To the Moon . . .

For the record - Ralph never actually hit Alice on The Honeymooners.
I have something horribly tragic to tell you . . . Special Lady Friend (SLF) has (and I'm quoting) "NO" interest in going to the moon. None.

She doesn't want to go - she won't go. No way. No how. Not going. Nuh-uh. No way. Fugghedaboud.

And this, for some strange reason that makes NO sense, hurts my fragile, dark, barely-beating heart.

NOT because I think any of us have a chance to go to the moon any time soon (let's be honest - no one has ever, ever been TO the moon). NOT because even if we were going to the moon I think SLF or I would be on the list of good candidates to make the trip (every ounce counts in space travel). NOT because I am chomping at the bit to go to the moon (I don't like flying to Dallas . . . all 40 minutes of airtime that are involved).

No. I'm not upset because she is, as always, being honest and who she is but because to decline the opportunity to go to the moon so emphatically and without any consideration, for me, seemed very closed-off and unimaginative.

I want to believe that a woman I'm building my life with will always be open to discussion on things like a trip to the moon, how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, if she would F.M. or K. Oprah, Rosie O'Donnell, or Rachel Ray, and if there is any chance that the egg really came before the chicken. I wanna believe that there is an openness and imagination in that scientifically-governed head of hers.

I should point out she disclosed this weekend that she would "happily" abandon her education, career, and everything else for a billion dollars and to be the kept woman of a Koch magnate/monster. Maybe her spirit is in better shape than I thought. We'll live to love another day.

In the meantime, if anyone wants a morbidly obese man to go to the moon . . . sign. me. up.