A long long time ago . . .
I am happily singing a song.
Happily singing a song in that way one does when one is newly in a relationship and determined to demonstrate to the new other person that one is confident and carefree and also wildly musically talented in an extremely secretive way that hints at other fabulous secrets should the person for whom this singing is being performed be inclined to investigate.
“You got the words wrong.”
I stop singing and stare at Mark, “What?”
“Everybody gets those words wrong. It’s not that big a deal. It’s French.”
“What?”
“Jeux sans frontieres . . . it means games without frontiers.”
In my mind I am thinking . . . What a fucking asshole . . . “Are you sure, because I am pretty sure I have sung those lyrics in front of other people, and no one else has ever corrected me.”
“Maybe nobody was actually listening to you until now.”
OK, he’s smiling but how is that not an insult? That is so an insult! Asshole asshole asshole. People LISTEN to me, asshole . . . “You’re sure about those lyrics? I am generally correct about song lyrics. I just find it hard to believe that no one else would say anything.”
“As I said, a lot of people get the lyrics wrong. It’s a common mistake. Maybe you’re just hanging out with common mistaken people. I promise you the line is jeux sans frontieres.”
OK, he just said that I have stupid illiterate friends. He may also have called me common. Does he have NO plans for us to ever have sex again? What is this man thinking? Alright, but on the other hand? He apparently speaks French, and that is quite awesome . . . “Huh. Well, that is embarrassing. I always like to get the lyrics right. I had no idea I was singing the wrong words.”
“Obviously. That’s why I pointed it out.”
Seriously, guy? SERIOUSLY? You may not realize it, but I am being uncharacteristically nice at this moment. STOP FUCKING WITH ME . . . “Look, you may not know this about me, but I hate being corrected. I hate being wrong. You are annoying me right now.”
“What?”
I was cranky now, “Singing makes me vulnerable. I don’t do vulnerable. Being told I am wrong in the middle of being vulnerable makes me want to punch you in the face.”
“Really? This is you vulnerable?”
“Shut up.”
He thought for a moment, “I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I do know you are a person who doesn’t like to be wrong. That’s why I told you when you made a mistake . . . because I know you wouldn’t want me to let you make that mistake in front of another single person.”
Huh. He has a point. Interesting. If he is not a lying manipulative ass-covering fuckhead, he might actually be quite lovely after all. Plus, he speaks French . . . “OK, sorry. I overreacted. Oops. Ignore that part about how I wanted to punch you in the face.”
He reached to hold my hand, and I thought to myself . . . This man has amazing hands.
Fast-forward 25 years.
Mark and I and our two daughters are in the car on the way to get our Christmas tree. The girls are impatient to get to the Christmas tree farm, and Maj whines, “When will we get there?”
Mark glances at the GPS screen of our minivan, “We should be there in unos doses mileys.”
“Oh for god’s sake, Daddy . . . are you trying to speak Spanish? Unos doses mileys?”
“I bet you didn’t even know Miley Cyrus had a twin, did you?”
“What?”
“Doses Mileys.”
“Oh my god . . . Daddy, just do not speak to me again.”
We continue down the road, and suddenly Peter Gabriel’s Games Without Frontiers comes on the radio. You better believe that for the last 25 years, I have known every fucking word to this song. The memory of that moment of being corrected early in our relationship has . . . lingered.
Mark is singing the song with me, much to the chagrin of our daughters. He is singing loudly. He is singing confidently. He is singing . . . about . . . kissing balloons?
“Wait, wait, wait . . . Mark, did you just sing that you are kissing balloons in the jungle?”
“Yeah, isn’t that right?”
“No.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s right.”
I am giggling uncontrollably, “No, babe. It’s baboons. Kissing baboons in the jungle. Not balloons. Baboons.”
“Are you sure?”
“The album version has a line about pissing on goons in the jungle, but there are no balloons anywhere. Trust me. I know the words to this song.”
He shrugs and changes the subject, “You know, a lot of people think this song says She’s so popular, but the actual words are Jeux sans frontieres.”
I stare at him, “Are you talking to me?”
He waves his hand, “I was talking to the car generally . . . useful information for everyone to have.”
Maj leans forward, “Is that Spanish?”
“Nope. French.”
“Daddy, you don’t know French.”
He agrees, “Nope. But that phrase has come in handy a time or two.”
I stare at him.
He reaches to hold my hand.
He has amazing hands.
