You know, when you meet someone, that right someone, that someone who seems to share your same values, who seems to want the same things in life as you, who may have the same likes and dislikes, it’s a great thing.
That’s me and Carlos. To a point.
We met; we clicked. We have the same values and morals, believe in a lot of the same things. He’s a recovering Catholic, and I am a not-so-much believer. He doesn’t do drugs; I don’t do drugs. We both wanted monotony in a relationship….Monogamy! Monogamy, is what we both wanted. Yeah, monogamy, that’s it. We aren’t party boys, although I had done my share when I was younger. We’re more settled, and not in a bad way like an old house, or day old bread; we’re just more sure of what we want and no games need to be played.
But we do have differences, which make our relationship, and any relationship, interesting. Carlos loves horses. I once saw Roy Roger’s horse, Trigger, stuffed, in a museum in Apple Valley, California. Carlos knows classical music; I know what I like. We were in Asheville this weekend, strolling through the Grove Arcade, and I heard a violin playing somewhere up ahead. Pretty music, I thought. Carlos says, Ah, Bach. He should have a goatee and been stroking it and saying quietly, Aaaaaaaaaaaaah, Baaaaach. He knows his Bach from his Mozart; his Stravinsky from his Tchaikovsky. But I can pick a Dixie Chicks tune out of the air; and I can sing-along to Cher, or Diana, or Judy, or Bette.
I get pop culture. Carlos wouldn’t know pop culture if it bitch-slapped him. When the media began to call Jennifer Lopez, JLo, Carlos took it to mean Jello. He calls the woman Jello; of course, she’s famous for that so-called juicy booty so maybe Jello isn’t far off the mark. But I digress.
You mention Britney Spears to him and his eyes glaze over like boysenberry danishes. I don’t know any Britney music, but I can pick her out of a picture, bald head or bad extensions; I know her. If I say I love The Police, he thinks I mean actual police officers, not Sting and Andy and Stewart. But then you see a shot of Maria Callas or Kathleen Battle, and he will give you a lecture on their best arias and their worst behavior. So we aren’t that different in that regard. My pop culture references are from this century while his are, well, not.
And driving is another difference. The man has never seen a speed limit sign in his life. He thinks the speed limit is however fast the fastest car is going. You ask him what the speed limit is and he says, I don’t know……fifty….seventy? This, mind you, is through Smallville, as I like to call it; without the hot guy in tights.
So there we are today, on the road to Asheville, and he’s speeding like I don’t know what. The speed limit is seventy, so that means eighty in ‘Carlos’ speak. And he’s changing lanes into other cars! I’m hearing horns honking and watching my life play out like a bad Joan Crawford movie from the early sixties,. So, there I am, in the passenger seat, being a backseat driver. Slow down. SLOW. DOWN. God, I was annoying. If I was driving and had someone like me in the passenger seat, saying the rosary and checking for signs that the car has airbags, I’d floor it and aim for a bridge abutment. I realized to day that I have two choices: I can either do all of the driving, or I can duct tape my eyes shut and lie on the floor of the backseat. It’s a coin toss.
So that’s a bit more of me and Carlos; so alike; so different. So perfect together. Unless we’re driving, or trying to find a radio station.