Category Archives: Marriage

I lost 8 lbs about two months ago. I was elated. I celebrated that feat with a bar of Green & Blacks Almond chocolate. The celebration continued for 8 weeks, one week for every pound lost. I am now 3 lbs heavier than I was before I lost the weight. That’s a net of I-don’t-really-give-a-crap-because-at-least-I-gained-the-weight-eating-something-I-love pounds back on my hips.

My ardor for chocolate will never fade. I have discovered there is a direct relation between my age and my passionate feelings for chocolate: as my age increases, so does that love.

Some might categorize my feelings about chocolate as “inappropriate”. I couldn’t disagree more. I don’t think there is anything more natural and healthy than a relationship between a woman and an inanimate object. The key is knowing when to curb this relationship before it takes on the aura of crazy. I helped a friend move houses a few weeks ago, and in the middle of conversation she pulled open a drawer and showed me her collection of dildos…a venerable treasure trove of personal pleasure. I smiled nervously as she fingered one of her favorites: a glass obelisk with a dramatic upward bend.

“Isn’t it lovely?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s…something,” I replied with hesitation.

Now put chocolate in this same scenario. It would have been perfectly appropriate for me to offer her a piece of my chocolate; but it would have been absolutely abhorrent for her to offer me a piece of one of her dildos. (I don’t even know if it’s physically possible to offer someone a piece of dildo; but you get the point.)

My husband indulges my love/love relationship with chocolate. Outside of his affection, it’s the one thing that truly gives me pleasure. And unlike Samantha Brick, I do succumb to it, and often. She credits her refusal to submit to the power of chocolate for making her the most “beautiful woman in the world”. Whatever. She has no clue what she’s missing out on.

I love everything about chocolate.

The look of it.

The smell of it.

The way it melts against my tongue when I nibble on it. Sometimes I take my time a savor every bite.

Sometimes I shove it into my mouth with enormous bites…hard and quick bites because just need it IN me.

Lawd have His good mercy, I do love me some chocolate.

*You should all know that my husband did not approve of this final picture but he took it anyway. He is my biggest enabler, and I love him for it.

*Oh dear God. I’m looking at this picture again now and it’s just WRONG. Oh well. I’ve already hit ‘publish’.

A reader sent me an email this week, asking me about my views on pornography as it relates to relationships that have potential to end in marriage.

“I know that you are not a counselor or any such thing. I am just asking in case you may have some insight into issues of this nature,” she wrote.

She summed my credentials succinctly. I am no counselor, and certainly have not been trained in the effects or porn or how to combat addictions. I do have a little insight, however, and at her request am sharing them today. I won’t take you into M.O.M mode for this one. If we took an imaginary trip into the porn world it would just end badly for all of us.

So your man is sitting in the closet with his pants down watching other people get off, eh? It’s not exactly the welcome home any woman looks forward to. Unless you’re a freak like that, in which case coming home to a room smelling like corn chips and hours’ old saliva is a greeting you look forward to. However if you are of the opposing sentiment, this can prove a real problem.

I think when it comes to porn, like anything, you have to set some standards and boundaries. You have to define for yourself and subsequently let it be known what you will and will not tolerate. For the irreligious couple who finds themselves contemplating marriage, God neither serves as a focus or a concern in their marriage or relationship. The idea that consuming or watching porn is “sinful” is therefore not a concern initially and may be more easily tolerated, at first at least. The problem with porn is that it is driven by lust, and lust is never satisfied. Religious or not, one partner is going to end up getting hurt when the other’s sexual lust can no longer be satisfied at home.

I did some trolling on my reader’s twitter page and blog and discovered that she is a self-professed lover of Christ. She is very careful about concealing her identity, so all that I was able to glean or assume is that she is in her mid-20s, university educated, ambitious and is very much in love with her partner. She seems like a good girl. I don’t know much about her man, but if she is the “Jesus Freak” she proclaims to be, I can deduce that he is involved in church in some way. He may not be active in the church, but at the very least he attends. It is estimated that 50% of all church going men watch porn religiously, with every pun intended. This is a problem because a) their focus is shifted from the pursuit of God to the pursuit or lust and b) it creates a warped reality of what love is supposed to look like. Men who consistently view porn, eventually to the point of developing an addiction, develop unrealistic standards for themselves and their mates. Most porn objectifies women while at the same erects idol-like images of men that these same women will do anything to please or to make feel desirable. That may work in fiction, but it has no place in reality. The reality is after a hard day at work and paying bills, neither of you is going to have the energy to pursue the Porn Matrix. Given the little bit of porn that I’ve watched, the burden of conjuring and creating that reality is placed on the woman, and that’s not another job that a working woman needs on her plate. This is why men who become addicted to porn oftentimes seek their thrills outside of the confines of their homes into the waiting arms of the neighborhood or corner-side hooker. It is her (paid) job to satisfy that warped fantasy.

My reader said that she has spoken to the man she is a relationship with about his watching porn and has unequivocally stated that it kills her to know he does. Perhaps it’s my age and/or my experience, but that fact alone should answer any questions about what his watching porn is going to do to their relationship. If someone really loves you, they don’t continue to do the thing(s) that hurt you. That’s not love. That’s sadism.
It is generally well known that ‘harmless’ viewing of porn is an eventual gateway to more risky behavior. Sex addiction is one of the hardest to cure, because our society is so driven by it. It is estimated that the average human being in the West is presented with 80 -100 sexual images – either implied or overt – in a day. As human beings become more desensitized to sex and nudity, it is only natural that the next progression would be to watching porn, then to more extreme porn, and more extreme and absurd until one day you and your husband are taking turns humping the family’s horse, asking yourself how on earth you got there?

So my dear reader, I say this to you: Decide what your boundaries are. If you have none, your mate will walk all over you. Define your limitations for every area of your life and don’t waver from them. The funny (and tragic) thing about us women is that we are so good at encouraging men that we eventually become the enablers for the same behavior we so deplore. We rationalize it by saying “Oh…he’s a really good guy except for when he does xyz.”

No!

If you do not want him beating you, I am sure you have made that known. Would it hurt you if he hit you? Would you leave him if he did? If you do not want him chasing after other women, make it known. Would it hurt you if he did? Would you leave him if you discovered he was? If his watching his porn is so offensive to you, why stay? What are you afraid of? That one or three years invested will turn up to be a waste? Imagine 30 years enduring something so offensive and repugnant to you. What is the triumph in that?

From where I sit, you have two choices: Either develop a tolerance for porn and start watching it with him, or force him to abandon it altogether by getting the help he needs so that the pair of you can have a healthy, equally yoked future together.

Have you ever been addiction to porn or know someone else who has struggled with it? Am I off the mark? Can you have a healthy relationship with/be a porn addict? Chime in for my reader!

I swear, you meet the strangest people at Wal-Mart

In the book Is Marriage for White People?: How the African American Marriage Decline Affects Everyone, Ralph Richard Banks explores the causes and effects of the decline of marriage within the African American community, particularly among Black women. The reasons for this decline are not foreign to most of us.

• Black women are less likely to date or marry outside the race than Black men, lowering the pool of men from which to draw.
• Black women continue to outpace their male counterparts in obtaining a higher education, increasing the class gap between them.
• As a culture, Black people tend to value marriage less than other cultures.

What Mr. Banks purports is that for the same root causes affecting Black women, marriage in America is on the decline across all racial groups, and that the experience of the Black woman may in time become the experience of the majority of women in the population.

As the child of divorced parents, I have gone into adulthood viewing marriage suspiciously. Although I sincerely do not want it to, I would not be surprised if my marriage failed. After all, that’s what marriages in my community do: they fail at some point. I can only think of three couples in my family who have held fast to their “‘til death do us part” vow, and they are well into their 60s and 70s. With the examples of marriage I’ve seen around me, from close friends to work acquaintances, it seems far more natural to throw in the towel when things get uncomfortable and declare the union over. Why stay put in a situation that makes both of you miserable – that whole making a promise before God and man thing notwithstanding, of course. At the very least, we can give these couples some credit for trying.

I was standing in the checkout line at Wal-Mart yesterday when I found myself sandwiched between a number of strange individuals. The couple in front of me was joking with the cashier, threatening violence for some infraction that had recently overcome. The trendy brown-skinned woman with locks and a Chinese tattoo on her left shoulder proclaimed was about to go H.A.M. on the side of the road.

“You’ll be going H.A.M. all by yourself,” her mate snickered.

The cashier chuckled and was about to wrap up the transaction when the man asked for $100 in cash back. I sighed when the cashier announced that she didn’t have any 20 dollar bills to give him, and he would not take a hundred dollar note. As she counted $100 in tens, fives and twenties, a jarring techno based ringtone distracted me from the debacle that was unfolding in front of me.

“Huh-lo? I’m in the checkout line! Stop trippin’ nuh!”

The owner of the voice was a stout Black man with milk chocolate colored skin. He was wearing a black Eddie Long-esque t-shirt and khaki shorts. He looked at the phone in disgust and began to yell at the couple ahead me.

“Say mehn! She say she wanna get married! I don’t wanna get married folk!” he sniggered.

“Whaat?” said the other man in courteous surprise.
This only encouraged the brash loud talker to talk even louder.

“I already done tol’ her I ain’t getting married!”
He proceeded to yell something unintelligible to the couple ahead of me who were still waiting to get their cash.

“We ain’t married,” said the dreadlocked woman. “We act like it though, but we ain’t married.”

The man ignored her and spoke directly to her mate.

“’Ey mehn! Don’t do it!” he chuckled wickedly.

At this point, the couple walked off, waving goodbye to the very obvious bachelor and still bickering about going H.A.M. on something or someone. I was left with the congenial cashier and the boisterous customer. I set my items on the conveyor belt eager to get out of there; however, the idiot behind me would not give me that courtesy. He continued to gab on about his objections to marriage.

“I ain’t never getting’ married,” he proclaimed assuredly. “A dude like me, I’m a commodity.”

He began to list all the reasons why he was such a catch, pointing to his finger on each item.

“I’m single. I got a job. I got a house. I’m not in jail. I’m non-gay…”

At the mention of the word “gay” I turned around.

“Did you say you were gay?” I queried. Why would anyone want to marry you if you were gay?

“No,” he replied. “I said I’m NON-gay.”

“Oh. Can you split my payments?” I asked the cashier.

“Yes,” she said sweetly. She was trying her best to focus on giving me good service, but the man was proving a formidable hindrance.

“You wanna get married?” he asked her, interrupting my transaction.

She shook her head and squeezed her face, as though she had smelled something foul. I was dismayed at what I was seeing! Once you get past the rough patch at years two and three, marriage is pretty fun!

“Well mine married me, and we are quite happy!” I said in defense of the institution.

“Like I said, I’m a commodity,” he repeated. He went down his (short) list again about what made him such a hot item on the market: his job and his being “non-gay”…which we call “straight” in the rest of normal society. And if you see the world in terms of “gay and non-gay”, how not gay are you really? I was certain our hero had homosexual tendencies he was surpresssing. He interrupted my thoughts by announcing that if a woman wanted to marry HIM, SHE would have to get down on one knee and propose to HIM with a diamond ring.

It took me a while, but in time I recognized what was going on. This speech had been rehearsed by our boy in the barber shop, and had clearly been well received previously by ‘men’ who had failed in helping him to aspire to anything greater. Thinking himself witty (and right) on the topic, this half-wit thought it wise to make his declarations in public. Barbershop talk has no place in polite, intelligent society. But then, it was Wal-Mart.
Eventually I made it out of the line, informing the cashier and the man that marriage is not for everyone.

“You certainly don’t want to get stuck with a problem,” I said nodding in his direction. “It’s more trouble than it’s worth in the end if you don’t marry the right one.”

The cashier agreed with me, nodding her pretty dark face. The man looked away from her and turned his attention to me.

“’Ey! Well all I got to say to you is: Ippy skippy!” he cackled lifting his jeweled hands in mock surrender.

WTF does that mean? Is that some sort of brainless 45 year old bachelor talk??

I kept walking, as though he had never spoken.
When I got home and replayed the entire event over in my head, I wish I had done things a little differently. Lacking the foresight to join another line aside, I wish I had given the man a priceless piece of advice.

“Dump your girl tonight,” I should have said. “If you’re just planning on stringing her along, the least you could is just dump her. She’s not going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly not want to be married.”
Of course, he would respond by saying he was providing the female population a service and that it would be dishonorable to leave her without companionship.

Yeah.

The sad thing is, this man is not alone in thinking his few credentials make him a catch. I mean come on! Suddenly having a job and being straight are the epitome of eligibility? Even Donald Trump with all his millions has never required a woman to propose to him and give him a ring…then YOU? Haba!

I would have had a few choice words for the couple in front of me as well. Why do people feel so comfortable pretending to be married, as though it carries no consequences? There is a reason that the term “lawfully wedded” was coined and conceptualized. There is a vetting process that one must (or ought to) go through before they get married.

How would you feel if your doctor had never completed his course in medicine before performing surgery? Would the excuse “Well, I felt accomplished and educated enough in my heart and spirit” suffice for you? How about if your local firehouse was staffed with men who had never been through training, but confidently donned their uniforms, and rode out to face the flames of an imposing building set ablaze. Tell me, what do you believe their expected end would be? Tragedy of course! Why then do we accept when grown-ups play house with the explanation that they feel “married spiritually”? What nonsense. At best it’s posing, and at worst it’s fraud.

The crux of the matter is certain people- like our ‘hero’ – have no business getting married. The humor is in their misguided understanding in the reasons why not. Marriage is not for the faint of heart, a fact that people like Mr. Black t-shirt exemplifies with stunning adeptness.

My seven year wedding anniversary is coming up and my husband has been asking me what I’d like as a gift to commemorate the occasion. The seventh year of marriage is supposed to represent several major milestones, namely the age for perfection and a benchmark by which to judge the success or failure of a couple’s marriage. It is conventional belief that if a married can make it past seven years, their marriage can withstand the most tectonic of events. Given the state of marriage these days – and how abruptly they appear to end – I’m not convinced that this belief holds much truth.

I kicked around a few ideas, none of them particularly exciting.
“I guess I’d like something useful, like maybe a dishwasher or something,” I mused. “Or maybe a bigger rice cooker. You could upgrade the one you got me three years ago.”

My husband didn’t even bother to look at me after I made my lame suggestions. Finally, after much reflection, I came up with the perfect token with which he could express his love.

“Write me a love song,” I ordered.

“What?”

“A love song,” I repeated. “But not just any love song…it specifically has to be one from the 90’s.”

“Okay…”

Pleased with my edict, I proceeded to give him further instructions.

“You have to dress up in tapered pants, find some patent leather shoes with plastic soles, let your hair grow into a short afro and cut two lines in the side, and find a collarless black jacket with shoulder pads that only slightly matches your tapered pants.”

My husband giggled (he actually giggled) when he had a firm image of how ridiculous he’d look in this get up in his mind. He promised that he would see what he could do.

Many people in the M.O.M Squad came of age in the 1990’s, when some of the greatest love songs ever were written. Babyface convinced many a filly (myself included) that by virtue of their existence, they could pervade a man’s thoughts on two occasions only: Day and night! *swoon*. According to Ralph Tresvant, I didn’t need a man who would give me money. All that was required to ensure a woman’s contentment and satisfaction was a man with sensitivity. (Go ahead, sing it with me – A man like me.)

For years I believed him, and wasted my better years giving boyfriends passes for forgetting anniversaries or not coming by or calling when they promised they would. All was forgiven the moment they affected even the most miniscule display of “sensitivity”. Usually this came in the form of an apology letter, wrapped in professions of love and fidelity. I was never quite certain how to feel when those relationships were ended by confirmed allegations of cheating.

Then Mary J Blige burst on the scene, fueling this absurd quest for real love with a single entitled by the same phrase. So, clad in a baseball jersey and Tek boots, a mob Black teens and twenty-somethings hip-hopped our way from dance floors to bedrooms in search of “real love”. Many of us were left jaded and disappointed. What was to be done? En Vogue came along and championed our cause, proclaiming that charlatans were Never Gonna Get It (My Lovin’), and with this new found piousness all previous wrongs would be set to right.
In the interim, Joe, Johnny Gill and Silk were desperately trying to convince us that this new quest for virtue was all a terrible idea. They wanted to know what turned us on, and cry “my my my” while they freaked us. Again, many a lass fell victim to the beguiling words of these lyricists and into the waiting trap of the neighborhood philanderer.

As ethereal, unrealistic and dreamy as this era was, I much prefer it to what we view “love” as in our society today. When the culmination of a relationship is summed up in gruff commands to Drop your pants (!) Drop your booty(!) GIVE it to me(!!), Booty, BOOTY, BOOTY!!! I think you might be inclined to agree that we are in a pretty sad state.

So with that in mind, I have charged my hubby to transport me to my favorite era and return me to a time when I had complete trust in love. I wish I could point him to a modern R&B artists who might offer him some lyrical creativity, but when the Babyfaces of our day – by whom I mean Ne-Yo and Bruno Mars – dolefully wail for us to put our hands on grenades and jump in front of trains as proof of our affections, I become hesitant.

Perhaps he can draw inspiration from I Got Nothin’ by Darius Rucker, which is one of the best love songs ever written and sung in my humble estimation. Is there room in the R&B spectrum for this level of brilliance? One would hope so.

In the meantime, this Black man had to go country to write a swooner in the new millennium and I guess I’ll have to trade in my Teks and Timbs for cowgirl boots.

Do you remember the 90′s? What were the songs that did “it’ for you? Do they ever cross your mind? (See how I did that? )

I was on my way into my secret blogging spot (Panera) when I had a random thought about money – more specifically what would I do if I suddenly found myself without any? My husband is the major breadwinner for our home, and considering that last year I brought in a net $2,000 from my earnings from my part time job, it’s fair to say he is the ONLY breadwinner for our home. $1800 of that $2,000 I earned was spent on shoes and Chic-fil-a.

As I drove to my destination, ducking Holcomb Bridge’s numerous potholes and a goose carcass, I found myself wondering what life would be like if my husband lost his job and we became destitute. I took comfort in the knowledge that we would never truly be destitute. We are blessed with enough good friends and family that they would never allow that to happen to our children. At the very least, they would offer us their floor to sleep on if that was all they could spare.

But then I wondered: Would my husband accept that help? Men are terribly proud when it comes to accepting help, and more so when there is the perception that they have failed their family in their role as a provider. Of course, this is an extreme example. Anyone would feel a sense of failure if they suddenly found themselves entangled in the tentacles of poverty. How about in a familiar scenario involving one spouse makes more than the other? What if the higher earning spouse is the woman?

My husband and I actually lived this scenario for about a year. He wanted to try his hand at entrepreneurship and I had a steady job in human resources. With my blessing, he quit his regular 9 -5 and went into real estate. We’re both very frugal as a rule (except where my purchase of shoes is in question course), so our standard of living did not suffer much when there was no longer a second paycheck coming in every two weeks. When he did get a check, it was in exorbitant lump sums, and those were always happy days for us, of course. Still, I was the only one earning a steady and reliable check. Eventually the housing market came crashing down around us all, the checks stopped, and the liabilities came rolling in. Fortunately, he was recruited by a web company within weeks of getting out of real estate.

I think the only reason this worked for us is because we have the same attitudes towards money. I have never judged an individual –a man in particular – by how much money he makes. As far as I’m concerned, having a lot of money is not an indicator of how generous you are, and I value generosity more than I do wealth. My husband is a very hardworking and generous man, which is why I didn’t mind shouldering a little extra weight of our financial burden for that brief amount of time.

Sometimes, I wonder if my husband is in the minority, though. I know several men who tie their self-worth directly to a dollar figure, and if that dollar figure does no line up with their expectations, they fall to pieces. Their coming unglued is sometimes exacerbated when their partner or spouse makes more than they do, even if that amount is as miniscule as a dollar more on the hour.

I asked a gentleman at Panera what his attitude was on the whole matter. Wearing a black shirt and tie, and Kenneth Cole slip-ons, he said that as far as he was concerned, there is nothing wrong with a woman having greater earning potential than a man. In fact, it was to be expected, given how much education women have these days. He said as a man, his value lays in how hard he works for his family.

“Do you think your view is a result of the age bracket you’re in?” I asked.

He looked around, as though pulling out a memory. Finally, he shook his head.

“No. I have an uncle who has been married 30 years and his wife has always earned more money than he has. At the same time, there are some cats in their 20s who absolutely won’t stand for their woman to earn more money than they do. It really depends on how you see yourself.”

I thanked him for his time.

So here’s an open question to both sexes: Do men’s and women’s attitudes towards money and earning power vary based on their sex, or as individuals? From what I’ve seen in popular culture, the answer lies in the former. Pop culture tells us that a man is defined by what he does and how much he makes. Is this a fair and accurate way to sum up the value of a person?

I’ve got my coffee. Over to you.

How old are you? Somewhere between the ages of 28 and 42? Have you ever pondered your future and wondered: “Hmmm, what would be an appropriate age to stop having sex?” Yeah – I hadn’t either, until I went to pick up my kids from the bus stop this Friday, where I was confronted with a scene that forced to contemplate the issue. We have to go into M.O.M mode, in order for you to grasp in detail, what I am about to describe. Put on your imagination caps and let’s get into it:

****

Amelia Snowbottom took a final look at herself in the hallway mirror, assessing her image before leaving her home. Laugh lines fringed her pale green eyes and the dark circles beneath them seemed more pronounced, despite her vain efforts to cover them with concealer.  She had brushed and brushed again her wiry, dull brown hair, causing the nape-of-the-neck length follicles to become puffy and misshapen. The humidity ushered in by Spring’s sudden arrival did not help her cause much either. She did not want to appear eager, and she chose her outfit carefully.  She untucked her over-sized grey t-shirt from the elastic band of her tapered jeans for the third time. A pair of sensible shoes –dark blue Keds – completed the ensemble. She was ready. She stuck the keys into her ignition and drove away.

Arthur Bluntstick had just completed his workout at the LA Fitness on Holcomb Bridge road. At 65, he was the picture of health. Only his pale skin, flabby knees and greying hair betrayed his age. He walked with a slight limp, which only became more pronounced when he had an erection…and he hoped to have one this afternoon. He waved good-bye to the pretty young blonde manning the check-in desk and climbed into his red Tahoe. He could have walked to his destination, but he didn’t know how long it would take her to get there.

I’ll be in the parking lot in five minutes, he sent in a text.

He didn’t get a response, but he knew she’d be there. Amelia didn’t text and drive.

Arthur parked on the north side of the abandoned Home Depot parking lot, beneath the newly blooming red maple trees. The foliage was slowly coming back, providing just enough shade to protect the cab of his car from the noonday heat. Soon, Amelia’s red Lincoln sedan pulled up next to him. She looked nervous, and he smiled reassuringly. He got out of his car and pulled her gently to her feet, kissing her in greeting. Soon he pushed her body against the side of his vehicle, using his pelvis to steer her in the direction of his desire.

This is when I encountered the pair of them.

“Oh my God!!” I gasped to no one. “What are these people doing???”

Unaware (or uncaring) that they had an audience, Arthur lifted his palms and brushed them roughly over the surface of Amelia’s sagging breasts. She threw her head back and laughed girlishly. Soon she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his slight, aging body pecking at his neck and face playfully.

“Oh ewww!!! Make it stop!” I cried from the confines of my car. I wanted to look away, but I just couldn’t. It was like witnessing carnage, only it was my world view that was being destroyed and not a physical body. I continued to stare at the two who continued to make a spectacle of themselves, even as more and more cars pulled into the lot. Sweet Heavenly Father; were they going to keep at this when my kids got off the bus? I hoped not.

Soon Arthur and Amelia could no longer contain their passion. He whispered something in her ear, and she lumbered towards the driver side of her vehicle. He opened the door for her and she got in. He limped to the passenger side and shut his door as well.

“Whew! They’re leaving,” I said in relief.

Still staring at the elderly pair through the back windshield of her car and waiting for their departure, I came to a sudden and very grim realization. I could see Arthur’s head…but not Amelia’s…because she was giving him some.

“Oh GAWD!!! Oh ewwww!!!”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to look away. I tweeted my dissonance concerning what I had just witnessed. Fortunately, the bus came around the corner just a few minutes later. My kids hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. We drove home, with me only half listening to their innocent narration of their day’s events. After all, I had just had my innocence ripped from me by this elderly pair who pleasured themselves in full view of the public!

I’m uncertain how to end this post today. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about the whole thing. It’s kind of like that feeling when you walk into your father’s closet and find a pack of condoms sitting next to his deodorant. I guess people stop having sex when they’re no longer able…and when they’re no longer able they take out their dentures, bend over and -

Yeah. The end.

Apparently there’s a trend in marriage that is gaining momentum across the country. It’s actually not a new trend, just a re-emerging one. That trend is living married but separate lives.

When I first heard about this it was seven years ago, and I was about 3 months into my marriage. One of my numerous “cousins” was considering marrying his girlfriend of three years, but had one caveat: they would have to live in different houses.

“Ah. What do you mean different houses? Like you have two houses and you live in one for summer and the other in winter?”

“No,” he laughed, as though I were a child, “like TWO houses. She goes to her house at night or I leave and go to mine.”

“Oh ho! That’s not a marriage!” I said objectionably.  

“Why not?”

“Well…because…I mean – that’s just not what married people do! They live together. Married people live together.”

  Yes, weak, I know. But I truly had no ammo to defend my point of view. Why DO married people live together, I had to wonder? Doesn’t being married mean patting yourself on the back when you’ve finally succeeded in getting  him to put down the toilet seat after he pees, or finally coming to grips with the ever presence of her worn braziers over EVERY door handle in your bedroom? Aren’t these markers of a successful marriage – learning to cohabit with a complete stranger, even if that period of learning is marred with utter misery? Wouldn’t my cousin be missing out on the whole POINT of marriage if this were the case?

Those questions are for each couple to answer individually – what makes their marriage successful and why they do the things they do in their relationship in order to get through. Some people like slathering their mates in chocolate sauce and others like to burn them with candle wax. Neither of these two expressions of “love” are for me (I don’t like being burned, and chocolate stains are very difficult to get out of sheets), but it’s not for me to judge another couple’s formulation of amour.

People live together and apart for numerous reasons. One may have to take a job in another location. One might be sick and need their mate to care for them. Perhaps the only thing in common that the two may share is that they love each other, and that alone may be enough to keep them living together…or apart.

The idea of living married and apart is not a new one by any means. From the day that the idea of monogamous cohabitation was formulated and became a societal norm, there are men and women around the globe who have bucked that norm. Consider history: Missionaries often left their wives to spread the gospel to the “heathen” masses in the New World and beyond; English sailors left their wives and children to sail the high seas for months on end; heck, even Harriet Tubman left her husband to find freedom in the North! Of course, he got remarried soon after she left. That had to be a shocker…returning to find your husband shacked up with someone else when you’d risked life and limb to rescue and take him north in order to build a proper life together. That’s never the makings of a good day.

I don’t have to wonder what my husband would say if I made the suggestion that we live apart. His answer would be a curt “no”, and that would end the discussion. In truth, we have no reason to live separately. He says that the best part of his day is when he returns from work and sees my face (preferably smiling), and the best part of mine is when he makes dinner. He’s a fantastic cook. So for us, living together works out perfectly. However, I would be remiss if I did not at least imagine what that conversation would look like:

******

The sun filtered through the kitchen shades, barely lighting the room. Someone had left just a swallow of orange juice in the carton, and I knew exactly who it was. It was my husband. I was thirsty and enraged. Enough was enough.

I heard his heavy footfall on the stairs and prepared myself to deliver the news. The time had come for us to live separate lives.

“Good morning babe!” he says brightly, smacking me on the bottom. “That was fun last night, wasn’t it?”

“Which part was fun?” I snap. “The part where you snored in my ear the whole night, or the part where I tripped on your shoes on the way into the bathroom?”

My husband looks wounded, but I am not to be deterred. I have a singular task in mind: to live as a married-single woman. I can’t be considerate of his feelings if I’m to be successful in my endeavors!

“I think in order for us to be happy…in order for us to be a family…I have to move out.”

“What? How does that work?”

“You can keep the house!” I say quickly. “And you can keep the kids too. I can come over to visit from time to time and you guys can come and visit me.”

My husband stares at me, flabbergasted.

“So you want to get a divorce?”

“Oh no, no babe. Not at all! I don’t want to divorce you…I just don’t want to LIVE with you.”

My husband puts a hand on his chin and analyzes me thoroughly. Finally his eyes light up and he smiles. He’s got it. He’s finally got it! I wait with baited breath for him to speak. He draws me near, and kisses me on the cheek.

“You’re on crack. We’re not going to have two mortgage payments and buy all new furniture for your house. We have four kids, and at least three of them are going to college. We’re going to retire together and move to some remote island where we can live like gypsies. In order for us to do that, we can’t live separately.”

I open my mouth to object and he shushes me.

“Shhhhhh!!!! Now when I get home from work, I’ll have a new shoe wrack to put my shoes on, and I’ll pee in the downstairs bathroom from now on. You never go in there anyway. But we’re not buying two houses. Problem solved…okay?”

“Okay,” I sigh.

“Love you! Call me at work and let me know what you want for dinner.”

I watch him leave from the kitchen window and he honks his horn to say goodbye, dashing my hopes of living separately. Somehow, he’s convinced me that we really don’t need to. Darn him.

******

Married MOM readers, can you see yourself living apart from your spouse? Is it unimaginable, or is it the only way you can imagine living?  If you’re single, what would you prefer? I’ve got my coffee and can’t wait to see what you say.

Most savvy people (or at least those with a lick of common sense) know that the entertainment industry has ruined a number of virtuous things. Script writers and directors have used their skill and trade to elevate our society’s expectations for even the simplest of pleasures, all while knowing full well that these expectations can never be fulfilled.

When a fictional couple is walking in a New York park on a frosty winter’s evening nonchalantly licking an ice-cream cone and droning on about their mythical relationship, the viewer (or idiot) sitting in the audience looks at this long camera shot and says to herself (because no man is thinking this way, I guarantee it) “Wow! I wish I were in New York eating vanilla ice-cream with a man that is so smitten with me that he can’t tell that his nuts are about to experience frost bite. I want to do THAT.”

This would be a good time to inform a few people of the obvious: Ladies, there is no man who is desperate enough for your affections that he’s willing to brave the whipping winds of New York city in order to procure them. That’s a fantasy, one not so dissimilar to the aforementioned ice-cream cone. Have you ever noticed how those things fail to decrease in size, no matter how long the consumption process has taken?

I’m losing myself in a tirade.

One of the things that Hollywood has ruined, and perhaps the only one with the most far reaching consequences, is the American marriage. I tell you, people walk into marriages today thinking that every day is going to be a walk in a park…a New York City park! Anyone who has been married for more than 73 days will tell you that this is not the case. Life has to go on, and it’s not all rose petals.

I heard the most asinine story yesterday from my very good friend, the Five Time Panther Mom. She has a friend who has been unofficially dating the same man for the last 6 or so years. They do everything together. He’s constantly buying her things. He’s met her parents and they love him, and vice versa. He opens doors when they go out and pays for dinner. This woman is unsatisfied with any of this.

“What’d you say?” I queried, looking for confirmation on what I thought I heard.

“She said that he doesn’t know how to romance her,” Panther Mom reiterated. “She said he has never asked her out on a date. What does he have to ask her out for? They’re already out!”

“And he pays for everything?”

I was incredulous.

“Girl, yes. But she’s upset because he doesn’t send her flowers at work and show ‘romantic gestures’ like that. She wants someone to school him on it.”

Oh really? You see how Hollywood has messed this woman’s mind up?! Let me tell you what happens when your man is overly focused on romancing you, and the unintended consequences that focus brings.

*****

It was a terrible day at work. Your manager has been riding you about the same TPS reports that you’ve submitted 12 times, but she never seems to get in her inbox. You know that when you get home, you have to cook dinner, do homework with the kids, and handle any fires that come your way. Dagonnit! If only your husband was more romantic! You could use some romance, and you’ve told him so repeatedly. With a scowl on your face, you barge into your house and are immediately confronted with an unexpected sight. There are rose petals on the floor and they lead directly to the bathroom.

“Come and sit down in the bath tub, hun,” says your husband. “I know you’ve been having a rough work week and I wanted to do something special for you. I came home early from work to draw you a bath.”

Amazed, you glory in his attentions and in the pomegranate scented water surrounding you.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he says soothingly. “I’ll take care of the kids, the dog, the homework…all you have to do is relax.”

And so you do.

The next day when you come home, there are rose petals on the floor leading to the bathroom and bedroom. The same exercise is repeated for the next two weeks, by which point the carpet is stained with the remnants of crushed petals where everyone in your household has pulverized them with their feet. Your husband has had to leave work consistently early in order to get home and make dinner and draw your bath water. He wants it to be warm when you’ve walked in the house. He has also been making an extra effort to see you more, since both your jobs are so demanding and work hours keep you apart. He’s driven 20 miles each way to come have lunch with you 3 times a week for the last 3 weeks. You are so pleased by the effort and so spellbound by the romance of it all that you fail to see the obvious coming.

It is now week four and once again your floor is smeared with both wilted and fresh roses. You feel as though you’ve been romanced sufficiently and tell your husband as much that day.

“I think we need to get someone in here to steam the carpet,” you suggest.

“No, no,” he says quickly. “I can do it. It will save us money.”

“Well when are you going to have time to do it?” you ask, sipping your very hot coffee that you’ve just poured.

“I have all the time in the world. I was fired this morning.”

“Wh-what?!?” you sputter, burning yourself with scolding liquid.

“Ohhh…baby. Be careful,” whispers your husband. “Yeah! I had to leave work early so often to get home and make sure everything was perfect that I ended up spending more hours on the road than at my desk. Coupled with the 3 hour lunch breaks I was taking 2-3 times a week…it was grounds for dismissal.”

Bewildered, you ask your spouse what your family is going to do.

“I suspect you’ll have to be the main breadwinner for a while. At least until I get a job,” he mulls. “But in this economy, who knows how long that will take.”

You whimper.

“But babe! Don’t you worry,” he smiles. “At least you’ll have a hot bath at the end of the night – every night – when you get home from work. No more rose petals though. We can’t afford rose petals. How do you feel about marigolds?”

*****

See? Unintended consequences. Now look atcha. You look CRAZY.

If the one you’re with is being genuinely nice to you, can you PLEASE make the effort to appreciate it? After all, nothing is more romantic than unpretentious appreciation.

This weekend we had the rare opportunity to have a guest over for dinner at our house. On a normal night, my family’s dinner conversation generally centers around the following phrases:

Don’t play with your food.

Chew with your mouth closed!

Sit your butt IN your chair.

Eat over your plate!

Oh my God. Are you done yet? Good. Just go wash your hands and get ready for bed.

A seventh person at the table therefore is always a happy departure from the norm.

When the kids had all been sent off to bed and settled in, my friend and I finally got to have some appropriate and very inappropriate adult conversation.

“Do you know what’s always such a romantic idea at the time but almost always turns out badly?” she asked.

I was stumped.

“No…what could that be?”

“Taking a shower with another person,” she replied, sipping her coffee.

“Oh Father, YES!” I agreed emphatically. “That’s never a good time.”

Now, I’m not saying that I have or have not shared a shower with another person, but I can confess to having an inkling as to how the whole event might unfold.

M.O.M Squad – I present to you: A Soapy Shower Snafu.

It was a warm spring night and the moon was full and pale yellow. The house was silent except for the sounds of creaking floor boards and a snoring dog slumbering at the foot of Mitchell and Michelle’s bed. (Obviously these are fictional characters. Surely you cannot expect me to betray their personas by giving details of two people you might be more familiar with…say a woman with FOUR kids?)

Michelle was restless and couldn’t sleep.

“What’s the matter, honey,” murmured Mitchell. “Something on your mind?”

“It’s just so warm tonight, and I can’t get comfortable,” she moped. “I think I should take a cool shower, maybe that would help.”

Mitchell was immediately excited about the idea.

“Why don’t I join you?”

  Michelle giggled and said why not. There were so many steamy love scenes in movies that featured couples showering together seductively. The event almost always ended with the two curled up together in crisp white sheets, stroking each other lovingly. Perhaps she and Mitchell could recreate that magic? It was worth a try. They had never showered together before, not once in the course of their 5 year marriage.

Michelle ran the shower water and stepped in. Mitchell got in behind her and yelped.

“It’s too hot!”

“Oh…sorry. I can add some cold water to it.”

She turned the knob of the hot water ever so slightly. She did not like lukewarm showers. She only felt clean when the water was scalding hot. When Mitchell complained that it was still not cool enough, worrying that his “balls would boil in the heat”, she finally found a temperature that would suit them both. By this time, the endeavor had pushed her beneath the stream of water several times, and her hair was soaking wet. It clung to her cheeks and blinded her every time she turned around. There was barely enough room to wipe her face.

“Move back,” she ordered Mitchell. “You’re taking up all the room in the shower!”

“No I’m not sweetie. I’m nearly pushed up against the wall.”

It was true. Their house, like many others that were constructed in the early 80s, had a tub that was one and a half times smaller than the ones pitted in homes of the new millennia. Neither one of them had noticed this before, seeing as they had always showered separately, but their combined girth seemed to constitute more than the confines of the porcelain tub could handle.  As they struggled to get their footing in the watery arena, Mitchell thought it would be a good idea to introduce soap. Perhaps the fragrance of the bubbles would calm them both.

Still blinded by the force of the water in her face (as she was by now standing directly underneath the shower head), Michelle was unaware that Mitchell had poured liquid soap into a wash cloth and was preparing to wash her back. The soapy sensation felt good.

“Mmmm,” she moaned. “That feels nice.”

Suddenly she froze.

“Wait…which wash cloth are you using?”

“The white one with the rose petals on it.”

“Ewww!” she screeched. “Get it off of me!”

Mitchell was alarmed.

“Wait…what? What’s wrong, hun?”

“That’s my butt rag.”

“Your butt rag?”

“Yes! The rag I use to wash inside my butt. I don’t use it for anything else. I also have a face rag. The lime green one.”

Mitchell grimaced. He surmised that it would be unwise to inform his wife that not only did he not have separate wash cloths for different jobs, but that he had also used HER lime green rag to wash between his legs on hot sweaty days. After 5 years of marriage he had never known his wife had different cloths for different jobs. Then again, he had never showered with her either.

Mitchell was still bone dry in the shower, and wanted to switch places.

“Come stand over here,” he said sweetly. “Would you mind washing me?”

“Where’s your wash cloth?” asked Michelle.

“Oh. Uh…I think I would like it better if you just lathered me up with soap. I like the way your hands feel when they’re roaming.”

Michelle smiled in the darkness. Her husband was so sweet. She picked up a bar of his favorite soap from the caddy and began to rub him with it. She reached up to wash his shoulders and dropped the soap. It hit the bottom of the tub with a thud.

“What was that?” Mitchell asked, turning around.

“Baby, don’t move. I just dropped the…”

Too late.

Mitchell’s right foot was on top of the burnt orange bar and he slipped in the wet darkness. His body hit the bottom of the tub with a crash.

“Oh God!” Michelle cried. “Mitchell! Mitchell!”

Mitchell’s world went blank after that. His only memory was that of drowning in a torrent of scummy water and rain.

When Mitchell awoke the next morning, his mother was sitting in the arm chair next to him.

“Ma? What are you doing here?”

She smiled and rubbed his cheek, just as she had done when he was a child.

“Michelle called me in a panic around midnight last night. She needed my help to pull you into the bed. She said you had an accident last night.”

Mitchell blushed.

“So you know that we were…and you saw my…Oh Ma.”

“Oh please,” she snorted. “There’s nothing that you have that I haven’t seen dozens of times before.”

She got up to leave.

“Now that you’re better, I’ll leave you to your wife. She cried herself to sleep last night in the guest room.”

“Thanks Ma.”

“Good bye son.”

Mitchell stared at the ceiling, feeling ridiculous. All that effort for nothing. If all his wife needed was a good cry to go to sleep, he’d just tell her that her face cloth also doubled as his nut rag. Few other things would make a woman more upset than that.

****

MOM Squad: What other things sound really good in theory? I can think of only a few more – Water guns at weddings come to mind. What are YOUR thoughts? Can’t wait to hear…

Everyone else is doing a post about Valentine’s Day, so why not me too?

The sky was dark and overcast in Atlanta on February 14^th. The forecast had called for snow, but there was only snow in the mountains. The rest of the city was merely cloaked in a dreary gloom with neither rain nor a threatening mist to show for it. What was the point in a cloudy sky if there was no precipitation to follow? But then again, what was the point in Valentine’s Day?

Malaka Grant pulled her rotund frame from her queen-sized bed and padded to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She had 30 minutes to get her kids dressed, fed and off to school, just as she did every morning. Her second born came rolling down the stairs first, angry as always that she’d been forced from her bed in order to be sent to school.

“Good morning, Aya.”

Aya sneered at her mother and asked if the toast was ready. Then she sat down at the breakfast table to wait to be served. Nadjah was a bit more cordial.

“Good morning, Mommy. It’s Valentine’s day!” she squealed in delight.

“Shhhhhh!!!!” Malaka hissed. “You’ll wake the babies. And yes, it’s Valentine’s Day. Pour some milk on your cereal.”

Valentine’s day never came without some level of anxiety for Malaka. In principle, she hated the day as a superficial commercial celebration that made an abject mockery of love, but in reality she did like to receive chocolate (and recently only of the Fair Trade fare) and the devoted attentions of her loved ones. Still, because she had made such a stink about it on her blog, she was forced to say bah humbug to it all.

But then there was her husband, who was a hopeless romantic and would be expecting a gift.

After the bigger kids had been shuttled off to school, she turned her attention to the younger two.

“Well guys, I have to go get your father a Valentine’s Day gift, which means I have to leave you with the sitter.”

The ‘babies’ ages 2 and 1 wailed their protest. They knew that if there mother had put on her boots and thrown that shiny stuff on her lips, she was leaving the house. They also knew that if they didn’t have THEIR shoes on, she was leaving without them. She dodged  the sippy-cup full of milk that the youngest was flinging at her head in disgust and made a beeline for the door.

By now it was 10:30 am. She had just enough time to make it to the mall to buy a gift and meet her husband for lunch. The only thing she hated more than Valentine’s Day was the mall, but sadly there was nothing to be done for it. She had to pick up something.

As she drove down the freeway, it occurred to her that she might garner the perfect gift: A bottle of cologne. Men loved cologne, didn’t they? And women loved the way men smelled when spritzed with the appropriate amount. Pleased that she had conjured up a gift idea so quickly, she turned on the radio to set the mood for the afternoon’s pleasantries.

“I hate cologne.”

What?

“I’d rather a girl get me a bouquet of flowers than to get another bottle of cologne for Valentine’s Day.”

The 20-something radio jock was going on and on about how cologne was such a cliché gift and launched into an all out assault on the thoughtlessness of the gift. How was Malaka to know this? She hadn’t purchased anything for her husband in years. Well, maybe if she gave him some cologne and some booty…Everything is better when you sprinkle some booty on it. She changed the channel and decided that these two combined would be enough.

When she reached the mall, she amused to see gaggles of men scurrying in to purchase last minute gifts. At the Kroger across the street it seemed as though the same man dressed in Dockers and a sport coat ran in and out of the electronic doors with a bundle of flowers at least 6 times. The only thing that changed about him was his face and the direction of his comb over.

In the aisle leading into the mall was a perfume kiosk, manned by a young dark skinned Indian man. He pulled out his earphones just as Malaka approached his stall.

“How can I help you today?” he grinned.

“I’m looking for a cologne for my husband,” she said.

“Ah. I see. Did you need help choosing one or did you have one in mind?”

“Jean-Paul Gautier.”

“A nice choice,” he nodded in approval.

He produced a can that was hidden behind the rest of his wares.

“Is this a good valentine’s day gift?” she asked, hoping he would approve.

“Oh. I dunno,” said the young man as he rang up her purchase.

How insensitive of me. He probably doesn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, she thought.

“Ah. What do you mean you don’t know?” she asked aloud. She was baffled by his response.

“Well, I broke up with two girls within the last month,” said the man laughing mischievously.

“Eh?” Now Malaka was really confused. Was this goofy kid trying to say he was a player. “You mean you were dating two girls…at the same time?”
“That’s right!” said the Indian man chuckling hysterically. His brown eyes danced with delight at the memory.

“Well it sounds to me like they found out about each other and broke up with YOU.”

“Maybe…but I have a new girl I am talking to. I hope she’ll go with me,” he confessed.

Malaka did not share his sentiment, but thanked him for the purchase and wished him well.

“Just remember what they say about straddling two horses at the same time,” she added.

“What’s that?”

“I have no idea, but I imagine it would hurt your balls.”

He laughed again and put her gift in a black plastic bag, similar to the ones given out in a West African market.

“Don’t you have any gift bags?”

“No…”

“Then this is why those two girls broke up with you,” she concluded.

“Because I don’t have gift bags?” he asked, chuckling in disbelief.

“Yes. It’s all about presentation. Happy Valentine’s Day sir!”

“You’re welcome. I hope to see you again soon!”

They smiled at each other and Malaka went in search of a gift bag. Fortunately, there was a Spencer’s just at the exit door of the mall, which meant she did not have to go in search of a Hallmark store.

The gift bag selection was wildly inappropriate for the occasion.

Here’s you’re F***ing Gift! said one in bold print.

Sexy B**ch read another.

Oh sh*t! Here comes 50! read the last.

Somehow, she didn’t think her husband would care for any of these. She settled on one that was the least offensive.

By now it was time to meet her hubby for their noonday rendezvous. Unbeknownst to her, he had been tracking her every move on his iPhone. They had synched their devices so that they could check up on each other without having to call to verify the other’s whereabouts. Some people might call that “stalking” but they preferred to think of it as “convenient.”

He walked into the restaurant within minutes after she did.

“You look very pretty today,” he smiled.

“So do you.”

As he sat, she turned his attention to a young man who was sitting alone at his table waiting for his date.

“It would be so cliché, but I wonder if he’ll propose to her this afternoon. I’ve never seen a proposal in a restaurant.”

“That would be funny,” he mocked. Maybe he wasn’t as “romantic” as she had assumed.

Everything was going so well. The Thai restaurant where they were eating had curry lamb as the special of the day and the staff was uncommonly pleasant. Love was truly in the air. Neither Malaka nor her husband seemed to mind when two couples who sat down after them got their food before they did. They were each consumed with the presence of the other, making fun of their poor table manners. Malaka finally produced her gift with gusto, which her husband looked at with some level of disappointment.

“I already have this.”

“Well how come you never smell like it?”

“I guess because the spray part of it is broken,” he confessed.

“Well then here you go. You’re welcome.”

She noticed that he was hiding the gift bag she had purchased, as though he were ashamed of its exterior.

“You don’t like your bag??”

“Well…it’s um…”

“I went to a great deal of trouble picking out this bag. More than you’ll ever know!”

“Malaka, I can’t walk around with this bag,” he pleaded.

“Very well. Hand it over.”

She took it and put it her purse with a huff. He smiled in gratitude.

“Well, since we’re in the spirit of clichés, I have something for you.”

He whipped out two bars of chocolate and a card decorated in gold foil. She eyed the chocolate suspiciously.

“I thought you couldn’t find any?” she challenged. “I thought you said none of the stores were carrying it.”

“I made one last stop and found it at Cost World Market.”

“It’s…it’s free trade?” she said hopefully.

“Sure is!”

“Awww babe. Thank you!”

She took a nibble of the dark, semi-sweet substance. Love had never before tasted so sweet…and so salty. Who laces chocolate with sea salt?!? Still, she could eat this chocolate without guilt. (You hear that RAVEN? There’s no blood in this bar of chocolate!)

Dare she say it? She dared indeed. Happy Valentine’s Day, one and all.