[My real flesh-and-blood wife. She has opinions on things. Many things. Many, MANY things.--AC]
Watched one of those home shows about his stuff and her stuff and a designer tried to come up with what “they” were all about. Tears and anger, paint colours and coffee tables all resolved in twenty-one minutes.
We’ve all gone through this. Some of us (‘fess up, sisters) even adapted what we liked, wore, listened to and believed in to fit the man of the moment.
Back in the mists of time when me and the husband first set up house together, we went through the usual battles over what to keep and what to toss. We established a kind of DMZ between my country geese and his drum kit. Books were one battlefield and my Maeve Binchys eventually lost shelf space to JFK conspiracy tomes.
Music was a war in its own right. Imagine: an illiterate living with a librarian. You get the jist. He talked B-sides and extended mixes and I was all show tunes and disco. Two words why my Streisand on Broadway album made the cut: Regular. Sex. But even that wasn’t enough to save my Saturday Night Fever album from the first garage sale. [It was scratched! Grotty! There was mould growing in the grooves!-AC.]
Is it the same in the digital age? Without the need for shelves putting a partner’s dubious taste on display for all to see, do you even have to cull and sort when you merge? Or are there curators (aka bossy know-it-all-husbands) who still judge and rank and delete?
I need to set up my own iTunes account so I can buy some stuff on the sly. Surriptiously slipping in a song by Beyonce or Adele past my musical warden, like a file in a cake or contraband porn. Maybe, one day, I can even find a way to quench my Saturday Night Fever.