MashUp

Twenty-four years ago, Monty and I had to go to pre-marital counseling in order for us to be married in the church we’d chosen. At the end of our first session, the pastor folded his hands in his lap and said somewhat sadly, “You two are complete opposites.” This wasn’t news to us. We’d been together for five years at that point. We were and still are opposites. Monty is an engineer–a problem solver who lives in a world of logic, analysis, numbers, and structure. I’m a writer–I live in a completely different, sometimes imaginary world of creativity, possibilities, gray areas, and intuition. These two worlds collide all the time.

When we’re at a store:
Me: “See that lady over there checking out grapefruit? She doesn’t like me.”
Monty: “Why?”
Me: “I don’t know. I can just tell. She looks at me the same way she’s looking at those grapefruits—inspecting them for faults.”
Monty: “Do you even know her?”
Me: “I don’t exactly know her. But I have eyes. And a gut feeling.”
Monty: “You can’t make up a story based on that and then decide it’s true.”
Me: “I’m a writer. That’s pretty much my job.”

Working together (we both work for our family business, and sometimes our jobs overlap):
Monty, gesturing to a pile of pens and random post-it notes on my desk: “What is this mess?”
Me: “That is not a mess. That’s my system.”
Monty: “There’s nothing here that even resembles a system. You know what makes for a great work system? Spreadsheets. Logbooks and spreadsheets.”
Me: “Okay, then hand me that logbook you’re waving around.”
Monty: “No way. You’ll start writing in it and forget what you’re doing. The only thing that goes in the logbook is numbers.”
Me: “Well, that is the worst, most boring-sounding book ever.”
Monty: “No, the worst book ever is that one you had me read to you when you were in the hospital.”
Me: “You can’t possibly be referring to that book of essays about the poems of Louis MacNeice.”
Monty: “I hate that book. I’ve never hated a book more. It was like reading a foreign language.”
Me: “It SOUNDED like you were reading a foreign language. You only read two paragraphs before you developed a stutter and mumbled so much I couldn’t understand you. Good thing I knew what the book said.”
Monty: “You’ve read that book more than once?”
Me: “That’s a clown question. I’ve read it three times, and I have two copies—the one you read and one on my Kindle. Just in case.”
Monty: “In case of what?”
Me: “In case it goes out of print. In case I’m trapped somewhere and need to read it and happen to have my Kindle with me.”
Monty: “I’d rather just be trapped. Anywhere that book isn’t around.”

Monty (five minutes later): “I have no idea what I’m looking at.” He holds up a sheet of notebook paper I gave him.
Me: “That’s obviously a sketch of how I want the layout done for this project.”
Monty: “That is NOT obvious. I see boxes with stick figures.”
Me: “Exactly! Those are the pictures for the layout.”
Monty: “What are these weird lines everywhere?”
Me: “Those aren’t weird lines. They’re arrows showing the directions for picture placement.”
Monty: “No wonder you can’t read maps.”

At an art gallery:
Me: “Look at this sculpture. Isn’t it heartbreaking?”
Monty: “It’s a metal stick in a block of wood. I could have made that.”
Me: “First of all, the block of wood is from one of the few trees that weren’t completely burned in that wildfire. Second, the metal piece represents the way that humans intruded into that area and caused the fire. And third, you could NOT have made it because you didn’t think of it.”
Monty: “Fine. But that’s not art.”
Me: “It’s evocative. It has a message. And we’re discussing it. That makes it art.”
Monty: “Look at what this ‘artist’ is charging for a block and a stick! I need to quit my job and be an artist.”
Me: “You can’t; we’d starve. And it’s not a block and a stick!”

In our spare time:
Me: “There’s a full moon tonight. We should drive out to our usual spot and just look at it for a few minutes.”
Monty: “Now? It’s midnight. And I’m not going to bed until I get this problem solved. I can’t figure out where I went wrong.”
Me: “Your problem will still be here when we get back. Come on—it’ll clear your head.”
Monty, ten minutes later, with our car parked by a cornfield, our seats reclined, and the moon roof open: “Thank you.”

Monty, walking into the room and seeing my face: “What’s wrong?”
Me: “Just discouraged. I don’t think anyone’s reading my post today.”
Monty: “Let me show you something.” He sits down, opens his computer, and clicks around for a second. “Here,” he says, showing me the screen.
Me: “I don’t know what that is.”
Monty: “Google Analytics. This shows the traffic to your site today. Just because people aren’t commenting on or liking your post doesn’t mean they’re not reading it. Okay?”
Me: “Thank you.”

We’re definitely opposites. But our differences make life interesting—we’re never bored with each other. And our differences work. Monty brings me back to earth when my head’s in the clouds. He brings order and stability to my often chaotic way of doing things. He’s practical when I’m not. I think of us as a song mashup—a mix of two different songs that don’t seem to belong together but somehow, when they’re combined, make an even better song. I love the song I get to sing with Monty. It’s the soundtrack to all the beauty in my life.

Two of our favorite songs, mashed together: