I have been with Frank for 23 years and counting. I am very happy in our marriage. Of course, first I had go through the five stages of death: Denial: I’ll help him find his socks this one time. Anger: Find your own %$^#& socks! Bargaining: If I put your socks in the sock drawer, then can you find them?  Depression: I have more value than being a sock finder. And, finally Acceptance: He’ll never know where his stupid socks are. Still, I think he and his fellow husbands can do better. Guys, below find my tips that should get you laid more often.

Tip One: Be thankful you are alive. Husbands have no idea how close to death they are. When you forgot her birthday; when you took apart the carburetor in the kitchen sink; when you adjusted the new projection TV unit and dropped it and killed it; when you forgot to tell her that your fourteen football buddies were on their way over to watch the game; when you were late to work and came screaming in the door because you couldn’t find your keys and ordered her to help you find them—even though she was late to work because she’d already helped you find your briefcase; and last, but not least, when your mother came to visit for a week and you checked out mentally and let her cook and clean and care for dear, old Mom. Each instance she thought about clubbing you over the head with a wine bottle. She thought about sneaking off to Vegas with her friends and leaving you in the lurch. She considered walking out that door and never looking back. But she didn’t. Because she loves you.

Tip Two: Be nice to her. Every guy out there is thinking, “I am nice to her.” No, you’re not. Most of your compliments stay in your head. She cannot read your mind. You actually have to open your mouth and thank her. Think about what she’s done for you today. Not in passing. Not during commercials. Sit down and count the things she did to ensure your life and the lives of your kids were running smoothly. And tell her you appreciate her. We don’t mind taking care of you and the kids. We only mind when you don’t acknowledge our hard work. We mind when you track dirt over the freshly mopped floors. We mind when you stumble in, eat dinner, and get on your computer without acknowledging we exist. We mind when we ask you to do one thing to our sixty for the day and you whine like a seven-year-old. Smile and do whatever she asks. Even if you don’t feel like it. Then you’ll know what’s it’s like to be her.

Tip Three: Be extra nice to her when she’s hormonal. Her hormones are not her fault. Estrogen was not invented to piss off men. We would rather be pleasant. We would rather get up in the morning with a song in our hearts. But we are the mercy of our bodies. So if you wake up and notice that your wife’s hair has turned into snakes and she’s already turned the cat to stone, smile and tell her she looks beautiful. Tell her you love what she’s done with her snakes. If you have a complaint, save it. If you have a favor to ask of her, don’t. Give her a wide berth and tell her how great she looks. How lovely, wonderful and thoughtful she is, even if she isn’t. Do not say things like: “God, you are such a bitch today.” “I like you with a little weight on you.” “Wow. I know just what you’re going to look like at eighty.” “Is it your period?” Unless you want your head melted off by the flames that will be shooting from her mouth.

Tip Four: Micromanaging is not “helping.” Frank says the dumbest things to me. “Heh-heh-heh, really massacring that avocado, aren’t you? I think it’s screaming uncle. Have you thought about using another knife?” My normal response is to bare my teeth and growl at him. Which prompts his next stupid response: “Fine, I was only trying to help.” Which is a total lie. Help is cooking dinner, not telling me how to sauté vegetables “the right way”. Help is washing the window, not making faces at me from the other side of the glass. Help is washing the car, not ripping a sponge out of my hand and giving me a Shiwala—which doesn’t work. Helping is actually doing the task, Frank. Oh. And all you other guys, too.

Tip Five: You are the reason you aren’t having sex more often. Women have to jump through major mental hurdles to have sex. Women have six brains, men have one. Women need all six brains tuned to sex in order to enjoy it. She’s thinking about the dishes and the kids and the bills and the PTA meeting and the thirty-six cupcakes that need to be baked tonight. Helping her with the cupcakes will get you laid faster than grabbing her breasts while she’s trying to cook. Think about setting a mood. Think about seducing her. Like drawing a bath for her, offering a foot rub or surprising her with flowers. Contrary to popular belief, women do not consider the presence of an erection as foreplay. Don’t “wag” it at her to entice her. Don’t talk about your dick in the third person. “Mr. Happy wants some fun!” is not arousing. Don’t refer to it as an inanimate object. For the record, I don’t want to sleep with a sausage. And don’t fart while propositioning her. Engulfing her in a cloud of stench is not sexy. Take a shower. Compliment her. Help with the chores. In other words, work at it, boys. We do everything for you. Don’t make us seduce ourselves, too.

©2010, Janet Periat

Me and the Hubby on vacation in Marina

I’ve been with my current husband for 23 years. People ask me all the time how we stay married and happy. The happy part seems to bewilder people the most. Below find my best advice. Next month, I’ll focus on advising the husbands.

Tip One: Realize that your man is not perfect. In any way, shape or form. They want everything their way all the time—along with wanting all the food and beer. They touch up the garage in the wrong color paint. They destroy your bathroom. They forget your birthday. They lose their jobs. They scream for stupid reasons. They demand you do things that you don’t want to do. They watch TV programs you hate. They fart, grab themselves and expect you to have sex with them, all in the same moment. Get over it.

Tip Two: Do not judge his actions based upon your own. If a woman walks by a huge pile of laundry, it means she’s seen it and is choosing not to fold it. If a man walks by a huge pile of laundry, it’s because he doesn’t recognize it as a pile of laundry. It’s merely part of his environment. Like a wall. This is why he steps over piles of shoes, walks around the full grocery bags on the floor and ignores the dishes in the sink. He honestly does not see the mess. This is why I now fold the clothes on Frank’s desk.

Tip Three: Men are not mind readers. You must tell a man what you expect out of him. Using a billboard, a sky-writing airplane and flash cards. Men don’t “instinctively” know what to do around the house. They can’t tell by your huffing and sighing that you wanted them to unload the dishwasher. They may not even know you own a dishwasher. Most men live in their heads. Both of them. At once. It is your job to tell them what you want. Writing your expectations down is best. In big bold letters. On the centerfold from Playboy magazine.

Tip Four: Men are not listening to you if the TV is on. Men are incapable of carrying on a conversation and watching TV at the same time. They will nod and smile and pretend to understand you to get rid of you, but they’ve not heard a word you’ve said. Unless you’ve said the word “sex.” Now when Frank watches TV, I start all conversations like this: “SEX! Frank could you put away the dishes? SEX! And take out the garbage?”

Tip Five: Men aren’t being mean if they don’t listen to you. They’re just being idiots. They don’t mean anything by it. They have no idea they’re not listening to you. They are crunching batting averages, conjuring their perfect fantasy football team, engineering a new way to take out the garbage that doesn’t involve actually touching it, or trying to get you to have sex. Or they’re thinking about food. They are completely disassociated from their surroundings. This is why I now take off my clothes if I want Frank’s attention. Which works, even if his focus isn’t necessarily on what I’m saying.

Tip Six: Men cannot multi-task. Frank says, “We’re more focused.” Ahem. Genetically, women have had to develop the talent of multi-tasking. Every woman I know can recite the contents of their fridge by heart and the date when the milk expires. They know when the kids have to be at soccer practice, band practice and the Chinese language lab. They know all their kids’ birthdays and kids’ friends’ birthdays. When Mom walks in the door after work at night, she supervises homework, cooks dinner, plans the upcoming family vacation, writes a shopping list and responds to fourteen emails, all at once.

When Dad comes home, he absently puts his briefcase directly in the path of the front door, drops his coat on the sofa, stumbles into the kitchen, kisses his wife—which isn’t easy because she won’t stay in one spot—then he heads to the fridge for a much-needed beer. He notices the TV is on. Cute weatherwoman. Nice rack. Going to be cooler tomorrow. But the sportscaster is all wrong about his team. Suddenly, out of nowhere, his wife screams, “Are you going to help me or stand there like an idiot with your mouth hanging open?” Astonished, he can’t figure out how she got mad so quick when all he did was walk in the door.

This is the point where the woman should point to the billboard in the backyard that says “Help With Dinner When You Get Home If You Ever Want To Have Sex With Me Again.”

Tip Seven: Just because he forgets your birthday or Valentine’s Day, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. It means he’s either forgetful or a Hallmark Rebel. Frank doesn’t like having his love shoved in a box of societal expectations and restrictions. In his mind, loving me and buying me stuff have nothing to do with each other. Which sucks. Beating him with the You Don’t Really Love Me Guilt Stick used to net me some cool gifts. But just because I understand he loves me, doesn’t mean I let him off the gift hook. I notify him two weeks before my birthday so he can’t pull the I’ve-been-so-busy-my-computer-died-the-cat-ate-my-date-book automatic response.

Tip Eight: Marriage isn’t fair to either party. He’s the lump that gets in your way and wants sex right after you get off the phone with your mother. You’re the crazy bitch who screams at him for no reason and won’t sleep with him after talking on the phone to whoever that was, he wasn’t listening. Accept this reality. While Hubby needs to come through with his share of financial and emotional support of the family, he is not there to fulfill your every desire. He’s there because you love him. And because he’s a pretty nice guy.

©2010, Janet Periat

Word meanings are fluid. Some change and some stay the same depending on what’s going on in the world. Since we are in a huge state of flux right now, I thought it would be good to clarify some current terms.

Congress: 1. The opposite of progress*. 2. A group of rich people with bad hair who take advantage of loopholes in the law to give themselves raises and nicer offices. 3. Government-sanctioned prostitutes. (See Senators and Lobbyists)

Senators: 1. A group of rich people who attended Ivy League schools to forge superficial relationships with people they don’t like in order to run for office to increase their family fortunes. 2. A group of ugly rich people in Washington DC who wear suits and blow through all the tax money extorted from the middle class while pretending to care about  “the people” but who are too self-centered to care about anyone but themselves.

Health Plan: 1. A hodgepodge of laws constructed by insurance companies to confuse patients and deny them care. 2. Legal extortion of the healthy middle class. 3. A bill that is paid supposedly to avoid bigger bills in case of emergency, but doesn’t really work that way. 4. A legal Ponzi scheme involving the health care industry, the insurance industry and an army of lawyers.

Republicans: 1. A group of rich old white men with bad hair who want to go back to the 1950s when women and minorities “knew their places”.  2. A political party whose sole purpose is to not let any other political party get anything accomplished. 3. A group of hypocrites who profess to be moral until they’re caught with their mistress in Argentina.

Democrats: 1. A spineless group of people who drive Priuses, do yoga, drink protein shakes and enjoy drumming circles and trips to Tibet. 2. A resident of Berkeley, San Francisco or Santa Cruz, California. 3. Someone who is politically correct to the point of disingenuousness. 4. Crazed pot-smoking hippies who put the lives of newts over the prosperity of chemical plants.

Minority: 1. Anyone who isn’t white, rich and heterosexual.  2. A group of people the Republicans fear and hate and legislate against until three months before the election when they pretend to like them.  3. A group of people who are blamed for everything that goes wrong in America.

Public Education System: 1. A day prison for children designed to destroy their natural curiosity and prepare them for a life of sitting at desks and following orders. 2. An underfunded institution that promotes a lifelong aversion to learning.  3. A brainwashing facility that strips participants of their innate talents, limits their choices and ensures their dependence on the system. 4. A Walmart training facility.

Lobbyists: 1. Corporate prostitutes who sell themselves to politicians in exchange for passing laws that will hurt the environment and the poor. 2. People without morals who try to convince other people without morals to continue committing immoral acts. 3. Soul-eating zombies with a political agenda. (See Congress and Senators)

Fast Food: 1. A food-shaped substance that imitates real food and has no nutritional value. 2. A delicious combination of salt, sugar, fat and preservatives that shortens the human life span.

Television: 1. A box that displays a lifestyle you will never be able to afford. 2. A mind-control device that makes the user feel fat, smelly, stupid and lazy. 3. A machine that eats time. 4. A device that facilitates and promotes depression.

Computer: 1. A data processing device that rarely does what you want it to and randomly destroys data. 2. A box that sucks in money and spits out porn.

Internet: 1. A place where bad news gets endlessly recycled far past its relevance. 2. A place to connect with freaks like you. 3. A place to farm virtual land and grow virtual crops and have virtual wars without really accomplishing anything at all. (See Television and Computer)

Marriage: 1. An institution involving two deluded people who actually think that by saying a bunch of magic words their significant other won’t cheat on them or abuse them or take out all their savings to invest in a pyramid scheme. 2. A sacred bond between a man and a woman that gay people have adopted and are now kicking themselves for it. 3. An extortion scheme designed by the bridal industry to get money out of stupid people who think that if they spend a lot on the ceremony it might actually translate into a lasting relationship. 4. A financial agreement between two people who like to sleep with each other and think that by getting financially involved it might promote some sort of bond between them.

Medical Marijuana: Marijuana that is obtained at a dispensary with a fake doctor’s note so stoners don’t have to pretend to be interested in their drug dealer’s boring lives.

Tea-Partiers: (syn: Tea-Baggers) 1. A group of disenfranchised white people who like to yell the n-word. 2. A group of stupid people who think that stupid people should run the world.

The Religious Right: 1. People who use God and the Bible as reasons to persecute people they don’t like. 2. Fearful people who say “they shouldn’t let them do that” a lot. 3. People who send money to men on television with bad hair who preach about morals until they get caught on video with a roomful of prostitutes. (See Congress, Senators, Lobbyists)

The Media: A conglomerate of organizations that twist and distort reality in order to force their users to watch or read paid advertisements.

Liberals: 1. A group of open-minded people who are easily influenced and can’t make decisions. 2. People who miss the Summer of Love. 3. People who think Al Gore is cool.

Conservatives: 1. Fat, bald white guys who hate and fear everything. 2. People with anger issues who love to shout at liberals. 3. Closeted gay people who like having sex in public restrooms.

*Heard this from the comedian Gallagher.

©2010, Janet Periat

Hey Humans!

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while, I was off in Arizona pitching my work to agents and editors. What a great conference! I had such a good time and saw my niece, too. And her husband and daughter. And dog. Arizona rocks! No pun intended. It’s such a beautiful state and so bloody cheap compared to California.

So here is a column I wrote a while back about the joys of marriage. I hope you enjoy!

Out of my forty-five years, I have been married or in a committed relationship for twenty-eight of them. This means that I have been annoyed for most of my adult life. While I wouldn’t change anything, it’s sure fun to bitch.

Number One: We Are All Total Quirky Freaks

I am obsessed with time. Frank is obsessed with doing things “right”. Frank is the kind of guy who walks into the dentist office as the hands of the clock land exactly on the time of his appointment. I am at the dentist office one half hour before I need to be there. I am everywhere one half an hour before I need to be there. I have a wholly unnatural fear of being late. Whenever we venture out together, whether it’s to a party, an appointment, anywhere, I am pacing, looking at the clock, sweating and swearing to myself. Is he ready yet? Why aren’t we leaving? We’re going to be late! Could he please hurry up? Asking Frank to hurry up activates the passive/aggressive module in his brain which makes him move even more slowly. I swear, he looks like a film stuck in slow motion. Which drives me INSANE. I am always convinced we are going to be late and if we’re late… well, you know. The entire world will end.

According to Frank, I open the mail wrong, I break down boxes wrong and I fix my tea wrong. Mail is opened with a letter opener. Period. It is not ripped open and teeth should never EVER be involved. One does not stomp on a box to break it down, one carefully dismantles the box, like reverse Origami. When making tea, after the tea has steeped for the appropriate length of time, the teaball is removed and THEN the milk and sugar is added. Here’s his direct quote: “See, you add the milk and sugar while the teaball is still in the cup. So when you remove the teaball, the tea leaves, milk and sugar create a perfect medium for bacterial growth.” And tea bacteria is a very dangerous thing indeed. I’m sure I’m creating the next Superfund site with all my negligent tea making. Biohazard Central. Someone call the Bacteria Police. Of course, according to Frank, I should have been cited by the Time Police a long time ago.

Number Two: There Is No Way To Listen To Your Spouse All The Time

Frank and I have cultivated the art of looking like we’re listening to the other when we are not. We both nod at the appropriate times and say “uh-huh” all the while we are busy thinking about other things. Frank’s brain is mostly concerned with banjo, robotics, electronics, computers and some of the most mind-dulling subjects on the planet (to me). My brain is either producing plots for novels or feasting upon the latest nugget of local gossip (infinitely more interesting than boring old science). I’ve even tried to listen to him sometimes, made a great effort in paying attention to him, but I’ve found that I’m physically incapable of listening to him talk about something that doesn’t interest me. Apparently, he has the same difficulty. Mostly, however, we actually believe the other is paying attention to us, until we get tested. “Where are you going?” he’ll ask. “I just told you. I’m going to town. You even said ‘oh, good, town,” I reply. “I did?” “Yes, you did.” “Oh. Well, I still wasn’t listening to you.” “Okay, so I’m going to town.” “You’re going to town, NOW?” “That’s what I just said.” “You didn’t say you were going now.” “Yes, I did.” “I didn’t hear you.” “I just told you.” “Oh. So…can you pick me up a sandwich?”

Number Three: Men Like Fire

Frank is obsessed with making fire. He has books, videos and more steel and flint devices than I ever knew existed. From when he was a Boy Scout to now, he has spent much of his life in this singular pursuit. But never with a lighter. Fire creation has to be done with some weird device that originated on some South Pacific Island that uses a special fungus for tinder. On our hearth, we have piles of various fungi, specifically drying for his fire-making. We have cat-tails hanging near the fireplace, drying, which also makes excellent tinder, he tells me. I’m like, “Buy a frickin’ lighter and get that crap outta my house.” However, I will say, Frank is Mr. Fire Safety Man. He has never lit anything on fire by accident other than his own hair (that’s another column).

Which is totally unlike my first husband, Mark. Mark was a pyromaniac. This one time, we borrowed my parent’s Weber kettle for a barbecue. We had no charcoal lighter fluid so unbeknownst to me, Mark decided to use gasoline. Yes, gasoline. One of the many things he didn’t take into account when making this decision was the vents at the bottom of the kettle. The gasoline went past the briquettes and pooled in the ash catch basin under the kettle. After the explosion, I rushed outside to see not a barbecue, but a giant fireball on metal legs. This wasn’t even our fireball on metal legs, this was my parents’ fireball on metal legs. Basically, Mark barbecued my parents’ barbecue. Mark had also forgotten to take into account where the barbecue was located: under some low-hanging branches, which, by the time I got outside, were smoking nicely. (Reason #457 for why Mark is now my EX husband.)

Number Four: Men Want What Their Wives Have

Food, the TV remote, seemingly everything. Whatever I’m eating, whether it be at home or in a restaurant, Frank wants a bite. Or all of it. In the morning, whatever I’m reading, Frank wants to read it. I pick out a magazine, start reading and there’s Frank, vulching, trying to get a peek at the article. When I won’t let him read over my shoulder, he sits across from me and attempts to read the back of the magazine. “Hey, can you hold that up? No, higher.” Pretty soon, I’m turned into a pretzel, trying to hold the article so we can both read it. (I’ve complained so much about this proclivity of Frank’s that he has now perfected the art of reading print upside down.)

Number Five: Men Cannot Multi-Task

Normally, when I watch TV, I’m playing a videogame on my handheld, reading a magazine, flipping through a catalog, making a list for the grocery store, jotting down a plot for a novel, planning our next vacation and munching on popcorn. Frank is watching TV. That’s it. He is also incapable of looking away if the set is on. “Honey?” I ask. No response. There is a Charmin commercial on. “Honey, this is a commercial, can I ask you something?” No response. “Frank!” “What? Why are you shouting?” he demands. “Because I want your attention.” “Oh.” “So, when are we going over the hill?” No response, his eyes are glued to the Cingular commercial. “Frank!” “What? Why are you shouting?” Repeat ad infinitum. Frank, however, remembers every plot to every movie we’ve ever seen. I could watch the same movie every six months and it’s new every time.

Number Six: Men Never Tire Of Seeing Their Wives Naked

And God bless them for that. At forty-five and kinda flabby, this truly is a gift.

Number Seven: Marriage Is All About Not Killing The Other Person

People are annoying. People you live with are even more annoying. Spouses are the most annoying thing next to children or your parents. So why do married people live longer than single people? I think it’s because married people make a special effort to outlive their partner—just so they can have the last word.

Number Eight: Women Are Better At Finding Things Than Men Are

“Honey, where’s the butter?” he asks. “Where’s it’s been for the past seventeen years,” I answer snidely. “Where’s that?” “In the butter compartment in the door.” Pause. “It’s not there now.” “Yeah, it is, I saw it there this morning.” “Well, it’s not here now.” “I’m busy,” I counter, even more irritated. “I need the butter, my toast is almost done,” he says in an urgent tone. “Goddamnit, you want me to come in there, don’t you?” “The butter is not in the compartment,” he replies. I throw down my notebook, stomp into the kitchen, fling open the fridge door. “Oh, it’s not there,” I reply, momentarily embarrassed. “See?” he says. Then I spot the butter, just six inches away from the compartment on a shelf. “Well, dude, look, it’s right there, like, six inches away.” “Oh, I looked there, but the butter was cleverly disguised as cheese.” This conversation happens every day in every corner of the globe. “Honey, where’s the yak butter?”

Okay, so husbands and wives are irritating. But without them, who would we blame for misplacing our socks?

© 2004, Janet Periat

WARNING: This is not a humor column. But it was a story I wanted to share with you. I hope this posting finds you well, happy and loved.

—Janet

I’m emotionally wasted. My eyes are stinging and dry from crying. My heart is heavy. But I feel a sense of joy and gratitude I haven’t felt in a long time.

My friend Dany died last Wednesday at fifty-four years old. He lost a seven-year battle with leukemia. They gave him six months, he lasted six and a half years beyond that. Today, at his service, I saw why.

There was more love in that tiny old building that I’ve seen anywhere, ever. The people who spoke, what they said, the service wasn’t somber, it was a celebration of someone very special. While we all cried throughout, it was clear we were celebrating Dany. What he gave to his family and the world around him. His father spoke, his mother spoke, his best friend led the ceremony; another good friend played a song he’d written for him. His wife spoke. His son, Bronson, spoke.

It was after his son spoke that I saw the true heart of Dany Walker. He raised his son to be a man. And today, I saw a boy I’ve known since he was five step into the shoes of an adult. Today, Bronson became a man at twenty.

Quiet, self-confident, Bronson spoke of how recently his father told him that he was ready to face life without him. That he’d brought him up and he’d made sure he’d be okay. He told his son he was ready to stand on his own. That his job was done.

Dany was diagnosed with leukemia seven years ago. He fought with every fiber of his being to stay for six and a half more years. He wasn’t done. Bronson was still a boy, his wife Peggy, needed him. Dany had more to do. So he endured more pain, more procedures and more time in the hospital than is nearly humanly possible. And he did it all for his son and for his Peggy, the love of his life.

Dany and Peggy shared an extraordinary bond. It is rare to witness a love such as these two shared. Rare. They gazed at each other as if they shared a secret; a joyous, passionate secret. They gave off love like a blast furnace gives off heat. Not only do I grieve the loss of this wonderful man, I grieve for the loss of that connection. A connection so rare and so powerful, most people don’t get the privilege to experience it. But Dany and Peggy were blessed.

They ended their time together much in the same way they started it. Holding each other, loving each other. It was just the two of them, alone in their bedroom. He was weak, his sturdy frame reduced to a mere eighty-five pounds. Peggy held him. He said, “I feel a string, it’s pulling on me, pulling on me.” She said, “No reason to stay honey, you go on.” A minute or so later, he died, right there in her arms. Peggy was so grateful to be there. So grateful to hold him to the end. So grateful she’d been able to have seven more years with him. So grateful for every moment she got to spend with him.

Funerals are for the living. They are a place to mourn, a place to celebrate, a place to reflect on our own lives. The service today slapped me in the face. I’ve been brooding lately; dealing with some childhood issues in therapy; my husband has been out of work for some time, our savings are dwindling; we’re scared. But what I saw today reminded me that all my fears are meaningless. What I realized today is that none of the things I’ve been worried about mean anything. What I realized today is that I have what Peggy and Dany shared. My connection to my husband is amazing. He truly is a dream. He’s strong and capable and funny and witty and charming and he loves me like no one else ever has. No one looks at me the way he does. No one but him.

And today, I got to go home with my husband to our home. Peggy went home to an empty bed; a closet full of Dany’s clothes; drawers still full of his things. A home full of memories, a home they built together. While the son is down the hall tonight, the other rooms are filled with relatives from out of town, shortly, everyone will return to their lives, leaving Peggy to pick up the pieces of hers. She’ll return home after work and Dany will not be there. On her birthday, he won’t be there to cook her a fantastic meal, tell her how much he loves her. She will live out her life without Dany by her side. While I believe eventually she’ll find companionship, the new man will not be Dany.

But I still have my Frank. Frank will be there when I wake up and when I go to bed at night. He’ll be eating all my chocolate, making faces at me on the other side of the glass when I’m cleaning the windows. He’ll be there to hold me when I get a rejection letter from a publisher. He will be there.

And I am so very grateful. So incredibly grateful. All my problems lessened today. Today I realized that I have no problems.

It’s a perspective I don’t want to lose. I don’t want to go back to taking things for granted. I want to realize how special today is. I want to feel grateful when I take my daily walk with Frank by my side. I want to feel grateful even when he pisses me off and I feel like clobbering him over the head with something. I want to realize how special and wonderful every day is with him. How lucky I am.

And I want to thank Dany Walker for waking me up to the Real Truth: there is only one real thing in our world. It is our connection to others. Period. All the rest is bulls**t.

My love and prayers go out to Dany’s widow and his son, step-daughter and son-in-law; his parents and family and friends; to everyone who was blessed enough to have the man touch their lives. And I want to thank Dany for being such a great friend to me; such a great father to my friend Bronson; such a great husband to my friend Peggy and such a great person in general.

If only all of us could have such a legacy.

©2008, Janet Periat

My husband is not a romantic. Every holiday where he is supposed to buy me something causes him great stress. Take Valentine’s Day. Which happens to be today. He woke up this morning upset that it was Valentine’s Day. He wants the whole holiday to disappear. He informed me that he hadn’t got me anything and he hoped I was okay with it. I wasn’t, but… what could I do?

Since we’ve been married now for 16 years (our anniversary is tomorrow), I know he loves me. He shows me this everyday when we wake up. As soon as he sees that I’m awake and we meet gazes, he lights up and beams a thousand-watt smile at me. He is the only one in the world who has ever looked at me this way. Not the dozen or so suitors before him, nor my ex ever looked at me this way. Frank, no doubt, loves me dearly.

However, the man absolutely HATES buying me things. Loathes, despises and abhors buying me things. He hates Valentine’s Day, Christmas, my birthday and our anniversary. In the weeks preceding any of the aforementioned holidays, any reference to the holiday makes his body grow rigid. His handsome features harden; his shoulders droop; a blackish cloud forms over his head. He heaves a sigh, then faces me, hands folded in lap. “Please outline your exact expectations for this holiday,” he requests, looking like he’s ordering his last meal before his execution.

Since I am used to all this loathing— but still want presents despite his decidedly glum approach—I normally tell him exactly what I expect. I have no idea why he can’t figure this out. We’ve been together for TWENTY BLOODY YEARS. Yet, with each holiday, he treats it like it’s a whole new form of torture I’ve devised for him.

When I tell him what I want (which are usually surprises or I might as well go buy myself something, a card and sign it for him) his face falls, he sighs and he jots down some notes like he’s filling out a tax form. He nods, miserable, throws the note aside and dives into a search on the Internet on one of his favorite topics to cleanse himself of the unpleasantness. Then I don’t know what he does. But on the morning of the occasion, I find nicely wrapped gifts waiting for me. Or nothing and a wad of excuses about how he had no time to shop, the stores were too busy, the dog ate his wallet, etc, etc. and another wad of promises that he will get me something. The present shows up eventually. He’s never let me down without “permission”. But he still treats the whole thing as if he’s getting a root canal without anesthesia.

What is wrong with him? How bloody hard is it to go to a freakin’ store—since we are mere blocks from ALL of them—and pick me up something?  Every holiday he asks what I want as if he’s just met me. I tell him the same thing every year. Look at my office. Hard rock, skulls, a freakin’ dirt clod in the shape of a heart, dude. Anything. Ever heard of FLOWERS?

I have to give him credit, he used to bring me flowers weekly. I was very touched by this until he told me why he bought them. Because there was a guy who had a little stand at the exit to the parking lot where he worked. He got them because the man practically threw them in the car as he was driving by. What the hell was he doing, telling his wife that the only reason he bought the flowers was because he drove right by the stand? How can he be this dense?

But my Frank is an honorable man. He never exaggerates the truth. He doesn’t believe in platitudes. He doesn’t believe in little white lies to make me feel good. He always tells me the unvarnished truth. While it works great for communication on large issues, it SUCKS for romance. What would cause any man to tell his wife that the only reason he bought her flowers was because he couldn’t avoid the seller?

I am astounded by this aspect of my husband. Sure, I get it. I understand he doesn’t want to be railroaded by some large corporation and blackmailed into buying me some stupid Valentine crap. He is a corporate rebel like I am. Which is why we get along so well. But Frank seems to go way out of his way to avoid being romantic. He seems to think our relationship is above and beyond all these petty displays of affection. What counts is that he loves me, nurtures me, supports me and listens to my rambling monologues about the pros and cons of dying my hair colors not found in nature. And I agree, I think the media hypes Valentine’s Day and makes it a Guilt Fest for Guys. A National Day of Emotional Blackmail. Buy me those freakin’ diamonds, buddy, or you don’t get any.

Okay, granted, Frank is in almost all ways, a great husband. He brings me icepacks for my injuries when I fall off my scooter, he formatted my books and put them online, he does the laundry. These are all huge pluses. But come on. Who else is gonna get me a freakin’ Valentine? No one, that’s who. Now that I have a husband who considers himself above these tacky holidays, I don’t get Valentines or chocolates or flowers unless I put a gun to his head, tell him what store to buy them, the exact size box, everything.

This year, I really wanted a box of Godiva chocolates for Valentine’s Day. I’ve never had a box of Godiva chocolates. I’ve bought them for my mother, but no one has ever bought me any. So I asked Frank for one. You’d think I asked for a freakin’ gold-plated Humvee. His brow furrowed, he frowned. “How much are THOSE?” he asked acidly. Then he went on a tirade about what a ripoff Godiva was and how over-priced their chocolates were. How pretentious. He glumly agreed and threw the catalog I handed him onto a chair and turned back to his computer, muttering about how stupid Valentine’s Day was. Lucky for him, he got sick for the two weeks preceding Valentine’s Day. Two days ago, I let him off the hook. He looked like he won the lottery. He practically danced all the way to his office. And he was still sick.

I still can’t believe how blind he is to this stupid need of mine. I. Write. Romance. Novels. Yet this tells him NOTHING? People who write romance novels are hopeless romantics. All the heroes in my books buy their girlfriends and wives lavish gifts without being asked or railroaded into it. They actually enjoy it. They like making their women happy. They do it for the sheer pleasure of seeing their lovers happy. They don’t need a gun put to their head. They anticipate the holidays; they don’t even ask what she wants. They observe her and can tell what she’d like. They bring her flowers spontaneously. Jewelry. Cars. And this is all within six months of the relationship. All my heroes are romantic fools.

Unfortunately, these men only reside in my imagination. I honestly don’t think they really exist outside of romance novels. I think the idea of a romantic male is a myth. And, I do really get this. I know if I put real men into my books, my novels would never freakin’ sell and no woman would want to read them. Heavy sigh.

So here I am, on a Valentine’s Day with no card, no flowers, no candy, no nothing. Tomorrow is my anniversary. Yet another day without any recognition. We will be going out to lunch, that will be nice, but unfortunately, I will have to do without a gift—you aren’t going to believe this. Frank just walked in and handed me a chocolate rose.

Now I can’t even complain about him. See? He bought me that just to torture me. Just to negate this whole column. This is what’s wrong with marriage. Right when you have them pegged, right when you’re sure you have them proven wrong and unjust, they turn around and surprise you. Jerks.

Now I feel like a total ungrateful selfish bitch. Probably because in the scheme of things, complaining about Frank not buying me stupid crap IS ungrateful and selfish.

This is the seamy underside of marriage. It messes with your mind. You get all caught up in these stupid made-up holidays and someone tells you that your mate is supposed to shower you with meaningless gifts and that will prove his love to you. I blame society! I blame the advertisers! I am not selfish, I have been brainwashed!

All right. I’m going to go eat my chocolate and hope I don’t choke on it. Stupid Valentine’s Day. Now I really hate it. And tomorrow is our anniversary. My present to Frank will be NO MORE SILLY EXPECTATIONS.

‘Course a small token of appreciation for sixteen years of marriage wouldn’t be a bad thing…

©2008, Janet Periat