Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Wire!

By Bob Wire, 7-29-08

You think you have a challenging marriage, living with a moody, selfish, irresponsible wet-brain of a spouse? Do you dread answering the phone, wondering if it’s going to be the bearer of some bad news concerning your partner’s latest pooch screwing? Do you fear for your children’s health because your spouse thinks movie popcorn counts as a full serving of vegetables?

Try doing it for thirteen years, like my wife has.

Today is the 13th anniversary of my marriage to Barb, which adds up to about ten years of wedded bliss. That’s right, it was 13 years ago that I tricked her into becoming engaged on a sunny Memorial Day in 1994, when I told her I was pregnant. She didn’t buy it, of course, but she must have figured it would be an interesting partnership. And as certain members of the law enforcement community will attest, it has been.

Why has this marriage worked? I think to understand that, you have to examine the roles of men and women in most relationships. Men are largely transparent and predictable. Many dogs have more guile. We generally stop growing emotionally around age 15 (why do you think so many of us like AC/DC?), and our needs have remained unchanged since the days when Piltdown Man got hollered at for coming home to his cave at dawn, after staying out all night drinking mastodon sweat and throwing rocks into a glacier. We want food, sex, affection and silence. And sometimes a boat.

As for women, well, they want their men to progress beyond adolescence, and to tell the truth. Since neither one of those wishes is likely to come true anytime soon, they use their wiles to manipulate us into behaving in a mostly acceptable manner.

There is a lot more to women, of course, but as a man, I’d have a better chance at building a Saturn 5 rocket out of macaroni than figuring out what makes them tick. So, like most dudes, I just plug along, trying to avoid screwing things up too badly in my ongoing quest for food, sex, affection and silence.

According to C.E. Allen’s “Marriage Traditions and Carnal Pecadillos,” the 13th anniversary is the “corn syrup” anniversary. I’m going to surprise Barb with a bucket of Tootsie Pops after dinner tonight. I have a few other treats planned, since I am a hopeless romantic. A hopeless romantic who needs some action.

As I’ve said before, the secret to a successful marriage lies in sharing the responsibilities. We decided early on that I would handle all the major decisions, and Barb would handle the medium and small ones. I’m proud to say that, after thirteen years, we have yet to face a single major decision.

Neither one of us is perfect, of course, but as you might guess, I’ve brought more than my fair share of turmoil into this union, and Barb has weathered it all. I could go into specifics here, and believe you me, it would be pretty entertaining. We’re talking financial near-ruin. Scrapes with the law. Public nudity. Vomiting at the worst possible moment. But Missoula is a small enough town where Barb would never hear the end of it, so I’ll just say that I’m incredibly grateful for her endless patience. And I haven’t gambled in ten years.

If you are in love with a creative type, you know the joys and the disappointments of dealing with that person’s wild mood swings and Quixotic flights of fancy. These episodes frequently involve alcohol, and may or may not produce anything of lasting value. But we can’t help it. When the muse speaks, we listen. I happen to listen much better after I’ve had a martini. It takes a big heart and a strong stomach to spend your life with an artist, so my hat is off not only to Barb, but to everyone else whose partner earns his or her living in the arts. It makes for an emotional marriage that tends toward a feast-or-famine income, and it definitely ain’t for everyone.

So Barb, with hat in hand, I want to thank you for loving me, and allowing me to share my life with you. You are my jackpot. You are the perfect match, the exact fit. I love you with all my heart, and at this point I’d like to apologize in advance for my screw-ups to come in the next 13 years.

[Next: we resume the Epic Road Trip, only a few hundred miles from home.]

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