsal one day and was all, ‘Oi, mates! I’ve an idea for a song about monkey grips! And we’ll make it sound ragtime-y!’ Then Mick said, ‘That sounds more like a solo project, Billy-boy.’
Me: I’m not saying it’s a good song. My point was that it was about monkey grip glue, ergo, I am right.
Fletch: That song wasn’t actually about glue.
Me: Now you’re an expert on music you never heard of four minutes ago? How would you even know?
Fletch: Because I listened to the lyrics.
Me: Oh, really, Mr. Suddenly Knows Everything About Double Entendres in Campy 1970’s Rock Songs? What’s next? You’re going to tell me that KISS’s song Plaster Caster wasn’t about fixing a broken arm, either?
Fletch: Hand me your iPad.
And sometimes Google works just as well for Fletch.
Having no logical conclusion for this story, here we are with the Second Place Monkey.
This is what our baby would look like.