How to Avoid Losing a Guy for Ten Minutes

   I generally do not consider myself a fan of romantic comedies, unless Jane Austen penned the screenplay, and she has unfortunately been very quiet as of late. Apparently being dead is an acceptable excuse for just giving up your whole career. The women's liberation movement is never going to succeed if we quit that easily.


    In Ms. Austen's absence, we have been compelled to accept the modern incarnation known as the "rom-com" genre. We do not even dare to use the full term "romantic comedy," because the ghosts of Shakespeare and the other masters would stab us with their quill pens. "Thou calleth this crap funny?"

   Sadly, at 2:00 AM very few other offerings aside from infomercials are available on television. And they are always for banana slicing machines, or something else that I naturally already have, because I purchased them the LAST time I was awake at 2 AM and sleep-shopped on my tranquilizers. (Not really, but that would be really funny. "UPS guy, why are you bringing me this automatic alarm clock/chicken feather plucker?") So last night/this early morning, I settled for "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days." I must admit, the idea really appeals to me. As a certifiable lunatic, I have exhibited virtually every behavior guaranteed to terrify the opposite sex, and thrill psychiatrists and sheet manufacturers (explanation for that one will follow shortly.)




   So, I thought I would give some romantic advice to my fellow mentally ill lovers out there. I consider myself an expert, although not because I have managed to keep a husband for twelve years. I accomplished that by marrying somebody with the iron will of... well, the guy in that book "Iron Will." I don't think that one was a romantic comedy, but I nevertheless have never really read it. Regardless, I am assuming that somebody in it had an admirably strong determination. As does my husband. Although I drove every other man unfortunate enough to cross my path out of Central Utah and to a foreign country, such as Southern Utah, he refused to relocate. It's the competitive jock in him. My expertise therefore lies in my history of doing the wrong things so very, very well. Do everything I have never done, and you shall be assured bliss.

   (Side note: I do think that despite his Mormon roots, I have ensured that my husband will never be tempted by polygamy. In fact, I like to imagine that some bipolar ancestor of mine contributed to the cessation of the practice. Those poor men decided that one of us was more than enough, and in fact probably were willing to pay alimony of ten cows a month just to escape. Not that I want to brag.)

After a decade... still here...

 So, back to my helpful hints:

1) Try not to vomit on or near him until you know each other quite well. While we were dating, I alluringly threw up on his carpet. (He did seem to find it kind of cute that I was a gum swallower, which he discovered while cleaning up my adorable little mess.) Once we were married, I really let loose. There were a couple of ER trips with spectacular barfing. During a particularly violent panic attack, I vomited on our brand-new carpet, all the way down our brand-new stairs, out our brand-new door, and down the driveway to the waiting ambulance.

2) Keep very costly ER/ambulance trips to a minimum.

3) While houseplants are not as expensive as hospital bills, having a mental breakdown culminating in ripping one to shreds is not a sign of maturity. Had we not already been married, I am guessing that my wise husband would not have considered me marriage material after watching this dazzling display. I am proud to say this was many, many years ago. Don't judge me. It was obviously a hostile philodendron.

4) Sheets are no more acceptable targets than domestic foliage. In yet another panic attack, I once inexplicably arose in the middle of the night and nearly flipped my husband out of the bed ripping the sheets off it. I don't know why. Those of you who also suffer from these entertaining episodes will undoubtedly understand. You will also "get" why other reactions to late-night anxiety outbreaks have included midnight jogs around the neighborhood, and other mortifying behavior that I will not even recount. I wouldn't want to sound like a weirdo.

Happy birthday, Jerk.

5) No silent treatments. Again, I can honestly assert that I have not engaged in this behavior for years, but I was once quite the professional. His birthday? That certainly was not going to prompt me to forgive whatever insignificant mistake he had made. In fact, it likely galvanized me to remain silent longer. Which, in retrospect, was presumably the most merciful and welcome action I could have taken. (He, on the other hand, once spelled out a birthday wish in Raisinets for me on MY special day. Just say it. I stink.)




   There you have it. Simply shy away from these five behaviors, and you will be a better woman than I.
Even if you are a man. Although, to ensure full disclosure, I must admit that the result of my subduing a mate has resulted in the birth of three children who appear to have inherited a bit of my...um...well, just see for yourselves:

I don't normally publicize my kids, but...
Pretty sure they are unrecognizable. Or not.