Once upon a time
but not so long ago …

When my baby godmama (Tink’s godmother. But you were able to figure that out, right?) got married, she had a band for the reception but also hired a DJ to spin some wax while the band was on a break. Since the DJ wouldn’t be filling much time, she crafted a carefully curated list. This gal isn’t the kind to leave much to chance, least of all her wedding.

Among her brief but lovingly crafted playlist were both “Livin’ on a Prayer” and “Like a Prayer,” which were played back to back, if I’m not mistaken. When the Bon Jovi song came on, the bride strode out to the center of the dance floor at the Hiland Park Country Club, arms over her head all triumphant-like, belting out the ’80s anthem as everyone danced around in praise of her steeped-in-irony choice of this paean to the poor. We were so edgy in our love of this metal-lite ballad. (Can you imagine?! A ballad! Sung by acid-washed Jerseyites! At her wedding!) We wept from our hipness.

The happy couple joined forever that day wouldn’t  come any closer to understanding the plight of Tommy (he formerly of the docks) and Gina (she of the diner), but as I listened to the song on my way home from Type A Mom in Asheville tonight, my mouth fell open upon realizing how much it described us currently.

(Yes, I sometimes listen to Hair Nation on Sirius. It’s somewhere between Jam_ON, 1st Wave and Lithium on the dial, and you’d be surprised to find just how many Motley Crue song lyrics you know, just from being alive on the planet during that time.)

Chuck and I must have absorbed the comforting bromides Tommy tells Gina, because we find ourselves saying things like “We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got” and “It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not” and “We’ve got each other, and that’s a lot for love” all the time. When I cry in the night, Chuckie often whispers something like, “Baby, it’s OK …. someday.” Except we don’t rhyme nearly so much. Or overuse the talk box.

Tommy and Gina would be so proud.

When our friends and family are cruel enough to ask how things are going, we give ‘em a hearty “At least we haven’t gotten a divorce!” complete with the jabby elbow gesture. And then we laugh and we laugh. And then one of us reminds the other that neither of us can afford a divorce attorney. And then the mood goes suddenly dark for the rest of the evening. (Hmmm.)

Back on that Saturday in June, I never thought we’d come to have such kinship with the song or its working-class heroes. I was just a college-educated wise ass impressing everyone with my knowledge of a cheesy song as I danced from my position of privilege. Man, were those ever the days.

I can only pray, that when this is all over and the relentless stress of managing all our money threatens to tear us apart, that we remain as tight as Tommy and Gina.

Bon Jovi – Livin on a Prayer

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1. That I’ll end up spending more money than I planned on, blowing August’s budget to hell. Get ready to read posts pimping my Etsy store, where I’ll be selling striped organic-cotton moon pads repurposed from Tink’s outgrown clothes. It’s a playdress, it’s a daydress, it’s a feminine product.
2. That I’ll get a call from my husband as they’re leaving a skate park, saying he’s sure whoever’s on duty at the doc-in-the-box will do a “decent enough job” resetting Tink’s fracture.
3. That even despite the broken clavicle, Tink will tell me upon returning that she really didn’t miss me at all and are you going to Chicago again soon?
4. That I’ll overtalk and go into standup mode whenever anyone speaks to me. So don’t bother saying hi or asking what I write about unless you have 30 minutes and want to hear about how when I was 9 I sold the most Girl Scout cookies in all of Erie County or when I was 11 I set a county record for 100-meter breaststroke and that I got my first period the day of my mom’s friend’s baby shower and that she told everyone while I was in the bathroom and they all laughed (“They’re all going to laugh at you!”) when I came back into the room. I was probably trying to figure out just how the hell moon pads work. 
5. That for the SECOND time this month someone will say to me, “Do you watch Bravo? You remind me so much of Kathy Griffin.”
6. That everyone will assume it’s me when @neilochka tweets Sunday morning about the fat chick he drunkenly hooked up with.
7. That Tim Gunn will pull me out of a crowd as we shuffle from meeting room B to meeting room D and tell his assembled worshipers exactly where I went wrong in packing for a professional weekend conference.
8. That I make a total ass of myself at the MamaPop party when the DJ in the Sheraton Chicago’s ballroom plays a Sisters of Mercy song – could be “Temple of Love,” or maybe “Lucretia, My Reflection,” doesn’t matter – and I scream “I LOVE THIS SONG!,” popping Sweetney’s left ear drum as I step on Black Hockey Jesus’ foot and spill my drink on Schmutzie in a spastic rush to the dance floor.
9. That as I sit in a session, distracted by thoughts of how much money my fellow bloggers probably make, I snap to attention when I see my blog on the PowerPoint screen and hear the words, “Let’s start with an example of really bad blog design.”
10. That the same thing will happen in the next session, except this time it will be “Let’s start with an example of really bad blog writing.”
11. That I’ll get stuck with the bill at Smith & Wollensky like I did in ‘07.
12. That I’ll be avenged for being reasonably popular in high school by leaving Chicago feeling that all the cool bloggers had the time of their lives while I was in my jammies looking for “Seinfeld” reruns in my hotel room.

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