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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…

Just Let Go

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“What’s wrong with us?  I just don’t get it?”

I shook my head sympathetically as I shoved another not-just-delicious-but-damned-near-orgasmic bleu cheese gougere into my mouth. I was ashamed that a very small part of me felt relieved as my friend Lidia poured her online dating disappointment into her wineglass. I’d seen the kissy-face commercials. I’d heard the nauseatingly happy we-found-each-other-online fairy tales. I’d deleted the matrimonial kill-marking e-mail advertisements. While I truly commiserated with my dear friend and felt her pain, I was damn happy it wasn’t just me.

I’d manufactured many, many reasons for my failure to find “the one.”  I was too busy. I was intimidating. I was what many described as “but she has such a pretty face!” However, Lidia is everywoman – strong, successful and drop-dead-is-an-understatement gorgeous.  Yet she’d just run screaming from the stalker in prince’s clothing she’d found on eHarmony – only the latest in a succession of losers we’d both unearthed electronically.

Over the course of our subscriptions, we’d become pretty adept at identifying and throwing back into the pond the fish we didn’t want. Waiter (just waiting for your ship to come in)? Find a j-o-b. Fixer-upper? Call a repairwoman. Bootycaller? Don’t even. However, modern nutcase camouflage is far more sophisticated than our rudimentary psycho-meters. All too often our Criminal Minds wannabes escaped their straitjackets and pretended to be normal just long enough for us to let a toe in the door.

Lidia snurfled as she continued to try to figure out what we needed to do differently. “Maybe our standards are unreasonable and we need to compromise a little.” 

From somewhere in the heavens (at least that’s where I like to think she’s now cavorting with the men who made her a widow many times over) my late Aunt Lula – you met her in an earlier post, See, I Told You So – stuck her fingers in my ears.  Between us, Lidia and I had disposed of more than a half a dozen ‘wasbands’ — if you count the one she remarried multiple times. A small cough (as I nearly choked on another gougere), a raised eyebrow and an icy glare later, Lidia reconsidered. Settling – again – is probably the worst of ideas.

Perhaps the only thing ‘wrong’ with us is that we work too hard – not at our jobs, of course (as committed workaholics, “too hard” is not a part of our vocabularies), but at finding a companion. Perhaps we need to release that death grip we have on control (ouch – the mere thought of relinquishing any is painful; I need another gougere) and just let things happen. Perhaps we need to simply put it out there — tell the Universe what we want — then take a deep breath and relax. Continue doing only those things that bring smiles to our faces. The Universe always has our backs; when the time is right, it will bring us together with smiles that match ours.

My friend Marta once remarked as she raked in a stack of poker chips formerly known as mine: “We have a saying in Germany.  The dumbest farmers grow the biggest potatoes.” I know the proverb was her attempt at making me feel better by attributing to fortune the butt-whipping she’d just handed me.

But perhaps she was Cupid’s messenger as well.