Don't Believe The Hype

I imagine Henry Ford watching lovingly, and with pride, as the first Edsel rolled slowly off the assembly line.

Sometimes, I think I was as starry-eyed, hopeful, and ultimately full of shit the day I got married.

For the third time. The "charm" of thrice has quite worn off, leaving me with the sinking feeling that there is no magic bullet to marital success. It's just the same old bullshit, different man, different day.

One of my favorite songs by Rickie Lee Jones chronicles the ills of a faltering relationship in terms of a vehicular demise:

There was this block-busted blonde,
and he loved her Free parts and labor,
but she broke down and died
She threw all the rods that he gave her

Oh, but this one ain't fuel-injected,
her plug is disconnected,
She gets scared, and she stalls....
but she just needs a man, that's all

It's her last chance, check under the hood
It's her last chance, she ain't idlin' so good
It's her last chance, turn her over -- and go

Pulling out of the Last Chance Texaco...

My father's been in mad, mad love with the Chevy Corvette long before I was ever even a twinkle in his eye. That kind of brand loyalty escapes me. I struggle daily to maintain a balance, and most days, I heave a great big sigh of defeat, lay my head down on the pillow, and just pray that the next day I still have the emotional stamina to roll up my sleeves and get dirty again.

I can't help but think of that Sandra Bullock movie, 28 Days. And I am still trying to lift up that damn horse's hoof, too stubborn to ask for help. All the faith in the world, and yet here I stand, stubborn as a mule.

But I swear to God, if I see another glass of milk curdling over on his side of the bed, I'm going to go stark-raving apeshit. Like, crazy Indian jumping out of the window of the Cuckoo's nest crazy.

Goodnight, Irene.