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Category Archives: Marriage

Wanted: Wife?

Men, I get it.

So far this morning I’ve: done my banking, paid bills, washed the car and filled its tank, gone grocery shopping (then brought everything home, unloaded the trunk and put it all away), taken my critters to the groomer and gone to the dry cleaners. Fortunately, I didn’t have to do the laundry, clean the house or take care of the lawn. Thank goodness for housekeepers and gardeners.

I understand why you live longer when you get a wife. All you have to do is put in your 40 hours. Hell, your wife does that on a long weekend. During the week, she likely puts in as many hours taking care of your ass–and your spawn–as you do at work. And, if she has a job outside the home, oy vey… Yeah, I know–compromise, sharing household duties, blah blah bullshit–I’ve heard it all and it really does sound good, in theory. To top it all off, you get laid regularly and by the same person.

Dayum, if I were a man, I’d get me one of them there wives, too.

Alas, I was born with parts that exempt me from a career as a husband; I’d get the shitty end of the marriage stick. Uh, no thanks.

But, you know, maybe I can have the groceries delivered and hire a hunky personal assistant to handle everything else (uh, including me). I could get all the benefits of being a husband–without the worry of drama, community property and spousal support.

I think I’m on to something here…

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Coming Soon To a Bedroom Near You

I think we each have our “happiness pattern,” the things we do/say/love that make us smile. And there’s someone–actually, many someones–whose happiness pattern is compatible with ours. This is not another person who ‘completes’ us (sorry, romance writers, we’re already complete exactly as we are). This is another–also complete exactly as they are–who, in combination with us, makes for one kick-ass whole.

I know my someone is looking for me, just as I seek him. And we will find each other. But in the meantime, I’m celebrating me!

Me! Me! Me! It’s all about me!

For now…

Ahhh…The Best Love Story

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Grab your hankies, dear readers. I’m still bawling as I share with you a video created by my friend, Keith Kropf of Simi Valley, in celebration of 27 years of marriage to his wife, Maureen.

Ladies, take a look and imagine the way it could be.

Guys, take a look and see how it should be.

Thanks, Keith!

Just Click Your Heels Together Three Times And Repeat After Me

… if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard; because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with. Dorothy Gale, Wizard of Oz

Her hair is graying – it reminds you of a November morning’s clouds. Why doesn’t she color it? A little Botox would take care of those wretched crevices around her mouth and the corners of her eyes.  And – mother of all beastly grotesque horrors – that twenty pounds she’s put on over the years would disappear if she’d just take her fat ass to the gym. You’re a man; a man has needs. If she’d just made a little effort, you wouldn’t have had to meet them elsewhere.

Did you ever notice how that silver tinsel in her hair caught the sunlight and sparkled back at you? Do you remember how she laughed and laughed – and laughed – at your jokes? Even when you both knew you weren’t really that funny, the melody with which she rewarded you – accompanied, of course, by those little wrinkles – always tempted you to grunt and beat your chest. Despite her many other obligations each day, she managed to spend hours in the kitchen preparing a magic show for your tongue and, yes, she sat down and enjoyed it with you. As a result there’s now so much more of her – uh, twenty pounds — to love.

Poor thing. You didn’t see the mature beauty that was your garden. You didn’t enjoy the heady fragrance that surrounded you each day. Tending your own roses was so much work; why bother when younger buds were practically falling at your feet? How were you to know that they’d never bloom – that they wouldn’t give you that which you already had in abundance yet failed to appreciate? I’m so sad for you.

But I’m ecstatic that she kicked your ass to the curb and found someone who’s loving what you lost.

Neener. Neener. Neener.

Binders Full of Men?

“Really good men are all from my daddy’s generation and the only ones left are too old even for me. If you’re lucky enough to find one, you’ll never get any. If he even remembers he has that thing all he’s going to be doing with it is letting you change its diaper.” Such — according to she-who-knows-all (known more familiarly as my mother) — is the state of the current husband material pool.

I was horrified at the sudden realization that I’d been in the workforce for over fifty years. Now the thought of spending my days in front of my Viking — expanding the waistline of a very appreciative sweetheart instead of at my computer expanding my firm — is so tempting. However, you-know-who has taken her foot-long virtual hat pin and splattered bubble residue all over my dreams.

That is, before tonight’s presidential debate rekindled the flame on my candle of hope. After yet another of my ten-hour days, I collapsed onto the sofa, flipped on my television and there I found my savior — strong of jaw, steely of eyes, bold and powerful — oozing vinyl concern across the middle of my screen.

Oh, Mittens, you’ve pulled something out of your magic bag for everyone! Have you something left for me? Perhaps a few binders full of muscular, testicled prospects through which I can let my perfectly manicured fingers do the walking?

Social Security, here I come …

Ja, Man! – Day 6

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Slowly the golden slivers of the Caribbean sun melted into the sparkling blue sea …

“What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

And with that my favorite nephew Sean took his beloved Jessica as his wife.

Wow — this crap  romance does seem to be contagious! One by one the people I love are being infected with whatever it is Cupid fails to wipe from his contaminated arrow. No zone is a safe one; no ‘victim’ is immune.

Take my friend Mary, for example. The Thursday night line of homeless — men, women and far too many children — at our local community center stretched halfway around the block.  As she worked furiously to get them all fed, a voice behind her whispered: “looks like you could use a hand, little lady.” Only a few months later, she gave him her hand in a private ceremony on Maui.

Slightly more than a year after the death of her husband of 61 years — her soul mate and her one and only true love — my friend Laurie was befriended by a visitor to our synagogue’s Friday evening service. At 83 there was, according to her, “no way on God’s green earth” she’d ever go there again. But apparently God had other plans. She and Bob have been happily married for nearly three years now.

Thank goodness for Al Gore and his invention — the Internet. For without online dating, my colleague Wendi and her girlfriend Renee might never have met. They lived on opposite coasts, but geographical inconvenience was no match for Cupid’s tainted arrowhead. A year into their romance, Renee was offered a promotion — and a transfer from New York to, of all places, San Francisco. And they’ve lived there happily ever after.

… and now Sean and Jess.

It seems I’m surrounded by it. No matter how I duck and dodge, bob and weave, float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, someday Cupid’s arrow is going to miss whichever of my friends at whom it’s aimed and hit me.

In all honesty, however, my attempts to avoid it are half-hearted; I really do welcome its barb. I’ve taken down my shields. As a woman who enjoys the heady fragrance of love, I look forward to once again being awash in its redolence with that special man who does not complete me, but who complements me perfectly.

Now would someone do him a favor please and kindly point him in my direction?

I’m waiting …

Huh!?

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What the f… ?

Stealthily, his naked belly button peered around the pillar just ahead of my front grill; his t-shirt no longer made any pretense at covering the pasty mass that bulged beneath its hem. Good Lord, his face – sagging, grey, and unshaven, reddened eyes buried in their sockets – was the last one I wanted to see this morning. Frankly, I never wanted to see it … ever again.

Do I park and listen as he continues his tearful pleas, begging for another chance to make the rest of my life as miserable as he has the past decade and a half? Do I back out of my space, race home and bolt the doors, thus avoiding him altogether? Or do I back up, then put my car into gear and gun it, mowing his ass down and putting us both out of his misery?

Oh, such temptation. The toes of my right foot twitched excitedly as they begged me to let them into the game. However, now that I’d escaped that incarceration formerly known as our marriage, I had absolutely no desire to replace him with a mammaried cellmate. I opted to let him spit out as much as he could between my parking spot and the office door.

Please, can we talk about this?” (snurfle)

I didn’t know you really wanted me to get a job. You never said you meant it. But if that’s what you want, I’ll do it — right now. I’ll start looking today.” (snurfle … sob)

You never told me you were unhappy.” (snurfle … sob … snot-wipe).

Guys, really? Much has been made about your delusion that we never say what we mean. Yeah, you jokingly commiserate, slapping each other on the back and laughing into your Bud Lights. However, somewhat closer to the truth is that you never actually listen to what we say. We’re not fooled when you preface “grab me another beer, dear” with “uh-huh.”  We’re onto the fact that “whatever you want” loosely translates as “I’m not listening and I don’t want you to know I’m not listening, because if you know I’m not listening, I know you’ll cut me off again.”  We’re very well aware that your estrogen deficiency renders you totally incapable of multitasking to the level required to watch the game, operate the remote, play with the dog, scratch your crotch, guzzle, belch, fart — and listen to what we’re saying — all at the same time.

Thus, your failure to listen becomes – in your comic book — our failure to communicate.

Well, today you hit the lottery. In my ongoing quest to make you better men, I’m going to give you a quick guide to understanding exactly what we’re saying so you’ll never again be caught — confused and blubbering — on the dispensing end of “but I thought she was happy.”

First — a couple of preliminaries. Pick up the remote. Oh, sorry; of course, you’re already holding it. Next press that big red button — the one marked ‘power.’ Yes, I’m well aware that the television will go off. Come on – you’re a big boy; you can do this. There, that wasn’t as painful as you thought, was it? Now go hit the head … and while you’re in there look in the medicine cabinet and pull out the Q-tips. Do you know what they’re for? Good! Use them. Okay, we’re almost ready. I want you to sit down (no — drop the cell, dude) and concentrate. Imagine her face and focus on the words as they leave her lips. I’m going to translate some of the things we say more often. You’ll pick this up really quickly — it’s so simple even a man can do it. I promise.

When she says: “Not tonight, I have a headache,” what she means is not tonight, she has a headache. This is your cue to offer her a couple of aspirin and hold her. Yes, we know you think you have a miracle cure. You might want to keep that prescription to yourself for now. Once she’s fallen asleep knowing how much you care, you and your little miracle cure can roll over and heal thyself — without her.

When she says: “I need you to help more around the house,” what she means is she needs you to help more around the house. Oh come on, lifting your feet while she vacuums? You can do better than that. Yes, I know you’ve worked hard all day; but so has she. By showing her that you recognize her as your partner and that you’re willing to do your share to help your home run more smoothly, not only do you show her how much you care, you accumulate get-out-of-the-dog-house-free credits and you decrease the likelihood that she’ll be exhausted when the three of you hit the sack. Clearly a win-win-win – everyone’s happy.

When she says: “I want us to spend more time together,” what she means is she wants you to spend more time together. Be careful; this one is a little tricky. When she says ‘us’ she’s not referring to a threesome with your enthusiastic little friend. I know; he’s your best buddy and you include him in everything you do, but trust me on this. If you spend more time talking to her, being loving and affectionate and doing the things she loves, she’ll be more inclined to invite your little companion to join the two of you every now and then.

Are you beginning to see a pattern here? It really doesn’t take much. Simply listen to her. Don’t judge, criticize or try to fix anything. Just truly hear what she’s saying to you.

I guarantee that if you’ll put forth only a little bit of effort, some other poor schmuck will be sitting on your stool crying to the bartender that he didn’t have a clue.

Meanwhile, you – and your teeny tiny teammate – will be thanking me all the way to your end zone dance.

You’re very welcome.

Okay, you can stop kissing my feet now … I know how grateful you are … Please, that’s enough … Just go forth and listen, grasshopper. Make me proud.