ME: How was the wedding this weekend?
DYLAN: Predictable. The pregnant bride wore white with no sense of irony, the minister read the "Love is patient, love is kind..." spiel from second Corinthians, and the bridesmaids got hammered and dry-humped each other to "Love Shack" at the reception.
ME: Ah, romance. Sorry I missed it.
DYLAN: No you're not. You hate weddings.
ME: "Hate" is such a strong word. I guess I just don't see the point of getting married other than improving your insurance coverage and ensuring the two of you never have sex again.
DYLAN: You're a cynical bastard.
ME: I prefer 'pragmatic bitch'. Was the food good, at least?
DYLAN: Typical meat-n-taters buffet. We don't really do "creative" this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
ME: So, no "Star Wars" themed same-sex commitment ceremonies down there in the not-so-deep South?
DYLAN: This is North Carolina, Darlin'. We have pretty strict rules about marriage: down here you can't get married unless you're thirteen, heterosexual, or second cousins. I'm pretty sure it's in the Book of Leviticus.
ME: That's disturbing.
DYLAN: No, what was disturbing was watching the bride and groom have their first dance to the Police's "Every Breath You Take".
ME: Wait. Wha -- what? That. . .that's a song about stalking! Like, 'it puts the lotion in the basket', 'I want to wear your ass as a hat', fifteen to life stalking!
DYLAN (laughing): I know! Apparently it's "their song". That'll make a great story to tell their children: "I'll never forget the night I met Mommy, the sun was setting through the leaves of the tree outside her bedroom window, and she glowed like an angel in the light of my night-vision goggles".
ME: Aaaaannnnd, that took care of the 'heebies', now all that's left are the 'jeebies'.
DYLAN: Ahh, then my work here is done.
ME: What about us?
DYLAN: What about us?
ME: Well, what about our song? Do we have a song?
DYLAN: Where are you going with this, Taylor Swift?
ME: I'm just saying that every couple should have a song. Did you and your ex wife have a song?
DYLAN: I never really thought about it.
ME: Well, what did you dance to at your wedding?
DYLAN: We got married at the courthouse when she was four months pregnant; there wasn't a lot of time for dancing between the morning sickness and overwhelming sense of 'what the fuck'. Why? What did you dance to at your wedding?
ME: "Fields of Gold" by Sting.
DYLAN: ((laughing hysterically))
DYLAN: You do realize that's a song about a dead guy who cheated on his wife, right?
ME: It is?
DYLAN: What did you think he meant by "I've never made promises lightly, and there have been some that I've broken" and "remember me when the west wind moves" ?
ME: I never really thought about it. . .huh. . .I guess that explains why my ex loved that song so much. Well, that and his bizarre homoerotic obsession with Sting.
DYLAN: You know, I like the guy less and less with each passing story.
ME: He has that effect on people.
DYLAN: So, what do you think our song should be?
ME: It doesn't work that way! You can't just pick a song! It has to have historical significance, like the song that was playing when you first met, or the first time you kissed, or the first time you danced, or the first time you. . .
DYLAN (interrupting): OK, slow down 'Girl On Fire', I think I've got it. So, first time we met was in the parking lot of your office. . .wait! There was music! Who's that homeless guy who lives in your alley?
ME: Stony Joe?
DYLAN: Yeah! He was singing, remember?
ME: Stony Joe is always singing so that's hardly historically significant. Besides, he only sings showtunes and TV themes and I really don't care to immortalize the moment we met with an off-key rendition of "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air".
DYLAN: Well, the first time we kissed is out.
DYLAN: Because we were in your car at the time and based on your taste in music you were probably playing something like "Get Low 4 Me" or "Smack My Bitch Up".
ME: Pfft! You have no respect for quality music, yo.
DYLAN: You're right. How could I possibly not see the poetry in such lyrics as "Will these bitches wanna try 'n be my bestie? I turn left 'n leave em hangin' like a testie" ?
ME: Bite me. OK, so how about the first time we danced?
DYLAN: Wasn't that in the middle of Target?
ME: Oh. Yeah. . .OK, so probably not terribly romantic but you did learn how to Dougie that day.
DYLAN: Which I'm sure will prove to be a highly lucrative job skill someday.
ME: Hmmm. . .so, what about the first time we. . .
DYLAN: No music.
ME: Pfft! Child, please. You know you heard the angels singing.
DYLAN: What's that? I couldn't hear you. There seems to be some crazy stuck in my ear.
ME (pause): So we really don't have one, do we. We don't have a song.
DYLAN: Why is this such a big deal to you?
ME: Because you're. . .you. And I've never felt this way about anyone before, and that just seems. . .major. Like it should be some craptastically overrated James Cameron movie with a John Williams score or some shit like that.
DYLAN: You hate James Cameron.
ME: I think the point just sailed past you thirty seconds ago.
DYLAN: No, I got the point. But here's my point: we don't need someone else's song. We have our own soundtrack.
ME: Such as?
DYLAN: Well. . .umm. . .OK! The day we met. There was a hazmat spill in the building next door and my station showed up, right?
DYLAN: So, that would be "Burnin' Down The House...So You Could Stalk Firefighters".
ME: Ha! You totally stalked me! So really it should be "Where 'Dem Girls At?. . .'Cuz I Want to Leave Creepy Notes on Their Cars".
DYLAN: First kiss? "Who's Gonna Drive You Home, Tonight...So I Don't Have To Listen To Any More Shitty Nicki Minaj Songs".
ME: More like: "Paradise By the Dashboard Light...Except For the Part Where My Hair Got Caught in Your Watch and You Jammed Your Knee into the Emergency Brake".
DYLAN: First dance? "Dancin' With Myself...Until Target Security Throws Us Out".
ME: Or: "Dancin' In The Streets...AFTER Target Security Throws Us Out".
DYLAN: First time? "Let's Talk About Sex, Baby...No, Really. Let's Talk About It, Because I'm Going to Need a Complete Medical History and a Blood Sample".
ME: What can I say, I'm a safety girl.
DYLAN: As well you should be.
ME: I was thinking of something a little more romantic, but realistic, considering our age. Like, "Feels Like The First Time...Except With Less Angst About Buying Condoms and Worrying That My Ass Looks Fat".
DYLAN: Or, "You Shook Me All Night Long...Well, At Least Until 9:30, Because We Both Had to Work in the Morning".
ME: Or, "Hot Blooded...But That Could Just Be the Perimenopause Talking".
DYLAN: Oh, yeah. THAT'S sexy. Look. . .I love you. You know that. I don't need some whiny John Mayer song to say it for me. Besides, we just aren't a cheesy, Hallmark, "our song" kind of couple
ME: That's not true! In fact, just the other day I grabbed a pen and an old napkin and I wrote down our song.
ME: You know. . .It's. . .it's a slamming screen door. Sneaking out late, tapping on your window. . .
DYLAN: I swear to God, if you get that freaking song stuck in my head. . .
ME: When we're on the phone and you talk real slow. . .
DYLAN: Shut uuuuuuuuup!!!
ME: 'Cuz it's late and your momma don't know.
DYLAN: . . .
ME (singing): And when I got home, before I said 'amen', askin' God if He would play it agaaaaaain!
DYLAN: ((sigh)). . .Goddamnit. . .
ME: Heart hands!
My apologies for what I've just done here.