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Gore No More

by The Next Family June 09, 2010

By: Ann Brown

Wait, what?  Tipper and Al are calling it quits? I give up.

Tipper and Al can’t make a go of it. We are all fucked.

And after forty years. I don’t get it. If you’ve made it forty years, why the hell just not finish the ride?

Robin and I will celebrate our 30th anniversary this summer. And by “celebrate”, I mean, we will make all sorts of fabulous plans, cancel them, agree to use the money for some necessary home repair instead, never actually do the repair, absorb the money back into the ether and never understand what happened to it, settle on going out for sushi, be too tired to go out that night, decide that snuggling together in bed while we eat leftovers and watch “Deadliest Catch” is really the best way to mark our anniversary, go to our separate bathrooms to shower, Robin will fall asleep downstairs on the couch and will be unable to be roused, might be dead, but I decide to find that out in the morning because discovering him dead on our anniversary would totally be a buzzkill for the rest of my life and frankly, I have enough shit to discuss in therapy and adding Robin’s death on our anniversary to the agenda will totally put the topic of my unwillingness to embrace life on the back burner for a long time and I think we were finally getting somewhere with that issue because last week, for the first time, I answered the phone even though Caller ID didn’t show although, truth be told, that turned out to be a bad idea because it was the March of Dimes lady asking me to be the neighborhood canvasser again and I hate when they ask me because I feel compelled to say yes due to my unshakable belief that any cause I refuse to support will ultimately strike me with a vengeance and I offer as Exhibit A, the time I made a smart alecky remark during a television PSA on being nice to deaf people and ever since then I have suffered from swimmer’s ear even though I do not swim, even though I have not packed myself into a bathing suit since the Carter Administration.

My point is, if Robin and I can make it to 30 years, Al and Tippy can just buck up, walk it off, rub some dirt on it and keep going to the end. I mean, Robin complained that he was hungry and could he just run next door to get a burrito during my 23rd hour of nonstop labor with our first kid. When we first met, he used to go out with his first choice girl early in the evening, and if she didn’t put out, he’d ask to be dropped off at my house (I only recently found out about this). He takes a dump and then shuts the window and the bathroom door even though I have told him a million times to OPEN the window after taking a dump. A person could die walking into that bathroom.

If I can forgive that, the Gores can get past whatever they’ve got going.

Oh, Al could probably lighten up at home with the global warming doom. I’m sure he’s slightly insufferable; he probably goes around turning off the hot water when Tipper’s in the middle of shampooing, and I can just imagine how he drones on and on about carbon footprints until Tipper pretends she is asleep. She probably has to wait until he leaves town on a book tour before she can whip out the leaf blower. Maybe she leaves all the lights on in the house the entire week he’s gone, just to spite him.

And turnabout is fair play, since Al probably kisses her goodbye, and before he’s got the second half of his butt into his Prius, he’s blasting the most obscene music lyrics he can find, laughing maniacally and beating himself off, whispering, “I’ve got your warning label right here, Tipper.” I imagine he never really got behind all that crap she spewed in the 80’s about the dangers of rock and roll and shit, and believe me, those kinds of things can fester.

But hey, every marriage has its warts.

We are all dealing with more than enough shit right now, what with oil spewing into our waters, salmonella in the Fresh Express salad mixes again, homophobia and racism everywhere we look, Brett Michaels scaring the shit outta us, and seventy-eight straight days of rain in the fucking Pacific Northwest. Well, not seventy-eight days, but a lot.

It’s too much to have to deal with Tipper and Al’s problem on top of all of this.

I don’t know what you are going to do about it, but I am going to write them an email. A stern email. An  “oh, get over yourselves” email that reminds them we are all dealing with our own disappointments and frustrations and what if we all just upped and divorced, what then?

On the other hand, Sandra Bullock is newly single. She and Al would make a cute couple. And she seems like the type who takes short showers.

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