Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time by Rob Sheffield

used to fight about:
             
    The Telephone: Would she stop to answer the phone in the middle of a fight about the phone? Yes, she would. This definitely proved one of us right, but I’m not sure which one.
             
    Money: One of us was a scrimp-and-saver, the other was a big spender. Neither of us was what is known as an “earner.”
             
    Reproduction: We were programmed very differently about this one, in terms of our ancestry and culture. She was into the idea of having babies fast; I wasn’t. Three or four times a year we would have a conversation about this, which would usually begin as a whimsical anecdote about a college friend’s baby or a pregnant relative, and suddenly turn into the last twenty minutes of
The Wild Bunch
. Why didn’t we discuss this
before
we got married? I don’t know. We just didn’t. Renée had this excellent country-girl pal at her mall job named Tiffany, who quit to have a baby and go on welfare. When she brought her baby to the mall to show everybody, Tiffany asked Renée how come she didn’t have a baby yet. Renée said something about saving up. Tiffany said, “Aw, hon, the money always comes from somewhere!” The weird part is, not only did we both love this story, we each felt it proved us right. Strange! But true!
             
    The Word “Repulse”: I
hate
this word. I believe “repel” is a perfectly good word, and “repulsion” is the noun, as well as the title of an excellent Dinosaur Jr. song. A compulsion compels you; an impulse impels you. Nobody ever says “compulse” or “impulse” as a verb. So why would you ever say “repulse”? This word haunts me in my sleep, like a silver dagger dancing before my eyes. Renée looked it up and I was wrong. But I still kind of think I’m right.
             
    The Word “Utilize”: Even worse.
             
    Figure Skating: She won this one. I’m glad she did. Figure skating saved us. No matter how bad a mood Renée was in, those twirls and axels melted her butter. Figure skaters were always on TV somewhere. Ice dancers were the best: brooding Slav castrati dudes with tree-trunk thighs, packed into a glittery fistful of L’Eggs, twirling feminine whisks named Natasha or Alexandra, enacting the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice to the orchestral strains of “Loving on Borrowed Time: Love Theme from
Cobra
.” How did married people stay together before this shit was invented? I honestly have no idea. Renée drooled over Paul Wiley (the clean-cut American), Victor Petrenko (the ruthless Russian), Kurt Browning (the burly Canadian), and good old Scott Hamilton. That guy’s enduring success as a sex symbol is the sort of thing that makes me wipe tears of joy from my eyes and proclaim, “Thumbs up, America!” For me, the ladies all dissolved into a blur of vowels and poofy skirts, except Katarina Witt. That girl had an ass on her.
The Cutting Edge
—I don’t see why this isn’t the most famous movie ever made. Moira Kelly as the skate princess! Brrrrrr—she’s cold as ice! She’s willing to sacrifice her love! D.B. Sweeney as the hockey stud! “I do two things well, babe—and skating’s the other one.” Can they win the medal and triple-lutz their way to love? (Of
course
they can! Pay attention!) For Renée, this flick was liquid Vicodin. We watched it several thousand times. I can still recite the whole thing from memory. “In case you can’ttell . . . I’m throwing myself at you!”
             
    TV in General: We both loved
The Banana Splits
and MTV. We disagreed about everything else. As far as I was concerned, TV had been crap ever since Freddie Prinze died. But we did our best to appreciate each other’s tastes—she got me into
The Andy Griffith Show
, I got her into
Sanford and Son
. My preferred method of avoiding her shows was just to go into the kitchen and do dishes, turning the water up loud whenever Renée got hooked on a show that